"He Waved a Last Farewell His Still (Patching Friend Page 6 4 DOROTHY A TALE OF TWO LANDS By ELIZABETH SISSON Author of " Richard Ncwcomb " CINCINNATI: JENNINGS AND GRAHAM NEW YORK: EATON AND MAINS COPYRIGHT, 1906, BV JENNINGS & GRAHAM f, '3 , - 312 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS Facing Page " HE WAVED A LAST FAREWELL TO His STILL WATCHING FRIEND " Frontispiece "THE WELL MEANT CONSOLATION TURNED TO SMOKE" - - - 56 " SHE SETTLED HERSELF INTO A CURVE OF THE SWING" 82 "DAT's MARSA ROBERTS'S SPERRIT" 306 Dorothy Part I CHAPTER I A MESSAGE ON a certain autumnal morning how many years ago does not matter a sleepy little village in Southern Indiana was slowly arousing itself to its own simple round of daily life. Just as the hands of the old Colonial clock, which had stood for years in the waiting-room of the tavern, pointed to the hour of eight, the clear, outringing tones of a bell broke the early morning calm, and at the sound the arousement of the village was complete; for there was not a man, woman, or child who heard, but had paused to listen. And little wonder! Hitherto the entire mission of the ringing bell had been to make its fortnightly announcement of the coming "Sunday ser- mon," or, at intervals happily rare, to tell of the peril by fire of a villager's home. But the present was a dignified ring, quite out of the common, as if the supreme moment in its entire bell life had come, and it had wisely resolved to make the most of it. DOROTHY But the sound, if unusual, was evidently expected; for Mrs. Mehitable Perkins, who was at the moment giving her sheets to the breeze (her crestfallen rival, Mrs. Neighbor, being still in the suds), halted in her triumph, listened to a few strokes, then, removing a clothes-pin from her mouth, called to some one in the house: "There it is now! 'Zekiel, you hurry up! Do n't you start in by being late !" A moment before the ringing, a half-dozen village loafers had betaken themselves, each by his own route, to their usual place of meeting, the village "Store." These met, as it happened, on the store steps. With the first strokes they paused, exchanged glances of understanding; then, with an air of alac- rity, each hastened inside, and lost no time in appro- priating a comfortable box or keg, shrewdly guessing that on this, of all other days, there would be much to discuss, and that were better done if one were com- fortable. Meanwhile the face of the proprietor of the "Store," John Sumner, was a study in emotions, triumph being conspicuous. The cause of all this unusual perturbation lay in the message of the bell; for from its copper throat it was announcing to both friend and foe that the "Mid- dletown Seminary" was now an actuality; in proof of which, many of the older girls and boys of the village, with not a few from the adjoining farms, were already gathering about the church door for what, they scarcely knew, but for something out of the ordinary, each felt assured. An explanation requires a retrospect. A MESSAGE The "Store," during one of the early months of the last spring, had been the scene of an unusual excite- ment. It had been the good fortune of one of the loungers to come weighted with a bit of news, which, he well knew, would set, not only his fellows, but the village as well, quite agog. By a herculean effort he withheld the precious morsel till the last habitue was in his place; then casually mentioned that the "old Snowden farm" had found a purchaser. (A farm which, by the way, had achieved a sort of local notori- ety by having, since the death of the owner, run the gauntlet of more than one "slack" renter, having finally lain idle for some years.) This "casual mention" at once aroused interest; but when the further information was volunteered that the purchaser was a "city man" and from a Southern city at that and that his wife, with a younger brother, now somewhere at college, were the sole survivors of what had been, not many years before, a large plan- tation home, the interest became intense ; and the happy news-vender found himself, as indeed he had counted on being, the center of that interest and a target for many questions. It may well be doubted if Cushi and his ilk, as "bringers of tidings," have been, after all, put very greatly to shame by our modern methods of news dis- tribution ; for before nightfall, without the aid of either telephone or telegraph, this particular bit of news had traveled, not only to the remotest corner of the neigh- borhood, but was crossing the boundary-lines of those adjoining. 9 DOROTHY In the village, there was at once a sudden and per- ceptible increase of neighborly courtesies. Tempting dishes of pickles, jars of preserves, and heaped-up plates of sugared crullers traveled back and forth over back fences, while sunbonneted women grasped the "passing" opportunity to discuss first the original bit of news, and then the startling sensations, which rapidly succeeded each other. It was finally accepted that the newcomer (who soon arrived and took possession of his new purchase) had traveled much "around the world, clear around" one woman said to another in awesome tones; also that when younger (he was still not old), he had been principal of a Southern college; that he "still put in all his time studying," though what, no one tried to guess, and in writing books; further, that for a year he had been in ill health, an invalid in fact; and, lastly, that it was solely a desire for rest and quiet which had brought him to their neighborhood. All this was so much out of the ordinary, the villagers could do noth- ing more than shake their heads and await develop- ments. As has been said, this had occurred in the early spring; but before the dust on the village street had begun to grow white under the glare of the August sun, the stranger had become a recognized part of the village life. As "Professor Williamson" he had been known at first, the title spoken in an awesome, defer- ential tone; for none were inclined to make premature offers of a friendship that might possibly be rejected. But as the months passed by, and one and all be- IO A MESSAGE came accustomed to his kindly face, to his courteous greetings at the "Store," where he came to get his mail (such quantities, the observant ones noticed), and to his genuine interest in each individual, he was received on more friendly terms, and became "the Professor," as if he were the only specimen of his kind. And now the village began to take a certain pride in his pres- ence; so much so that on those special days, such as a "big speaking" or a "basket-meeting," when common interests brought in members of other communities, not a villager but would point him out with a highly pro- prietary air, as "Our Professor," quite in a tone, too, that seemed to challenge, "Produce his equal if you can." This friendship, though slower in being offered, came in time to be extended to the young wife; who, no doubt, found life on a run-down farm at the edge of a small village, very different from that of the old plantation. "But if 'the Professor,' hers in very truth for he had won her at that self-same Southern college of which rumor had whispered recovered, all would indeed be well." This she told herself over and over. Village sentiment was compelled to hold extra ses- sions, however, to settle the social status of a certain other member of the family. This was "Aunt Violet," the "Missus's own old mammy," who, with a devotion the world is not likely to see again, was loyally follow- ing her "young Missus" to the end. Yet even she, before the ringing of the bell that autumnal. morning, had found her "niche." It had happened on this wise. On the first Sunday after the arrival of the II DOROTHY strangers, Aunt Violet, neatly turbaned, had glided into the little church, and, with an appearance of great humility, had proceeded to appropriate for herself a certain corner, in which, on each succeeding "preaching day," she had sat, usually a model of suppressed fervor. But on one never-to-be-forgotten occasion religious zeal melted the ice of her reserve, and the newcomer was conceded to be "mighty powerful in prayer and gifted in exhortation ;" as a sequence it came to be generally understood a mere matter of color ought not to be a bar to Christian fellowship. (She did not ask social.) As the summer lengthened, it became evident that the pure country air was wooing the stranger back to health; the air, aided by the wild blackberries that ran riot over his new possessions, aided, too, by the squirrels that whisked up and down the trees in a grove of beeches near by, or ran races, which he never tired of watching, along the lichen-patched rail fence a fence so tumble-down that picturesqueness was its only ele- ment of use. If one's garments have once brushed the damp of that mystic river of which poets sing, or one ? s eyes have been turned to catch the approach of the storied boat- man, and if, when the feet have seemed about slipping, they are suddenly caught and turned once more toward the busy marts of life, the return journey is full of sur- prises. We had not suspected that the world was so beautiful, nor yet that the bent forms and careworn faces of those about us were, after all, but outer husks beneath which dwelt the most genuine sympathy, the tenderest love, and the truest nobility. It is a pitifully 12 A MESSAGE barren heart that does not thrill at such a time, not only with gratitude for life, but with a longing to add something to the world's store of happiness. The heart of the stranger was far from barren, and it soon warmed to the kindly people about him. So, when one day an old man brought as a gift a basket of choice June apples, his eyes were "holden" to every- thing save the "brotherhood" which shone from the donor's eyes. Again, when a neighbor brought from her own hill- side springhouse a pitcher of fresh buttermilk, he did not observe that the hand which held the pitcher was gnarled and work-worn, or that the presentation speech was not in the purest English ; he saw only a generous heart, and a fellow-creature who, through environment, had been shut out from his own broader world ; and a longing came and grew, to open in some way for each the door into that same world. It followed therefore, and without apparent plan, that, as he lounged under the beeches during the sum- mer's convalescence, the children of the village came to shyly gather about him, and to listen as he read to them, sometimes a poem, sometimes of a storied hero, always of something that lifted them out of their nar- row life, and kindled their not always dull imagina- tion. Even before his coming there were those in the village who, catching now and then a murmur from the surging world without, had grown restless under the meager advantages which the pitiful "three months' district school" afforded their children. Said one of 13 DOROTHY these to another as the stranger went in and out among them, each day a little stronger, "If he would only teach our young people." Some one at length was bold enough to suggest the thought to the kindly man. He considered the matter long and earnestly, and finally made answer that "if the villagers would come together in the little church, he would present certain matters to them." Of course all came, and, once there, lis- tened to a broad setting forth of the value of education, and to the added suggestion that those having the wel- fare of the next generation at heart ought to establish a school to supplement the work done by the State, the speaker promising at least to oversee the organization, and afterward aid in securing teachers. We seldom realize what is to be the full effect of that for which we strive. So now no one suspected that the future of the little community hung upon the issue of the "battle" at once on. Uncle John Sumner, proprietor of the "Store," became the acknowledged leader of the new movement, and the "Store" the storm- center at which the entire theory of education was daily exploited. The battle waged for fully two weeks. At the end of that time it was found that a proper finan- cial basis for the school had been secured, and its estab- lishment assured. With the victory, a name became the next consider- ation. In view of its embryonic condition, "the Pro- fessor" proposed the word "Select" as amply desig- nating all implied. But this did not find favor; "Se- lect" hinted of caste, and they would have none of that. Finally amid not a few quiet smiles from "the Pro- H A MESSAGE fessor" it was gravely christened "The Seminary." Little wonder that the village was stirred, as we have seen, when the ringing bell had not only announced its opening, but also that, for lack of better housing, it was, for the present, at home in the little church, which creaked beneath the swinging bell. Of this school, and (of necessity) of its far-reaching influence upon the little community, this story does not directly lie. But trying to find a suitable place among the im- provised desks in which to stow her "Ray's Third Part of Arithmetic" and her "Geography and Great Atlas," we observe a young girl of perhaps fifteen years. In her we shall find our chief interest. She has a bright, winsome face, one that appeals to us at the outset. The villagers call her "Dorothy," and as we are to know her better, so shall we. CHAPTER II DOROTHY WHO was Dorothy? Who was her father? Who was her mother? Pertinent questions all, especially in these days of honored "Dames" and "Daughters," and the possible overcrowding, besides, of the illustrious Mayflower, as is gravely hinted, in a commendable search for a clean bill of ancestry. If Dorothy were asked to give an account of herself, her story, without doubt, would savor of the incoherent, but might run on this wise. Away back it must have been in the misty time of babyhood she seemed to catch a glimpse of a little child of perhaps three years, playing about an open door. Though the door remained always shadowy, through it she caught glimpses, even yet, of a sweet face, and seemed to hear a gentle voice calling, "Baby ! baby must not stray away!" Sometimes a tall man would come into the picture ; then there would be much tossing and laughter, and a triumphant ride about the yard and into the house upon a pair of shoulders so high that Dorothy remembered reaching out her little hands to catch the blue and the flecks of white; just above her. Then the picture grew dim ; there was so little she could remember; only somehow a shadow seemed to 16 . DOROTHY come over it all. She of the sweet face was often in tears, and the baby would climb into her lap, cuddle down, and whisper, "Do n't cry," and wonder how a big woman could "hurt" herself so much. Then the tall man would look at them both, so sorry. It crept into the baby brain that somehow he knew all about it; for he would take them both on his big lap, and the sweet face would be hid on his shoulder, and a pitiful voice would sob, "O you must not! you must not!" But all the while, though the tears ran down his cheeks, he had a far-away look in his eyes, and Dorothy would turn her little head to see at what he looked, but only the blue sky, the grass, and the flowers met her eyes. There were only one or two other memories. One day "Old Fan" was hitched to the light wagon. Dorothy clapped her little hands. She knew she was to ride; and she did. And O, there were so many other people who rode too! There were big wagons, grace- fully decked with evergreens and filled with young girls, who wore white dresses and such cunning white caps ! They each carried what the tall man had taught Dorothy to call a flag, and the child had one of her own, and he had shown her how to toss it as she saw others doing. Then a man talked, and the girls in white sang, and after that there was a great noise, and men waved their hats and women their flags and cheered, and sud- denly Dorothy, from the altitude of the big shoulders, saw a great flag, just like her own little one, move slowly up what seemed a tall tree without branches, I 7 DOROTHY up, up still higher, till, reaching the top, it seemed to gently unfold itself and smile at those below. Again the people cheered, and Dorothy's "tall man" loudest of all. That evening, while "Fan" was being cared for, Dorothy saw her of the sweet face throw herself face downward on the bed, then heard her moan. Presently she arose, and as she went about the house she had such a still, white face, it greatly frightened her. Again the picture was wavering and uncertain, until another stood out clearly and distinctly. There had been a long early morning ride. She must have been asleep when it began; when it ended, they were again in a crowd of people. The women were all crying, all but her mamma, who stood very still, and when she tugged at her dress she did not stoop to take her. Suddenly all started. It was the now familiar sound of the drum and fife which had caught their attention. A cry went around, "They are corning!" and a company of men dressed all alike came in sight. Quite in front, carrying a great flag, she saw her own dear "tall man," and in a moment she was in his arms,. and the big flag had quite hid her in its folds. Then there was a whistle. A train came round the curve; there was much confusion and crying, and Dorothy felt herself hugged till It hurt. Then the tall man was gone, and an old man with gray hair had taken her into his arms, and was telling her not to cry ; "that her father would come again; that she could always remember that he had not been a coward, and 18 DOROTHY had loved his country." She vaguely wondered what the two strange words might mean. Then she looked for her mamma, and saw women bending over her as she lay very still. Some one asked if she were dead, and the reply came, "Not quite, poor thing! It would be better, perhaps, if she were." There were but one or two other touches in Dor- othy's ancestral picture. After this the home was al- ways still, and she of the white face sorrowful, going often with Dorothy for the letter which did not always come. One day they had gone together to the post every one seemed very still and quiet, and spoke only of something they called a "terrible battle," and a man was slowly reading aloud a long list of names out of a paper. Then in some way they were in their own home again, and the house was full of strange people. A woman took her on her lap, and crying, stroked her hair and called her "poor baby." Just one other memory, and the picture was ended. And hard as she might try (and did, when she was older), there was nothing more that she could recall. This last memory was of being once more in a crowd of people, under the open sky, and in what the country people called a "graveyard." There was an open grave, and an open coffin beside it, and in this Dorothy saw the sweet face for the last time. They told her she was dead and about to be buried. Suddenly she began to sob and cry out, not for the young mother before her, but for the dear "tall man" who had always been so ready to take her in his DOROTHY arms and to comfort her. And to ask why, if he were dead too, as they said, he was not here with her mamma. The kindly people tried to comfort her, and told her that could not be ; which was indeed true, for when she was older she read in a yellow old newspaper that had been kept for her a single line following her father's name: "Left dead upon the battlefield." In the midst of her tears the old man with the gray hair made his way to the side of the neighbor who held her, and taking her in his arms, as he had done once before, he told her she was now to be "his own little girl." This had indeed come to pass. For at the open- ing of the "Seminary" Dorothy, now much grown from the old baby days, had been for many years Dorothy Sumner. The young soldier, John Ryedale, had indeed given his "all" to his country, life, wife, even his precious baby, who was now growing to womanhood bearing not his name, but that of the kind old man who had taken her to his heart. But were there no relatives to care for the child, no grandfather or mother, not even an aunt, ta care for the child ? No, not in America. In a little village in the southern part of Scotland, where the land runs out to meet the sea, and where the more austere Scot has caught something of the vivacity and richer fancies of his neighbors across the waters, John Ryedale, of Highland birth, had won his sweet-faced bride; and because she had been yielded grudgingly, and because he had his own fortune to wrest from mother earth, they had together made the 2O DOROTHY long journey to America. In their new little home their child had been born ; and she, who had left friends and home, had been, after the manner of woman, quite content. Strange that in so short a time he had grown to love his adopted country well enough to lay upon its altar so rich an offering! Yet not altogether strange. Generations before there had been Ryedales among the followers of Bruce; Ryedales to whom "liberty" had ever been a sweet word; and among the first notes of the coming conflict this ? their latest son, had caught the echo of a bitter cry that had welled up from an op- pressed race a race that God was planning to make free. Alas that for freedom, history has ever recorded a bitter price! Nor was it strange that she should have loved the man better than the new country ; better even than her fatherland, storied home of brave men. So have women ever done. So will they, doubtless, till the end of time. 21 CHAPTER III THE OLD MAN WITH THE GRAY HAIR "UNCLE JOHN SUMNER" was one of the essential "characters" of the village; nor was his wife, "Aunt Lucy," less so. They were a childless pair, and lived alone in a roomy brick house, that stood in a large yard, quite back from the village street. The yard sloped to the front, and was as prim and methodical as the two old people themselves. Grass might struggle and grow thin in less favored yards, but in this it was always luxuriant. A gravel walk ran the entire length of the yard and into it no daring weed ever intruded. On either side, tulips, jonquils, and daffodils came up, and blos- somed with such regularity that they became a sort of village calendar of seasons. If a villager came home and announced "the jonquils are up in 'Uncle John's' yard," though the snow might yet cling in patches, spring was acknowledged to be at hand, and the house- wife began to stir herself about the spring cleaning, to sort over the herbs in the attic, and to put the ashes to leach in the back yard for the annual soap-making. A pear-tree which never knew blight shaded the kitchen door, and bore the choice pears of the neighbor- hood. These ripened unmolested by the village boys, who one and all owned a wholesome awe of the owner. 22 THE OLD MAN WITH THE GRAY HAIR If the two were "close," they were that with a dis- tinction. For instance, when the pears were at their best, if a covetous boy should peer longingly through the palings, Aunt Lucy would at once gather in her check-apron some of the most luscious of the fruit ; but though the deed were kindly, as she handed them out, hers would be so stern a visage, and her "Clear out, now," so peremptory, that the clearance came in a twinkling. The two were really kind at heart, but they had lived too long in peaceful quiet to look with favor upon children, regarding them as the natural enemies of order. It was into this staid home that "Dorothy the loved" had been transplanted; and the transplanting proved a fruitful theme for neighborhood discussion. Really the transplanting was so remarkable that a closer study of the couple and of their environments seems necessary. "Uncle John," though taciturn and peremptory in manner, was held in high esteem. He has already been mentioned as the proprietor of that center of influence, the village store. There his unswerving honesty was rightly considered of more worth than smooth phrases. His word was known among his neighbors to be as inviolate as his bond, and his guarantee of an article forever settled its worth. The "Store" was more than a mere place of barter and sale. It was at once a "Creed Debating Society," a "Political Club," and a generally accepted "news center." Not a "rainy spell" and a consequent slack 23 DOROTHY time on the farm, but witnessed the refighting of bat- tles, both ecclesiastical and political, with the preference in favor of the former. Religiously, the neighborhood was about evenly di- vided. There were Baptists, whose church stood at the farther end of the one long straggling village street ; and Methodists, who openly boasted that their place of worship was farther down, quite in the center of things, not unlike, so they declared, the relative po- sition of their denomination in the world's affairs. Among the latter, John Sumner had long been an acknowledged leader. He had been for years a "local preacher," and the shelves of a certain book-case liter- ally "spoke volumes" concerning the zeal with which he had studied the Fathers. On these shelves, in ad- dition to the usual Commentaries, there were histories \)i his Church and of its leaders and its doctrines. Each book had been bought for a purpose, and had become a part of the owner's mental self. Armed with this knowledge, his Bible, his "Discipline," and his Church paper, he considered himself ready as indeed he was for any denominational enemy that might stray his way. Nor did he think it beneath his dignity to lure the unsuspecting holder of a different tenet into an "argument" which was very apt to result in the latter's discomfiture. Politically, he was known far and near as an ardent Abolitionist. The village was not far from the Ohio River, and during the decade preceding the "sixties," Aunt Lucy, had she chosen, might have told of more than one fugitive warmed, fed, and helped on in his 24 THE OLD MAN WITH THE GRAY HAIR Northward flight. Herein, it was thought, lay the clue to his unexpected interest in the dead soldier's baby girl. Indeed this might have been, for to none in the early days of the nation's peril was increasing age more unwelcome than to the once sturdy John Sumner, who, since his early manhood, had never been without strong convictions on matters both of Church and State convictions he had ever stood ready to defend. He had been quick to respond to the first "call to arms," only to receive the unwelcome verdict, "re- jected." After the first flush of disappointment he began to urge younger men to enlist, and the "Store'' became practically a recruiting point. Its prqprietoi, with a consistency not always seen, took upon himself the position of "friend" to the soldier's wife or child. This, without doubt, had been a potent factor in Dorothy's transplanting. But, though little suspected, there had been another, and that her own little self. No neighborhood fact was better known than was "Uncle John's" aversion to children. So, when the average child came into his presence, it did so very much abashed. Not so Dorothy. Once, in the old happy time, "the tall man" had perched her upon the counter while he made a purchase, and she, spying some sweets in a jar, stretched out her chubby little hands, lisping coax- ingly, "Good man, love baby, give," and to the surprise of those who watched, the "good man" obeyed, hold- ing the jar while baby fingers crept in on the sweet errand. Who shall say that, in some inexplicable way so 25 DOROTHY little do we understand the laws of memory and asso- ciation at that moment some more than half-forgotten spring was touched, and the confiding child personified a far-away, forgotten dream of the old man's youth. The sympathy of the community had gone out with- out stint to the mother and child at news of the father's death. Later it had gathered at the open grave of the young mother, wondering amid its tears what would become of the child. It had yet to learn that, on the morning of the burial, "Uncle John" had, without waste of words, said to his wife, "We must take her, there is no other way." And this seemed true. If that good woman were greatly dismayed at the responsibility so suddenly thrust upon her, none were the wiser, it being the foundation stone of her wifely creed, what- ever the domestic trial, "to never let on to the public." Indeed she had scarcely "let on" to herself that at times the big house was very lonely, and that, when everything was "done up" and there was no sound save that of "Daniel Webster's" contented purr, as he blinked in his own cushioned chair, her thoughts often kept time to the click of her needles, with the ever- recurring yet ever-unfinished sentence, "Yes, the house is large and there are many homeless children; but then" So perhaps, after all, that Providence which cares for the sparrows had not greatly misplaced Dorothy. But alas, poor baby ! there were nights when, to quote Aunt Lucy, "the child took spells of crying for her ma, when the most persistent attempts at "mothering" availed nothing. At such times, with a stoicism a Spar- 26 THE OLD MAN WITH THE GRAY HAIR tan mother might have envied, Aunt Lucy would leave the room, saying, "Cry it out, 'twill do you good," and the little one would sob until merciful sleep inter- posed. Clearly, nevermore would Dorothy be cuddled in soft arms nor crooned to sleep with loving lullabies. CHAPTER IV. DOROTHY'S CHILDHOOD ONE is perplexed at times to decide whether or not Time, that prolific subject of essays, poems, and ser- mons, is not, after all, a trifle rude, in that he hurries so. There is not a hint about him of that "leisurely calm" which is held up for our admiration. He does not pause for our griefs; he will not linger for our joys ; while if an individual, overtaken with a triumph, stops but for an instant to dally with it, this inexorable master affixes to his joy the ominous words "short- lived." But if there is a time in life when he seems in a particular hurry, it is in childhood. Hardly has he smoothed the wrinkles in the baby's face until he be- gins, "with his ever-ready tools of care and responsi- bility, to write in the more indelible ones of age." It is not surprising, therefore, that Dorothy soon dried her tears and emerged into, if not a tenderly loved, at least a well-cared-for childhood, and that gradually, as we have seen, the "sweet face" and the dear "tall man" became only misty memories. She grew to love best the warm, roomy kitchen, the scene of most of Aunt Lucy's work. As she tod- dled about amusing herself, she quite won that model housekeeper's heart by not bothering her overmuch, 28 DOROTHY'S CHILDHOOD and by treating with proper deference her special pride, "Daniel Webster." Daniel was accustomed to sun himself on the broad window-sill or doze among the cushions, while the less patrician "Mrs. Webster" did her duties as a mouser, or looked after the interests of her series of frolicsome families. These last were a never-ending source of pleasure to Dorothy, who hap- pily preferred them to the more complacent "Daniel." Nor is it surprising remembering "Time's" habit of hurrying that one day the garden gate clicked be- hind a quaint little figure on its way to the village school. A check apron quite covered the "stuff" dress the little one wore, but did not in anywise interfere with the mission of sundry ruffles and tucks that, as the "finish" of the snowy pantalettes, were made "for show." Faithful rummaging in this house, where nothing was ever lost, had brought to light a slate worn smooth by use. This, with the inevitable "blue-back spelling- book," composed the little student's outfit. It is always said of those individuals privileged to ride upon the "magical carpet," or who underwent any of the other surprising experiences recorded in tales of magic, that they invariably "rubbed their eyes." Not less so did the friends of the little girl; for never did bud unfold more quickly when kissed by the morning dew than did she respond to the new life. The surprise and delight of this unfolding so touched "the old man with the gray hair" that his heart began to thrill with the pride of possession, and the 29 DOROTHY neighbors smiled as the phrase "my little girl" began to fall from his lips with wonderful frequency. Dickens has Pip mournfully tell us, in "Great Expectations," how the great Pumblechook was apt to keep up a running fire during the entire breakfast of "Seven times nine, boy?" or "Hi, there! quick! Nine times eight." A similar fate befell Dorothy; for when it was reported to "Uncle John" that she could do "sums," he at once felt it to be his duty to sound her to the depths. So he demanded information on several points, one being, "If Aunt Polly Perkins should bring in two and a half pounds of butter, how much coffee should she receive in return?" Purnblechook-like add- ing* "Quick now!" And when Dorothy floundered, and wanted to know first the prices of the butter and coffee, he sniffed at her most unmercifully, and told her it was a poor storekeeper indeed who didn't know such trifles. But the child and the man understood each other. On "preaching Sundays" they went together to church. Sometimes Aunt Lucy made one of the little party. Oftener she was kept at home by the dinner, or rather by the "preacher's dinner," for it was well understood that the latter's "outer man" must be well refreshed before he journeyed on to the next appoint- ment. Uncle John sat in the "Amen Corner." It would have been a breach of village decorum had Dorothy been by his side. So she compromised by snuggling into the woman's side opposite. Here she sat conscious of a certain awesome pride, as "Uncle John" started the 30 DOROTHY'S CHILDHOOD "tunes," or led in a prayer of unexampled fervor, to say nothing of length. During the sermon she listened, not only with the gravity of a worshiper, but with something of the air of a connoisseur ; for the little maiden's theological edu- cation had not been neglected, as we shall presently see. On alternate Sabbaths the strangely assorted pair went to class-meeting. That is, Uncle John went, and Dorothy always pleaded to accompany him. She was usually the only child in the little gathering. But she was also the only child in the great house, so that trifle did not matter ; besides, she was breathing daily a home atmosphere which made much of "Christian experi- ence." Therefore it seemed quite the proper thing to meet at stated times and inquire anxiously into each one's own particular state of grace. She listened with the utmost interest to the "testi- monies," and with no thought of irreverence learned to watch for the set phrases into which the worshipers had unconsciously fallen. For instance, there was a sister who, amid her tears, never failed to express her confident hope that "she would one day clasp glad hands with each one present on the sunny banks of bright deliverance," and a tall brother who, with a swaying motion to suit his words, hoped "that when he fell, he would fall his full length heavenward." This last Dorothy interpreted literally, and mentally contrasted his advantages over others not so well favored. Then, there were the long Sunday afternoons, when the great house, from the farthest away bedroom down 31 DOROTHY to the sunny, big kitchen, seemed under the spell of a hallowed quiet. Aunt Lucy, who could on this day conscientiously rest, usually sat dozing in her own rocker, her feet resting comfortably upon a patchwork stool. These were happy hours for the old man and the child. For many a day before the advent of the "Pro- fessor" and the embryo "Seminary" she had served as the "missing link" between the old man's failing eye- sight and his favorite Church paper. On these afternoons it became her duty to read this aloud, beginning with the obituaries, not skipping the "wisest" of the editorials, nor yet the (otherwise) "articles" upon various phases of Church polity, to be, or not to be. This was not wholly a perfunctory task; for not a few of these same mooted questions were often dis- cussed in the "Store," where the same little company that attended class-meeting settled them quite to their own satisfaction, while perhaps an occasional "Bap- tist" or "worldling" furnished the spice in the way of an awkward question or an apt bit of repartee. After this "duty" reading, there was yet time. In some way there had crept in among the doctrinal treas- ures a stray copy of Irving's "Sketchbook," also one of his "Bracebridge Hall," and a much worn copy of "David Copperfield." There was a wooden "settee" in Dorothy's own room, and, great wonder! a small fireplace, built into the same chimney which furnished the larger one below. To draw the "settee" before the glowing fire, to 32 DOROTHY'S CHILDHOOD adjust the fancifully dyed sheepskin (in lieu of the modern many pillows), and to read, again and again, of "Ichabod Crane," whose elbows were "as the joints of a grasshopper;" to journey with the "Traveler" into rural England; to take part in the simple merry-mak- ings he so aptly described, all this was bliss. Nature might place outside her embargo of mud and of snow, it mattered not ; for the young girl there were yet other worlds. 33 CHAPTER V THE STRANGERS AND DOROTHY ALTHOUGH the invalid stranger and his wife, whose coming had been of such moment to the villagers, doubtless found in the returning strength of the one ample recompense for the isolation of their new life, yet, especially in the first few months, when loneliness pressed heavily, each might have echoed the plaint of Aunt Violet, who confessed to the "Missus," " 'Pears like, honey, I 'se got a misery all de time right heah," laying her hand over her heart. " 'Co'se I knows its all right for us to be heah, specially if Marsa Professah gets well, and I knows de old home is gone, but O, Mis' Milicent, your old mammy is sick for some of ouah own folks, and some of ouah big goin's on." Heart-hunger for our own folks! It Was not hard for either to understand the faithful serrant on that point. Aunt Violet had further troubles. She could not satisfactorily settle the social status of the villagers. She could glide quietly into their church and worship her God and theirs ; but once outside, like many another of lighter hue, she was troubled along social lines. "Now, if dey is poah white folks," her lips curled in true aristocratic scorn : she would have known what to do in such a case "but no, dey is not dem," her quick eye settled that ; "but what is dey ? Dey 's none 34 THE STRANGERS AND DOROTHY of ouah folks sho!" "Our folks" being the compre- hensive term, which included the families of the neigh- boring plantations, whose frequent visits had been the occasions of the "big goin's on" for which she longed. It was the Professor of whose learning she stood greatly in awe who ventured on an explanation. "Auntie," he said, "God's world is wide and His people many. They live under different environments and conditions. But to all their Father has given their own particular round of duties, the kind matters little. He, loving all His children, has graciously planned that the individual who accepts these duties, and gives to them his best self, is able to leave the world a little better than he found it." Then he added, a bit wearily, "And none of us, however well favored, can hope to do much more." "The Southern gentleman, so dear to your heart," he continued, "is but one of many types, not better loved by the Father, I feel sure, than were some God- fearing and God-serving fisher-folk I once wintered with on an island off the coast of England, whose lives of sacrifice I yet love to recall; and Violet, not better loved than are these kindly people about us, who, after their own fashion, have taken a family of strangers to their hearts." Perhaps Aunt Violet was more mystified than con- vinced ; at any rate she was silenced. A comforting doctrine, this, of the "Brotherhood of the Race;" but sometimes the lips that uttered it would tremble as they framed the words, "If I were only strong again!" and the eyes would be turned to 35 DOROTHY pierce, if possible, that distance that shut out "his world." Into this loneliness came Dorothy, "Little Dor- othy," they grew to call her. The Williamsons, in the first days of their coming, had christened their new home "The Beeches." This in honor of the great beech-trees which almost hid the plain house from view, and whose outspreading limbs made a delightful canopy, that not only shut out the sun's heat, but afforded protection from straying winds. They had fashioned a rustic seat or two under the trees, and finally added a table, convenient alike for the in- evitable books or the bit of work with which the young wife pretended to busy herself. Here the invalid rested or read, as suited his incli- nation ; each succeeding day seeing his feet more surely established upon the return journey to health. At the instant of Dorothy's first coming he had just laid down a worn copy of "The Lady of the Lake" (from which he had been reading aloud), to receive from the respectful hands of Aunt Violet a saucer heaped with freshly gathered dewberries (properly sugared and creamed) that she had found ripening on some low trailing vines in a meadow back of the house, when a young girl stepped out from the woodland path, and came rapidly up their own gravel walk. Though this was her first visit, each recognized her as Dorothy Sumner, whom Aunt Violet had once char- acterized as "dat slip of a girl dat 's always at church, no mattah what, long side o' dat old man with de gray haah." 36 THE STRANGERS AND DOROTHY A word revealed her errand. She had brought from Aunt Lucy a little offering for the invalid. The spotless cloth covered a bowl (Aunt Violet approvingly noted that it was of "real china") filled with still-steaming chicken-broth, prepared with a skill a trained nurse might envy. In it lay a piece of chicken done to absolute tenderness. Besides this, a small saucer held a quivering mold of beautifully clear cur- rant-jelly, these to tempt a jaded appetite. Besides, a plate held a still further offering, which Dorothy had been instructed to say, "Aunt Lucy hoped the others would enjoy." It was the first dewberry pie of the season, and was a perfect specimen of the culinary art when it takes to itself the form of a pie ; for it was a neighborhood tra- dition, that no soggy undercrusts ever came out of Aunt Lucy's oven; for with her no miscalculation could occur as to the proper amount of sugar or of juice. As for the upper crust, its maker would have bowed her head in shame had it been, when done, other than crisp, flaky, and of a uniform creamy brown in color. It was such a "production" as one might enjoy, and, in the afterglow of satisfaction, feel at peace with the world. Even Aunt Violet, when she tested it in the privacy of her kitchen, yielded her homage to "dese heah queer folks," who is, and yet who is not, quality. Dorothy's walk had been a brisk one, and she was quite ready to take a proffered seat under the shadow of the trees. As she did so, her eyes fell, and dwelt hungrily on the little book from which "the Professor" 37 DOROTHY had been reading. Observing this, the whim seized him to continue. Before the interruption he had been approaching that rare bit of description where Fitz James is being safely conducted to "Coilantogle Ford," not suspecting his Gaelic guide to be his enemy, the clansman chieftain. Into the melodramatic arguments of these two, as they journeyed, the reader threw all the magic of his intonations, watching covertly, as he read, the rarely appreciative face of the young girl. As he reached the lines, 1 ' Instant through copse and heath arose Bonnets and spears, and bended bows, On right and left, above, below, Sprung up at once the lurking foe,"- her interest seemed intense. To test which, though it seemed cruel, he laid the book down as if wearied. "Her eyes showed her disappointment. Seeing this, Mrs. Williamson took up the copy, and, handing it to her, said, "Perhaps if you have not read it before, you would like to finish the poem." That was the beginning. Perhaps it was well for Dorothy that her quiet Sunday afternoon with Uncle John and his leather-bound doctrinal expounders had come first. It is barely possible that, as henceforth she was to browse at will in literary pastures rich and new, these fundamentals might have been neglected. The strangers had not failed to bring with them the greater part of their library, and to them the young girl, in her eagerness, seemed a bit of plastic clay whose fashioning would be a delight; and so it became their 38 THE STRANGERS AND DOROTHY pleasure to select for her, first one and then another of their treasures, and watch her rare pleasure as she read. The naturalist may watch the unfolding of a chrys- alis with the keenest interest and delight. So may the unfolding of a child awaken as little real sentiment. The Williamsons were at first conscious of no other feeling for Dorothy save that her bright, cheery ways and unexpected appreciation of their books added a charm and supplied a new interest to their isolated lives. But as they came to know her better, they were touched by her loneliness, a loneliness of which she was herself hardly conscious. Then, as bits of her baby- hood story came to them, she crept yet closer into their hearts; finally, as the young wife looked upon the slender, motherless girl, her thoughts, without will of her own, turned the more often to a certain myrtle- covered spot in the Southland. Less than a year before, they had laid there a tiny baby girl who had nestled in her arms for but a day, but quite long enough to leave them, forever after, empty, and to give to the mother heart a new tenderness ; long enough, too, for the father to whisper: "If you do not mind, dear, we will call her Dorothy ; my mother's name, you know. She died when I was but a lad." There was certainly no connection between these two. Nevertheless, the childless young mother grew to listen for a quick step on the gravel, and to brighten when a blithe voice called out a loving greeting. It was this same unconscious yearning that had caused the "Professor" to yield so readily to the project of the "school." 39 DOROTHY He was growing stronger. Should he not do his best for this Dorothy who had so little ? For the sake of that other, who, could she have staid, would have had so much ? The summer following the arrival of the strangers was a wonderfully happy one to the young girl, each week of which brought her into a closer intimacy with her new friends, and opened for her a world of which she had never dreamed. Sometimes, as Aunt Violet watched her disappear in the shadows of a woodland that stretched between "the Beeches" and the village, she was apt to follow her long and earnestly with her eyes; then, if there was one by to hear, she would remark, " 'Pears like dat chile is getting to be mighty nigh like ouah own folks." But "de chile" was happily unconscious of these various perturbations. The flower does not question when shower and sunshine bid it unfold; neither did she her new-found happiness. She would not have dared, though, to confess half the day-dreams she began to cherish when the matter of the school was finally settled. Nor could she have defined that strange something which whispered in her ear that, with its opening, all things were henceforth, for her, to be new. And they were. 40 CHAPTER VI. AN AWAKENING TOUCH THE "Seminary" was, from the first, preordained to success, as is any enterprise which fills a felt want or is able to create a new one. The "Professor," though he did not suspect it, had received a double welcome. This had happened on this wise. Winfield County, in which the village of Mid- dletown lay, knew two distinct types of inhabitants. It had been originally settled by New Englanders, who had been lured westward by the richer lands of the State. These had brought with them their strong religious and political convictions, as well as their habits of thrift. There had been, besides, during the years a large contingent of settlers from Kentucky and States still farther south. These had not thought it neces- sary to leave their easier notions of life behind, nor to drop their habitual contempt for everything not "South- ern" into the Ohio, while crossing. It is a matter of history that, during the War of the Rebellion, among all the States of the Union, none were more rocked by fratricidal strife than was Indiana. So much does history w T rite; but it can make no men- tion of individual hatreds, nor yet of local strifes, which turned peaceful neighborhoods into brawling seats of wordy war. 41 DOROTHY This condition of affairs had been particularly bit- ter in this neighborhood of distinct types. Though the war had been over nearly a decade, there was as yet no hint of a peaceful blending. There was, however, a single point in common, a "mind-hunger," born of that "wider vision" that had come in the wake of smoke-cleared battlefields. Hence the eagerness for the school and the hearty welcome the Professor's modest and kindly demeanor had called forth. They of New England recognized in him a gentleman whose culture was cosmopolitan, while those of Blue Grass ancestry took him and his to their hearts and loved them; and as the young people of opposing factions met in the school with the high-sounding name, they met, for the first time in neighborhood history, upon a friendly footing. Though a state of "mind-hunger" has been con- fessed, this does not imply ignorance. No well-favored little corner of New England was ever more intel- lectually alive than was this, into which the strangers had happened. As a community they were intensely religious, each family giving its allegiance to one of the two denomi- nations already mentioned; each individual, besides, holding it to be his "bounden duty" to be able at any moment to give a reason for his particular faith. The present has no conception of the exhilaration a past generation received from mere "argument;" especially if the debated subjects were of Scriptural origin. Many topics now relegated to the studies of scholars were once vital among the people. If, for instance, a 42 AN AWAKENING TOUCH group of men sat waiting for their "grist" at the mill (a weekly occurrence), they might gravely discuss the "condition of the dead before the judgment," or recite the arguments favoring the "recognition of friends in heaven," and, if all other subjects failed to interest, they were very liable at any moment to forget the plain command, "Love one another," in their zeal as to the proper mode of baptism. All this implied a study of authorities, lest unhap- pily one be forced to retire in forensic disgrace from the field, and no home was so poor that it did not hold sundry heavy leather-bound volumes, which cham- pioned the owner's particular faith. These testified to frequent use. So possioly never had school a better foundation. Much difficulty arose from transforming a church, small at best, into a schoolroom. This increased when the preacher in charge, having finished up at another point, came to hold his duly announced "protracted meeting." Which last, because of results following, de- mands attention. It was full midwinter before it began. The Janu- ary thaw had worked its own sweet will on the country roads. The nights were dark and stormy; outside the winds wailed as if for the sins of the world. Snow beat at times in the faces of the faithful few, who, night after night, with lanterns in hand, groped their way to the little church, where the exercises consisted of be- seeching prayers, doctrinal songs, and fervid exhorta- tions. 43 DOROTHY On a certain evening the preacher had called the faithful about the altar. Some one was praying, when suddenly the miracle of the walk to Emmaus was re- peated, and one said to another, "Surely our hearts do burn within us." Thanksgivings at once arose, in that the prayed-for "revival" was at hand. There were certain young people who had gone aim- lessly to the meeting. These were borne forward to the altar on the wave of enthusiasm. In an instant "con- viction" had seized each. This was deepened by the prayer of the preacher, who, kneeling near them, in an awesome tone catalogued the personal sins of each, be- seeching Him, whose province it was to have mercy, to save them from His wrath. In this prayer the peni- tents joined in all sincerity. Afterwards, the really sweet, trembling voice of "Uncle John Sumner" arose, announcing in song: " My God is reconciled ; His pardoning voice I hear He owns me for His child ; I can no longer fear." Finally, as the "seekers" each grasped this truth personally, they arose one by one, "comforted." The news soon spread, and, as a result, heavy farm-wagons, whose wheels sank quite to the hub in the mud through which they made their way, drew up each night, and unloaded whole families at the door of the church. A word at this point concerning the "preacher" may not be amiss. Although not old, he seemed, in the 44 AN AWAKENING TOUCH seriousness that was his, to have forever parted with youth. He had no family ties, and, sometimes as he rode away, the mother hearts in his congregation watched him with pity, he seemed so alone. There was a vague rumor that, in still earlier manhood, he had had a wife, and perhaps a child ; but these were matters of which he never spoke. He gave no one cause to sus- pect that he had ever cherished ambitions other than to preach the gospel where it was most needed. In that light his present charge was an inviting field. He believed with all his soul in a "judgment to come" and in the punishment of the wicked, whether in or out of the Church, who die in their sins. He con- ceived the Scriptures to be perfectly plain as to the method of that punishment. He therefore proceeded to consjgn them to that "outer darkness" in language so vivid that his hearers caught the echo of the "weep- ing," and shivered at the "gnashing of teeth." A well-defined belief, which knows no mental reser- vation, is always a source of strength to its possessor. In this respect the preacher was very strong. He had yet another distinguishing trait: his preaching was backed by a certain something, which for lack of a better term, men have agreed to call "unction." The effect of this last was at times overpowering. During the days that followed, strange scenes were enacted about the little altar. Some, if subjected to analysis, might be found of the earth, earthy. But there were others not so easily disposed of. As an illus- tration, there was in the neighborhood a feud of long standing, because of which two members of the Church 45 DOROTHY met on the street or sat side by side in the church with- out either recognizing the other. This feud the preacher at once regarded as his law- ful prey, and nightly set forth the enormity of the sin of hate. Finally one of the parties came to the altar. Suddenly in the midst of a prayer he fell as if dead. Neighbors carried the body and laid it back of the pul- pit, where it lay rigid, as if in death ; the altar services continuing meanwhile, without an interruption. After a lapse of a few hours the stricken man opened his eyes, arose, put on his great coat, and going out of the door, went down the street, then across a meadow, finally knocking at the door of his enemy. What transpired at the interview was never known, but the next evening the two went to church together. Together they made their way to the preacher, and, weeping as children might, each gave him his hand. The feud was ended. The psychologist may easily explain the unconscious condition of the stricken man ; but that love should take the place of hate, that lives should be transformed, argues the Divine. The young girl, Dorothy, was of course an inter- ested witness of all that was happening. Presently she began to experience a little soul-discomfort of her own, and a certain night found her kneeling at the little crowded altar. At this point a digression seems again necessary. At a distance of only a few miles from the village stretched a long range of high hills, familiarly known 4 6 AN AWAKENING TOUCH as "The Knobs." These were covered with tall pines, with here and there heavy patches of undergrowth mostly hickory saplings. Log cabins, not unlike those yet found in the mountain regions of Kentucky and Tennessee, were scattered throughout the hills, the dwellers in these supplementing the scant living which the few cleared acres afforded by cutting the saplings and supplying the one village industry a cooper- shop with hoop-poles. In the blackberry season they had yet another source of revenue, for at the foot of the hills these berries ripened in profusion, free for the picking. These hills, during the closing years of the war, had received a fresh influx of inhabitants. The new- comers were known as "refugees." Living in the South, yet sympathizing with the Northern cause, they had been sent North for protection.* Tall and lank, they were the typical Southern mountaineer, and in no quarter, whether hill or village, had they made a favor- able impression, either as regards appearance or attain- ments. But whatever graces the strangers may have lacked, they were fervently religious. So, when the news of the "big meeting" reached their "fastness," they literally "flocked" to the little church, being un- usually numerous on the evening that saw Dorothy at the altar. Each individual responding to the preach- er's appeals with a fervor exceeding his, the kneeling girl soon found herself in the midst of a din that might have presaged the judgment-day itself. In the midst of it all she was startled to receive a *A historical fact. 47 DOROTHY vigorous pluck, and to hear a familiar voice whisper emphatically: "Chile, come away from heah! Doan yo' mix yo'self up wid dese low-down white folks. Why ebery black on ole Marsa's plantation done been tole hollerin' ain't religion. 'Course, sometimes one 's got to holler; but dese heah trash don't know what dey is doin'. Come along; you do n't belong heah." And Dorothy not quite understanding how she had erred, arose, passed out of the congregation, and on home. "Dorothy, will you stop a minute after the school is dismissed?" It was the Profesor who, bending over the young girl's desk, asked the question. Of course she lingered. When the last noisy footstep had died away he called her to him, and, looking at her very earnestly, said, "You were at the altar last night?" A hot flush suffused the face; she was recalling Aunt Violet's displeasure. For a moment she faltered ; then, lifting her eyes to his, answered affirmatively, and awaited, not without a beating heart, what he might say. "No one," he said, "whether old or young, ever does a nobler or more essential thing than when they settle their personal relationship to God. I have asked you to stay that we might talk it over." By a few questions he drew from her a confession of her unrest. "Dorothy, you know the plan of salvation?" Yes, thanks to Uncle John, she knew nothing better. "Then you know that the Savior died for the one purpose of bringing this gift to you, and, knowing our great need, 4 8 AN AWAKENING TOUCH His anxiety in the matter must be greater than is our own, with our limited knowledge." This was a new thought, and Dorothy was silent. He continued: "I beg of you not to think of this matter, in which your people are now so interested, as at all mysterious. This Savior is your best Friend. There has not been an hour of your life when He has not been at your side to direct your life. He only asks that those who would be His children yield their lives to Him, allowing Him to make of them whatever He will. Can not you do this?" A low whispered ''Yes" was the answer. "Then be assured He receives you." Then he of the broader life laid his hand upon the young girl's head, and in a few simple words com- mended her to the keeping of Him "who slumbereth not," and later, as the two, so widely apart in much, passed out of the little room together, they had this in common : each was an accepted child of God. 49 CHAPTER VII. THE KNOBS AT the close of the meeting the preacher led "Prin- cess" out of the warm and comfortable stall where she had been at leisure during the weeks, and soon, with the comradeship of old friends, the two might have been seen picking their way through the half- frozen mud of the main road, or following the tortuous bridle-paths which wound in and out among clumps of low bushes. "Princess," coming from her warm quarters, shiv- ered in the February chill. But at the touch of the master's hand upon the rein she took one long breath of air into her nostrils, and then obediently settled down to the journey ahead. The touch had been inter- preted "Go," and, in some subtle way, the animal knew that neither storm nor flood would stop the going. As for the man, there was that in the poise of the shoulders that had an obstacle been suddenly personi- fied and stood before him, must have compelled it to turn and fly, as obstacles have a habit of doing when they encounter a will. Man and beast were headed for "The Knobs." A day or two later the two retraced the same road. On the return journey the reins lay loosely in the So THE KNOBS rider's hands, and peace, rather than purpose, now sat on the strong, thoughtful face. Occasionally a rarely sweet voice sang : ' ' My heavenly home is bright and fair, Nor pain nor death can enter there ; Its glittering towers the sun outshine: That heavenly mansion shall be mine." Repeating softly the chorus : " I 'm going home, I 'm going home, I 'm going home, to die no more.' The horse knew this mood as she had known the other, and jogged along after her own sweet will. Even allowing herself, at times, the luxury of simu- lated terror when a belated and withered leaf came drifting down upon her nose. The rider was very happy. He had added yet another "point" to his cir- cuit, and had, besides, caught a glimpse of that long future in which "The Knobs" would never more be unchurched. There are occasional life-stories that abound in ele- ments of tragic interest. This was particularly true of the man now riding in the chill of the dying day. William MacByrne had been bojn in the State of New York. In early manhood he had cast in his lot with "the strange people called Methodists." With this act there had been born a feeling which grew, until it so overshadowed his life that he might have cried out with Paul, "Woe is me if I preach not the Gospel." Friends who knew of his struggle bade him beware 51 DOROTHY how he trifled with that awesome thing which he had surely received a Divine "call" to the ministry. Had he yielded to this strange "call ;" had he, in preparation for the life-work indicated, entered any one of the sev- eral schools to which he was directed, his life might have lain along different lines ; for " There is a point that marks the destiny of man." Instead, there were months of indecision, then a final putting of the overpowering feeling aside. The facts were, his life-plans were already made. He was soon to be married, and after marriage he was to assume a re- sponsible position with a large manufacturing plant, in which, by a process newly discovered, a kind of rock plentiful in the region after being crushed to pow- der, was made into a cement, which, on account of its quality of hardening under water, promised at the time to revolutionize the whole theory and work of bridge- building. He was (in the language of the people) a "born geologist." When a child, the pebbles he picked up, or the curious formations his eye never failed to note among the rocks, were his choicest playthings. Much of his reading (he was largely self-taught) had been along that one line. He was therefore on the threshold of a life pre- eminently to his taste. Should he give it all up in def- erence to a strange "inner Voice?" Let us not sit in judgment, and let only pity be ours, when, a few years later, we see him bowing by an open grave, in which friends are about to bury his wife and new-born child. 52 THE KNOBS Still another lapse of time, and he turns his face westward. The "inner Voice" is finally to be heeded. Henceforth he is to be a man of but one mission, and that to warn sinners to "flee from the wrath to come." How vivid that warning we already know; but how gentle, how true the heart, we shall yet see. He allowed himself a single luxury, "Princess the beautiful." There were common horses offered him, but he would have none of them. Black (with scarcely a hair of another color), she was soft and glossy of coat, slender of limb, fleet and sure of foot. She car- ried an arched neck, a shapely head, and had eyes that seemed human in intelligence. Between the two there grew to be a perfect under- standing, and sometimes, as he rode through the wood, the horse caught touches of his nature that the common folk to whom he ministered never knew. There was yet one other outcome from the meet- ings besides the spiritual redemption of "The Knobs," though that were in itself remarkable. A single new student from their depths entered the Seminary. He was the only son of a widowed mother, and mother and son had been among those socially ostracized ones who had come North at the instance and under the pro- tection of the Government. The youth had gone aimlessly with some neighbors to the meeting. Once there, he had been strongly aroused, and had been among the first to "go forward," regardless of the din that had so shocked Aunt Violet. The curious may speculate as to what this untu- S3 DOROTHY tored young man received on that memorable evening. Leaving the realm of disputed ethics as we may, a single fact stands out and we may not put it aside. Some dormant spring had been touched, a mind had been quickened, a soul awakened, and the first gropings of that soul were toward intellectual light. As the preacher was leaving the hills he had been surprised by the sudden apparition of a tall, overgrown youth by the roadside, who evidently desired to speak with him. The conversation that followed was long and ear- nest, and the closing words were from the preacher: "Spunk up, boy, and carry out the purpose of your 'heart. There is nothing to hinder. I will speak to Professor Williamson for you. A better and a kindlier man never lived. You need not fear him or any one. This is your chance to make a man of yourself." The homely advice was taken, and the following week the Professor added the name "Robert Stirling" to the Seminary roll. The new student was, beyond doubt, ungainly. He was tall for his eighteen years, and it became a daily task to adjust his long legs comfortably to the make- shift desk assigned him. It was, besides, his hourly study, and not always successful, to prevent his sharp elbows from scattering his books and the inevitable bottle of ink into a miscellaneous heap on the floor. His clothes were of a plainest weave, and of home manufacture,' but scrupulously clean. His hands were 54 THE KNOBS strong and sinewy, and a shock of reddish-brown hair fell over his forehead, but did not hide the eagerness nor the beauty of the eyes. "I believe MacByrne is right, and there is some- thing back of that shock of hair," was the Professor's mental comment as he noted the new student. An incident occurred during the first week that did not alter this conclusion. A class in physiology was reciting a lesson on the framework of the body. A skeleton had been introduced for the purpose of illus- trating the wonderful arrangement of pivot, socket, and hinge by which the head obtains the rotary as well as the nodding or bowing movement. The Professor had just finished the explanation when he observed an "unwinding" on the part of the new student, who, oblivious of his surroundings, was conscious of but one thing, and that the skeleton, which he was evidently coming forward to examine. The wise teacher had a > habit of being very blind to the uncouth, and very alert to discover a purpose. So, with a gesture, he stilled the "smile" that went around, and held himself ready to answer questions. Robert handled "Sir Bones" with undisguised wonder. Then, after very critically turning the skull in its socket, he as gravely turned his own head, as if for the first time conscious of the movement. He stood for a moment as if lost in thought, then, turning towards his seat, drawled out, "Well, I '11 be blamed." "But let the Creator be praised," flashed the quick wit of the teacher, and the rising laughter of the school 55 DOROTHY was still. The eyes of teacher and taught met. The latter went slowly back to his seat. He had learned a double lesson. When the March winds began to whistle up and down the long village street, and wail under the win- dows as if they were a veritable banshee, Dorothy stood face to face with another sorrow. "Aunt Lucy," the only mother she had ever known, suddenly sickened. She had been ailing for more than a year, but, with her old stoicism, had not "let on" sufficiently to alarm the family. There were a few days and nights of anxious watching, in which "Uncle John," to whom since their marriage she had minis- tered as to a child, sat stunned by her bedside. She lin- gered a few days, then, as quietly as she had lived, passed on. Not, though, till, with a last look of trust- ful appeal, which Dorothy understood, she commended the bowed form at the bedside to the young girl. Again Dorothy stood by an open grave; but now she was tall and strong, and the neighbors, many of whom recalled that earlier scene, noted that now, in his sorrow, the "old man with the gray hair" leaned heav- ily upon the strong, young arm that encircled him. Through it all she was conscious of a renewed struggle with the misty memories of the past, and a desire, so intense that it seemed to choke her, to clasp a shadowy form that ever eluded her, and to draw down to her own, for her comfort, a sweet face, that, alas! remained ever in the shadows. But she was not without sympathy. It not infre- 56 THE KNOBS quently happens that people of simple lives put those of wider ones to shame by their cordial interest in a neighbor's sorrows. Not an act that might soften the grief of the sorrowing ones was left undone. Amid the general sympathy offered, Dorothy re- ceived a note that was in itself unusual. The envelope that held it was large, and its color yellow. The paper on which it was written was not of the most elegant, but the writing was bold and strong. There was but a single line, and it said: "I am sorry. Robert Stir- ling." Poor Dorothy! she was very human, and, even in her grief, she smiled at the ungainly figure the signa- ture called up. Then the smiling lips curved in some- thing very like scorn, and the well-meant consolation turned to smoke, and drifted up the chimney before which she was standing. 57 CHAPTER VIII. AT THE COMMAND OF HIS CHURCH ONE of the things hardest to be borne by one in the grip of sorrow is the readiness with which our little world adjusts itself to the inevitable. The sun con- tinues to shine and the seasons to come and go, as if we and our griefs were of the least possible conse- quence. In a few weeks the Sumner home had been reorgan- ized. A childless and widowed relative of Uncle John, whom we shall come to know later, assumed the house- hold reins, and life went on with its usual rounds. The hurrying months had brought yet another change to the little village. A new preacher had taken the place of MacByrne, who, dearly beloved and suc- cessful as we have seen, had, in obedience to the com- mands of his Church, journeyed on to his "new ap- pointment." Before doing this he had, of necessity, returned to his old charge for a few final preparations. The coun- try folk, quick to note the unusual, saw that he was evidently in the throes of a heavy burden, beneath which his old genial self was buried. There was, though, about his grim, set mouth a look which plainly said that, though a certain cup was bitter, he would drain it to the dregs. AT THE COMMAND OF HIS CHURCH The vagueness of the location of his new appoint- ment furnished a fruitful theme of discussion, and the opinion began to obtain that, in some inexplicable man- ner, the preacher beloved of all, had not been treated "square." The "Store" took the matter up in detail, and the Baptist contingent were able to make some rapier-like thrusts at a polity that by any chance could admit of such a catastrophe, which the other side (in the face of public opinion) found hard to parry. The truth is, no one is yet able to tell how the un- fortunate thing came about, which the "Store" and the little world, of which it was the center, deplored. That particular session of the Conference had been "stormy" from the beginning to the close. Bishop and cabinet had wrestled long and earnestly over each day's new problems. For the "square pegs" had manifested an unusual persistence in getting into the "round holes." Upon the checker-board of Conference possibilities there were scheduled a given number of "irrevocable moves" from "Somewhere" to "Somewhere." It fol- lowed, as a consequence, that the "man pawn" occupy- ing the latter "Somewhere" had also to "move on;" so, added to the list of "irrevocable moves," there was yet another set of "consequent ones." It was little wonder if, amid all the anxiety attendant upon honestly trying to do the best for all, one unpretentious "pawn" should have been jostled aside, and in the stress quite forgotten. The Conference had gathered for its final session. The bishop was in his chair, and the "paper of fate" was in his hands. The hush that invariably precedes 59 DOROTHY the reading of the appointments had already set in. Suddenly one of the elders, with consternation written upon his face, was seen to leave his seat and hurriedly to approach the bishop. The matter of which the two talked was evidently of importance, for the latter could not conceal his dismay. It was indeed the unprecedented that had happened. For the first and only time in the history of the great Church a Methodist preacher had been left without an appointment ! What should be, what could be done at this last moment ? In the preceding sessions of the cabinet each "point had been carefully "manned." But here, 'just in front of the bishop, sat a "surplus" man (our circuit preacher, by the way), who, wholly unconscious of official per- turbation, was with his "brethren" awaiting the final reading. But something must be done, and that quickly. In the bishop's coat-pocket lay a letter, with the demands of which, for the lack of material, he had been unable to comply. It graphically portrayed the needs of a missionary to the lumber-camps of the great Northwest. There was a quick scanning, by a prac- ticed eye, of the unconscious man in front. Would he do? "I like that square jaw," was the bishop's com- ment to himself. "At any rate, I will risk it." "I have it," he said aloud to the elder, who, thank- ful that there was a superior officer who must assume the final responsibility, took his seat. A few minutes later a plain man who knew that he was plain, but had not guessed that he was superfluous heard read 60 AT THE COMMAND OF HIS CHURCH his name, "William MacByrne," and following it his appointment: "Missionary to the Great Woods." It is never wise to pry into heart secrets ; so, if here and there in this band of men, who, at the close of the reading, girded themselves afresh for the work of their lives, there was a heart that ached with the shattering of ambitions, we shall not ask how godly, nor how worldly-wise these might have been; for if, amid the shoals of fish at home in the great ocean, there be one that, admiring strength, hugs to itself the sweet dream that one day it, too, shall be a whale, shall we not pity rather than smile and remembering how swift in passing is the little day of human authority and how certain the Divine retribution if it be misused, shall not the same pity obtain towards those to whom such authority has been committed? In a few hours Princess had borne him, who had been found "surplus," miles away from the seat of the Conference. His face was drawn, his lips tightly shut, as if he were in great physical pain. Presently a stretch of woodland was reached, where spreading beeches and tall, upright oaks cast their shadows. Cooling breezes God's own breath swept across his hot brow, and touched gently his jarring heartstrings. A touch upon the rein bade the carrying comrade pause. For a moment the man sat with his brow bared to the cooling breeze; then he slid to the ground. The birds above, as if in wonder at the sound that arose, ceased for a moment their caroling; then, catch- ing the meaning, they broke into a louder and more 61 DOROTHY exultant strain. A soul beneath them was pouring itself out at the feet of God ; and for such an act there is in Nature's kingdom a common language! The plans of the surplus man were few. A thought had come to him, and remained. As he was to serve men who were away from that civilization summed up in the words mother and wife, it might be well if he had some special preparation. There would be the sick whom he should know better how to nurse, and pos- sible emergencies which if he were prepared to meet, might mean the saving of life. He decided to obtain from Professor Williamson an introduction to the head of a medical college in a not far-distant city. Such an introduction, he argued, would secure for him the fundamental sort of instruction he desired, and, above all, a few weeks' insight into hospital work. The favor was readily granted, and, on its strength, not a physician on the staff, upon learning for what the quiet man was preparing, but was at great pains to help him in every possible way. He gave as much time to this preparation as he could, and still be able to reach the "Woods" before midwinter. He gave himself (before his final departure) the privilege of a few days on the circuit that had been home. He lingered longest in the little cabins among "The Knobs." From the first these people had greatly appealed to him, and as his acquaintance progressed he had stumbled upon many strange "life stories" that had enlisted his sympathy. Among them all, none had crept quite so close to 62 AT THE COMMAND OF HIS CHURCH his heart as had Robert Stirling. With him and the little mother the parting conversation had run along a single line education. As he was leaving he took Robert's hand in his own, and holding it a moment he said, "Choose your life-work early; choose it seriously, even prayerfully; and after the choice is made, I beg of you, bend every energy in preparation." He paused, and in a subtle way the youth realized that the speaker's inner self was being revealed. Then he continued, "Remember, it has been truly said that 'he who enters upon his life-work without preparation but invites dis- aster.' " An hour later Princess picked her way down steep precipices and across swift-flowing streams, carrying, as she did so, a saddened but yet an unflinching man. There remained yet one other leave-taking. At this two men quite alone in a book-lined room talked long and earnestly together. They were vastly different in appearance. Upon the brow of one life had been pleased to stamp the insignia of success. But, alas ! in the other's proud heart for it was proud there rankled the humiliation of conscious failure. And to the human heart there can come no more bitter draught ! It had been to convince this saddened one that vic- tory often came in the guise of defeat, that the conver- sation lingered. Finally the preacher arose to go, the other accompanying him. They paused at the lichen- covered fence. The moment of parting had come, and a loving and sympathetic hand clasped the rougher one offered, and a voice that thrilled with emotion said: 63 DOROTHY "Be of good cheer, and do not, as you are inclined, underestimate this unexpected and unwelcome duty. It may comfort you, as you go, to remember that God- given duties differ only in kind, never in quality, and, be assured, life holds no greater satisfaction than that which arises from within, when such duties are done patiently and conscientiously." The departing man's footsteps were sounding amid the falling leaves when he suddenly turned. The Pro- fessor, leaning against the weatherbeaten fence, was still watching him. "There is Robert" his voice choked "I had meant to see that he enters college." A sympathetic hand clasped his, and a voice as heavy with emotion as his own, said, "I will take it as a trust." Once more the preacher turned to go, and once more he hesitated. He was about to speak of the now twice-orphaned Dorothy, but Princess was impatiently calling; so, mounting her, he waved a last farewell to his still watching friend, and the new "Woods preacher" rode on, and out of the lives of all who knew him, save a bare three or four. CHAPTER IX. A COURTHOUSE WAR, AND A SEQUENCE IT is to be doubted if, in the history of events purely local, one can be found of more thrilling interest or richer in incident than is the removal of a county seat after it has been long established. Pride of locality and business interests combine on the one hand to pre- vent, and on the other to urge removal. "Court-house war" is a phrase coined to express the bitterness and strife such an attempt engenders. Such a war had lain dormant in Winfield County for years, occasionally arousing itself, and looming upon the horizon in threatening proportions. In the days of early settlement the county seat had been located at F , a promising enough little town, but with the drawback of being on the county line. Its claim to precedence had lain in the fact that it was the terminal point of the one railroad the county boasted. A precedence, though, that finally availed little; for, with the extension of the road, its proposed route was changed, leaving the entire county with the exception of F quite to one side. Justice demanded its location at Middletown, which as its name indicated was in the center of the county, and was, besides, easy of access. But by certain DOROTHY methods (upon which local politicians might have possibly thrown light) it had been impossible hitherto for those feeling themselves aggrieved to obtain the privilege of voting upon the question in the midst of the continued agitation, work was begun on another long-promised "road," and after many tantalizing stops some longer, some shorter it was at length an- nounced as within a hundred miles of the "geograph- ical center," and with the news "court-house removal" became at once a topic of engrossing interest. By a "coup" (the details of which were told at the "Store" with a relish) the question was submitted to the people of the county, and the carrying became only a matter of votes. At this, all Middletown girded itself to do battle, the "Store," as a matter of course, becoming headquarters for "removal agitation." Since the sudden death of his wife, its proprietor, "Uncle John," had gone about as though bereft of hope. The neighbors shook their heads at the sight, and whis- pered among themselves, "He won't be long for this world." But as the war-horse, peacefully ending his days amid green pastures if the blare of war's trumpet but falls upon his failing ears, is said to renew his youth in his eagerness for the fray, so the present contest again aroused that old fighting instinct which had made the name "John Suraner" rich in local prestige. Su- pineness and inertia dropped from him as if mere gar- ments, and he gave himself to the direction of the cam- paign ; a campaign that meant the personal interviewing of each voter in the several townships. The interest extended, of course, to the Seminary, and once more 66 A COURTHOUSE WAR, AND A SEQUENCE New Englander and Kentuckian owned a common in- terest. Dorothy was by nature a partisan, and in these stirring days of action felt sorely limitations of age and sex. On a certain noon, while the students were dis- cussing the probable outcome, in her intensity of feel- ing she clasped her hands almost tragically, and cried out: "O, but I wish I were a man!" (The private opinion of more than one of the boys was that she did very well as she was.) "And what would you do if you were a man?" It was Robert who asked the question Robert, for whom the time in school and association with the "Professor" had done much. "Well, for one thing I would go out and make yes, make [for they were smiling] every man vote as I wanted him to." "Ah! what an easy task would be hers!" thought Robert. But had she thrown down a challenge? It might appear so. This conversation had occurred on a Friday. The following Tuesday was set for the election. That the result was yet in doubt all acknowledged, for the rival "end" of the county was leaving no stone unturned to prevent removal. On Fridays Robert usually returned to his home. During this homeward ride he appeared in a very thoughtful mood. Upon his arrival there, by that sort of Freemasonry which obtains between mothers and sons, the one read the restlessness of the other. The 67 DOROTHY whole matter came out in a conversation which oc- curred in the gathering twilight, as the two, quite close together, leaned over the pasture bars. The following morning, quite to his ponyship's sur- prise, "Shaggy" he that carried Robert to and from the school already saddled and bridled, was brought to the stile, and soon Robert, turning a bend, waved a farewell to his mother. Before nightfall, each man on "The Knobs" had listened to an eloquent setting forth of Middletown's claims to precedence. On the evening of election day, an anxious, and, for once, a silent group waited at the "Store." Run- ners were to bring the election returns from the dif- ferent townships. Already these reports had begun to come in, and they were not reassuring. The "op- position," it began to appear, had developed remark- able strength. At last each report, save the one from Knob Town- ship, was in. As yet there was a bare majority for removal. All now hinged upon this delayed report, acknowledged at best to be uncertain; for it went by common consent that "the hill people were mighty independent," voting on any question as happened to suit their fancy, occasionally serving up, with evident relish, political surprises to those other portions of the county that held, as they believed, their surroundings in contempt. Suddenly there sounded the clatter of hoofs, and the expected "runner" breathlessly dis- mounted, entered the "Store," and handed a sealed paper to "Uncle John." 68 A COURTHOUSE AVAR, AND A SEQUENCE The silence during the unfolding was oppressive. When the figures were read there was still a moment when none spoke; then one of their number, "Long David" by sobriquet, slid down from his perch on the counter, rushed out upon the little porch, and gave one prolonged hurrah. Removal had carried! Each man on "The Knobs" had, as it appeared, voted, and in the opinion of Middletown, had voted right. Robert's share in the carrying of the "proposition" gradually became known. But the public often de- ceived took it for granted that his interest was wholly due to his loyalty to the Seminary and its interests. But Dorothy knew! And this without the ex- change of a single w r ord, so independent is Cupid of the ordinary means of communication! The eager lover of a succeeding generation chooses, perhaps, as a gift a cluster of fragrant roses, and be- stows the same with a polish and ease of manner such as Robert did not know. Such a gift, however, makes no great demand on that intangible something called "force of character," a something in which that other unique offering was certainly rich. It is a poor specimen of girlhood that fails to yield her homage to that same intagible "something" wherever found. And Dorothy was no poor specimen. Indeed, her approval was so marked that a daring thought presented itself to Robert's mind, one that a week ago he had not allowed himself to cherish. 6 9 DOROTHY A district school, perhaps a mile distant, had chal- lenged the "Seminary" to a spelling match, and a social code quite as strong as that older one, which branded a man a coward who failed to accept a challenge to a duel, made an acceptance imperative. During the week preceding the "removal election," interest had in some quarters been divided between that and preparations for the "spelling," which, owing to the unintentional rivalry that had sprung up between the two schools, promised to be of intense interest."* It was customary for each school to choose a leader. In the "Seminary" the choice wavered between Robert and Dorothy, each adepts in the "art orthographical." The final choice fell on Robert. The interest rapidly spread from the two schools involved to their respective neighborhoods, even the elders looking forward to the exhilaration of the event, expecting in it to renew the triumphs of their own youth. For history hath it that there had been "spell- ers" in those still older days ! After an immense deal of lagging on the part of Time, the eventful evening finally came. At a given signal the opposing forces ranged themselves; the lead- ers standing side by side at the teacher's desk, their cohorts extending in lines quite around the room. The rules were few. Beginning with the leaders, they * Perhaps an apology is due a long-suffering public for the introduction of "yet another spelling match." The truth is, as the "oldest inhabitant " can testify, it is impossible to refer to the schools of a generation ago without some such reference. No educational feature was more apparent, and no event of more social interest to a neighborhood. 70 A COURTHOUSE WAR, AND A SEQUENCE would spell around, those spelling incorrectly taking their seats. In the present instance, after a few rounds, first one and then another discomfited speller sat down, covered with proper chagrin. Finally, on the District's side only the leader remained ; on the Seminary's Robert and one other, and that other, Dorothy. For once Robert was hardly aware of her presence. "Asafcetida!" a stentorian voice pronounced. At the pungent word the leader of the District floundered. In the crisis men held their breath ; as for the women according to subsequent testimony a dozen or more "fairly ached" to help him out. Still floundering, he finally failed outright, and the word was passed to Dorothy, who spelled it correctly. The Seminary had won, and won "fair" the last an important element in the victory ; for blackened eyes had been not infrequent trophies of such contests. Robert now began to come down to earth, and, in doing so, became aware, not only of his own conspic- uous position, but also of Dorothy's presence. In double embarrassment he was hurrying to his seat, when some one, pining for further excitement, called out, "Let them spell down" meaning Robert and Dorothy. The cry was taken up, and soon the two were running the gamut of words. It soon became evident that no ordinary "Speller" would meet the re- quirements, so a geography was secured, and presently he of the stentorian voice led the two a merry chase through South America, China, India, and finally launched them upon the Pacific Ocean. 7* DOROTHY "Philippine," announced he, peering over his spec- tacles. It was Dorothy's turn. "P-h-i-1-l-i-p-i-n-e," promptly spelled she. "P-h-i-1-i-p-p-i-n-e," as promptly corrected Robert. Who shall declare that the heart of a young girl is not a queer bit of mechanism ? Strangely enough, as Dorothy took her seat, that organ, which should have been busy with the mere matter of heart-beats (hast- ened by possible chagrin for her failure) actually re- corded a second victory for Robert. We have already said this young man had been for days nourishing a daring hope. The moment had come to attempt its realization. The contest over, the "big boys" were ranging themselves in a sort of double phalanx outside the door, a phalanx through w r hich every blessed girl, home- ward bound would have to pass. The pen has never yet been fashioned that can properly picture the tumult of bashful fears, the secret hopes, that together held sway in the waiting phalanx; nor yet the maidenly trepidation with which each girl stepped from the shelter of the crowded room into the open air. Had an uninitiated one been looking on, he might have thought he saw a revival of that older age when savage wooer swooped down and stole his mate; for some such event seemed now to be taking place. In a twinkling the phalanx grew less, and the patient old moon, that has had to beam on many fol- lies, looked down once more and smiled knowingly at the happy rustic pairs. Not all, however, walked in 72 A COURTHOUSE WAR, AND A SEQUENCE pairs. Occasionally a crestfallen young man stole off alone. He had received "the mitten," while here and there some unappreciated maiden, quite as crestfallen, sought her home unattended. Did such a fate as the former await Robert, who watched the door which still hid Dorothy? He did not know; but Spartacus was never more determined than he. A young girl can not always find excuses for lingering, so finally the fateful moment came. A moment of fierce heart-beats, a low question that came very near stopping in a very dry throat, a half-given reply, and the homeward walk together had begun. Strange that, when Robert would have given worlds for an eloquent tongue, his should have so thickened and cleaved to the roof of his mouth, that even his monosyllables were husky and gruff. Strange that his mind should suddenly become a vacuum, from which every available topic for conversation had fled. No, not strange; for each rapidly departing sense was fixed on a plump little hand that, very white in the moonlight, lay lightly on his arm, and which, because the evenings were yet chilly, he must needs in some way protect from the cold. Not strange; for by and by, as a riven sycamore, tall and white in the shadows, loomed in their path, and Dorothy, with a real little shiver of fear, asked under her breath, "What 's that?" he had to draw her yet more closely to himself for pro- tection ; thinking all the while of that lucky, very much overestimated old St. George who had a dragon ready furnished him to slay. Ah! if modern fate would but be so kind! that he might know the thrill of a heroic 73 DOROTHY deed 'done for the sake of the dear girl who walked by his side. But a walk, though every step be taken on air (so light seems the heart), must finally end. This one could be no exception; but Robert began to date his life from that hour. 74 CHAPTER X. AN IMPORTANT ARRIVAL NOTWITHSTANDING the various excitements which persisted in hovering over Middletown, there were, since the death, of her foster-mother, many quiet days for Dorothy days when she sometimes asked herself what she must have done had not the "Beeches" been so near, and the companionship there so delightful. For the intimacy begun during that first summer had deepened, until she was now at home in every nook and corner of the rambling old place. And they of that quiet household now listened eagerly for the quick footsteps, or smiled when they heard her bright, cheery laughter in Aunt Violet's own quarters. A warm friendship had sprung up between this strangely assorted pair. The quaint sayings and the queer conceits of the latter formed a never-ending source of amusement and entertainment to this North- ern-bred girl. On the other hand, the heart of the loyal serving woman was very hungry for the young people who, in other years, had flitted in and out of her kitchen, and its tendrils were unconsciously reaching out for another object around which to entwine. Though Dorothy did not suspect it, she had been held for weeks under the closest surveillance by this ebony-hued critic, and her every action carefully 75 DOROTHY weighed. It was "Mis' " Millicent who heard the final verdict. "I do n't keer nothin' about her folks ; she 's a bawn lady, sho'." That being assured, Aunt Violet at once gathered the young girl to her warm, capacious heart, and loved her. On the occasion of a certain morning visit Dorothy found this friend in a high state of excitement, which was rinding an outlet in unusual culinary preparations. She soon learned that "Marsa Clay had done wrote a letter to Mis' Millicent from de U-ni-vusity" (Aunt Violet was properly impressed with the dignity the word implied, and rolled the syllables accordingly), "saying dat in June he was a comin' straight heah, 'caze he 'lowed he was jest pinin' to know how we was all a gettin' along on Turkey Crik." And the happy Aunty chuckled gleefully, and snipped the raisins she happened to have in hand with yet more energy. "Turkey Creek?" Dorothy repeated interroga- tively. "O, dat 's one of Marsa Clay's jokes. You '11 find he 's always a jokin'. He 's driv me plum' crazy more dan once wid his torn- foolery." And again the speaker chuckled, as if that sensation had been the acme of delight. "But there is no Turkey Creek here," persisted Dorothy. "I done tole you dat was one of Marsa Clay's jokes." There was a touch of impatience in the an- swer. "You see, chile, back in ole Virginy, Turkey Crik wa' n't very far from de ole plantation. It come tearin' down from de mountain not very far off, and 76 AN IMPORTANT ARRIVAL on dat Turkey Crik (are you llstenln', chile?) and clar up de mountains whah it started, the poah white folks was just dat thick dat it got to be a saying, 'Turkey Crik and poah white folks, dey go together.' " A warning flush on the young girl's face, a flash from the eyes, now quite black with excitement, warned "Auntie" that she had blundered. So she hastened to add, "O' co'se, Honey, yoah people ain't poah whites; Marsa Professah done 'splained dat to me. Marsa Clay he do n't understand ; he 11 find out right away." But despite all voluble explanations the day was spoiled for Dorothy, and a half hour later, with down- cast head and troubled face, she turned homeward into the woodland path. Aunt Violet watched the dejected little figure with growing pity. " 'Pears like I done said de wrong thing," she said to herself. "But it will turn out all right, 'cause Marsa Clay '11 soon find out dat she 's no poah white. I knows quality folks when I sees 'em." The truth was, Dorothy ha-d been touched in her most vulnerable point. Long before the coming of the Williamsons she had been conscious of a vague dis- satisfaction with what, she scarcely knew. This may have had its origin during the hours she spent alone before her little fire-place. Or the meager details of her babyhood may have ministered to it. At any rate, there were times when the "alien" feeling to her sur- roundings was very strong, and her perception of all that was incongruous very keen. 77 DOROTHY Once she had heard a speaker address a crowd, of which she was a part, as "our honest yeomanry," and the application rankled; "as if we were servants," she said to Uncle John at the inevitable discussion of the speech. "Take care, take care ; remember that pride goeth before a fall," and then, as he gravely looked her over, he said: "I would like to know where you get such queer notions ; not out of your Bible, I am sure. You 'd better read it a little more carefully." Following this, and only a few days before Aunt Violet's "slip," there had been another incident which had left its sting. A smart young attorney from out- side the village a candidate for an office knowing that before election-day it would be well for him to do a little preliminary handshaking, dropped into the "Store" for that self-same purpose. It happened that, on the morning of the visit, Dorothy had undertaken to straighten out Uncle John's mysterious book-keep- ing, and was at the moment of his entrance quite busy with her task. He greeted the crowd with a very suave smile, from which he had not been able to eliminate all traces of condescension ; then, beginning with Uncle John, he shook hands all around; this with the fervor of a bosom friend. But this exercise over, he was obliged to stand aside, notwithstanding a nectar-dripping speech he had at his tongue's end, and allow an event already in progress to take its course. It had happened that, a few minutes before his en- trance, "Long David," one of the "Store's" most per- 78 AN IMPORTANT ARRIVAL sistent loungers, who "held" to the Methodists, and "Shorty MacPeters," another habitue (and a sort of peripatetic Baptist preacher of the "iron-clad" variety), had, in the parlance of the "Store," "locked horns" on no less a subject than "Infant Baptism" and the conse- quent eligibility of children to Church membership. A word concerning "David" (the why of whose sobriquet was very much in evidence) is due at this point. He was of the neighborhood, "native born," with New England as an ancestral background, and had served from the beginning to the close of the late war. Once during those four years he had returned home on a furlough, and being very spick-and-span in his bright uniform, he became at once a prominent figure at local gatherings. At one of these he had met a country lass who had attracted him. There followed a hasty wooing and a hasty marriage and then the "boy" husband returned to the "front." The war over, it was openly hinted that the "strangers" had found plenty of leisure to repent of their haste. Besides, David had found it hard to settle down to the necessary struggle always more or less humdrum for a liveli- hood, and, fleeing the consequent wrath of Mrs. David, had found the "Store" a veritable haven. He had a zest for argument, whether political or ecclesiastical, and MacPeters, who hailed from somewhere in the South, became a sort of imaginary shield at which he delighted to tilt his lance. The argument that had opened a few minutes be- fore the attorney's entrance promised to be of unusual interest, for David, in preparation, had made a little 79 DOROTHY extra preparation. Somewhere he had stumbled upon an old doctrinal book of the "opposition," that had set forth in an unusually vivid style the grewsome doctrine that some do what they might were "elected" to be lost, not excepting the babies; indeed a still older writer was quoted as saying "that there were infants in hell not a span long." Of course, David knew this "belief" was no longer held by the sect to which Mac- Peters gave his allegiance, but he recognized a fine op- portunity for a telling shot into the enemy's camp, and bided his time, which had come on the morning of the attorney's visit. After some light skirmishing (during which the visitor had entered) "David" suddenly straightened himself out, and said: "The trouble is, you do n't know what you believe. Just let me read you a few lines, and then you '11 know the foundation of your heathenish doctrines." So, producing the vol- ume from under his coat, he proceeded to read the offensive paragraphs. The coming of no mere poli- tician could stem the tide of words that followed. The present visitor was wise enough to stand aside while the battle raged. Finally "David" drew himself up to his full height, and looking down serenely upon his much-flushed op- ponent, said, in a tone that indicated that the foray need not be prolonged : "Wall, I do n't keer to hire out to any shepherd that will lock the old sheep up in a good warm pen, and turn the poor little lambs out to bleat and die. No, I ain't aching to work for any such a man." The bystanders laughed heartily, and the young 80 AN IMPORTANT ARRIVAL attorney very loudly. But Dorothy observed that he laughed at "Long David" rather than with him; at "Shorty," and worst of all, at Uncle John himself. And her young heart grew very bitter at the discovery. "Poah whites; yes, that's what he thinks us, and I half believe we are. No, we are not; we are quite as good as he." By this time Dorothy was in the heart of the woodland. Had there been any one to see, she would have summoned her pride, and kept back the hot tears that were already beginning to fall. Just by the side of the path, years before, a tiny sprout of a grapevine had pushed its way through the mold. It had at first appealingly climbed about a great oak that stood near; then, becoming ambitious, had reached out its tendrils to the inviting branches of a near-by beech ; then, as if it would fain bless the world other than by its luscious fruit, the connecting vine between the trees drooped till within a few feet of the ground, where it formed a natural swing. Each year the vine had grown stouter, until now its girth was larger than Dorothy's slender waist. The shady wood, the inviting swing, made an ideal trysting-place, and there, for more than a decade, rustic lovers had whispered the vows which are the same whether the scene be country lane or crowded street. Into this seat Dorothy flung herself. Her little white sunbonnet fell forlornly at her feet; she gave it a very decided kick into the near-by bushes, and sur- rendered herself to the storm of hurt and angry feel- ings which swayed her. Had the "circuit preacher" 6 8l DOROTHY been present, and had he opened his "brimstone wallet" and "peppered her with sulphur" (the country-side's picturesque way of describing the preacher's very faith- ful and frequent discourses on "the lake that burneth with fire and brimstone"), she might have been awed, but still she must have yielded to the storm of hate which swayed her. She hated the innocent little bonnet. She hated the coarse shoes she wore (she and Uncle John had many a struggle over this one item) ; she hated her dress, different, though how she scarcely knew, from that of the dainty woman beyond the trees ; but, above all, she heated the young man, who, she foresaw, was about to rob her of her one pleasure, the companion- ship at the "Beeches." But no form of unhappiness can long withstand the wooing breezes of June ; particularly, if borne upon them is the hum of returning honey-laden bees, the song of birds, and the fragrant comradeship of wild flowers. The young girl grew calmer. She settled herself into a curve of the swing, and began to dream at first quite wide awake, and then in actual sleep of a time when she might happily go out of this life that seemed to her so narrow, so commonplace, and so full of humiliations. Alas! poor Dorothy! That day was nearer than she thought. Meanwhile another scene was taking place in the village. For a full half hour, first one, and then an- other of the waiting loungers at the "Store" had arisen, at intervals, and, after yawning, had sleepily 82 "She Stilled Herself into a Curve of the Swing" AN IMPORTANT ARRIVAL remarked, one to another, "It 's high time that hack was here." The "hack" was the conveyance that made daily trips between the village and the nearest railroad point, carrying not only the mail, but such passengers as desired to make the trip. Close scrutiny finally revealed in the distance a yellow cloud of dust, which prophetically announced its approach. In a few minutes it had swung up to the "Store" porch, and was depositing, not only the mail, but, what was of equal importance, a stranger as well. The latter was a well-dressed young man, who at once looked about him with a nonchalant and wholly self- satisfied air, and asked if any one could direct him to the home of Professor Williamson, as if there were a man, woman, or child who could not! one of the bystanders, in a spirit of accommodation (and of pos- sible curiosity), seized his valise, and declaring, "I'll put you on the right track in less than no time," pro- ceeded to accompany him. In a few minutes the stranger had been shown the much-traveled woodland path, when his guide, assur- ing him "he could not miss the house if he tried," returned bristling with information. The crowd soon learned that the stranger was the "Missus's" own brother; that he had just come from a college some- where; that he was going to stay all summer; that he was a likely chap; and, finally, that they would prob- ably see more of him. Left alone, the young man pursued the pointed- out path, eagerly anticipating the happy surprise ahead (for his immediate arrival was unexpected). Suddenly 83 DOROTHY he stopped short, and stared at an apparition in front, which, as the reader can readily guess, was Dorothy Dorothy, her storm of anger all spent, still quite fast asleep. "Hello! what have we here?" he asked himself. "A wood-nymph? Hardly; most too substantial for that," was his unspoken thought. A sudden illumina- tion passed over his face. "I '11 wager," said he, under his breath, "one of Aunt Violet's beaten biscuits I am so soon to eat, that this is the 'little Dorothy' of whom they write so frequently. It would be a fine joke to awaken her and have her escort me to the door." Looking about, the audacious young man spied the hapless little sunbonnet. A long stick or pole by its side furnished an idea. In a moment the bonnet was dangling over the young girl's face, now touching her nose, now her forehead, and again the tip of a very pink little ear, all this in a manner that would have done credit to a well-trained "bluebottle." It almost convulsed the young man to watch "the child" try, by a series of vigorous, sleepy thrusts, to rid herself of the intruder. But imagine his surprise when suddenly a slender young girl, almost or quite grown up, sprang to her feet, and with flashing eyes looked an interrogation. While he was stammering an apology, he saw a sudden look of recognition pass over the girl's face. At this he expected she would accept the confused explanation he was offering; but, instead, the angry flush deepened, and drawing herself up to her fullest height, she frigidly turned towards the village. 8 4 AN IMPORTANT ARRIVAL Later, after the subsidence of the "surprise" in the Williamson home, and after "Marsa Clay" had been served, as he had expected, with a bowl of cream and a heaped-up plate of biscuits, and while Aunt Violet, in a quiver of happiness, sat watching him while he ate, he suddenly leaned back in his chair and gave one of those happy, boyish laughs that was music to the listening Violet, and then he told her of the meeting in the woods, sunbonnet episode, and all. "My! but she was angry!" he continued. "But how was I to know that the 'little Dorothy' of the home letters was not a mere child?" he asked in justi- fication. "But there is one thing about the affair that I do not at all understand ; after she knew who I was, she was angrier than ever." Aunt Violet looked troubled. She thought at once of her own blundering speech of the morning and of its possible consequences. Still she could not but be- lieve, with "Marsa Clay" at hand to right things, all would be well ; so she replied reassuringly : "Doan' you worry. Likely dat chile is shy of strangers. Soon as she gets to know you it will be all right." Aunt Violet was indeed an optimist, now that "her own chile had done come." She could not imagine a trouble that coming would not cure; besides, she had another way all her own of bearing trouble. Presently the little party under the "Beeches" heard a weird chant as she went about her work. DOROTHY "It ain't so fur to de Golden Gate, But de road is rough and de night is late, En Satan holler, Yo chance is slim, Yo' lamp won't burn, 'cause yo' lamp ain't trim." Then exultantly: "O, believers, what yo' mean? Quick! fill yo' lamp, and keep it clean." Aunt Violet was very happy. If over in the village, beyond the woodland path, there was a hurt and sorry heart, she had quite forgotten it. 86 CHAPTER XL A FOURTH OF JULY PERHAPS life holds no greater surprise than sud- denly to realize the fruition of endeavor. Such a sen- sation befell the village of Middletown when it awoke to the twofold fact that the "removal proposition" had actually carried, and, in consequence, a new life was knocking at its doors. For a time not a few of the dazed inhabitants were thrown quite out of their usual grooves. The am- bitious Mrs. Mehitable Perkins and the slack Mrs. Neighbor quite forgot their weekly rivalry. How could it be continued when the latter had altogether forsaken her old habits, and spent most of her time in a fruitless attempt to keep abreast of each day's happenings, "only stopping somewhere about Friday," as Mrs. Perkins scornfully observed, "to dabble out a few things for Sunday." Few had time to stop at the "Store" for the old- time argument, even "Long David" being forced, in the stress of events, to abandon for a time his interest in matters ecclesiastical. If "David" were himself not thrifty, Mrs. David (as not infrequently happens) made up for the lack. Many a marital storm had raged around the one point of her liege lord's ability to forego family responsi- 87 DOROTHY bilities. "You 'd a heap ruther set around the stove at the 'Store' and whittle than to provide for your own family," was her frequent withering comment. But David would neither wither, nor heed, and she, with bitterness in her heart, had through the years been forced, in such small ways as the village afforded, to eke out the living for the increasing number of little Davids. Mrs. David's poverty was doubly galling for more than one reason. Besides her industry, which all rec- ognized, she had a pride that none suspected, and with it all a certain financial acuteness. In consequence of this last, she was one of the first to grasp the future of the village. For once her exhortations had some effect upon her easy-going husband, and he began to deny himself daily attendance at the "Store." One morning a neighbor, in passing, saw him busy nailing some palings on the garden fence. The sight was so unusual that the passerby paused and called out, "Hello ! what 's up ?" David looked the ques- tioner over from head to foot, then replied sarcastic- ally: "I take it you 're a stranger in Middletown, else you must have heard how, before another year, there 's going to be a half-dozen new streets, all lined with new houses, and we old inhabitants be a-going to double our money on our properties." Then, with a very wise wink, he added, "As it 's sure going to rain soup, neighbor, my advice is to go home and get your dipper up same as mine." Then he looked about him for something else to "improve." A FOURTH OF JULY New life was everywhere rife in the village. Strangers came and went. Busy contractors dropped in unceremoniously to "figger" on new buildings. Am- bitious merchants of one kind and another appeared, some, after a study of the situation, setting up shop. Clearly the "Store's" day of supremacy was over. But this mattered little to John Sumner. The fight over, to which he had lent his energies, he be- came increasingly apathetic. Old friends who sought him usually found him in the roomy kitchen, sitting quietly by the western window, over which trailed a heavy vine, which she had planted, and where, on its broad sill, still sat a curiously twisted willow basket, in which lay a bit of unfinished work, and a thimble, now growing dull from its unwonted rest. At such times his eyes had a far-away, yearning look. Not one who looked upon him but knew that the yearning was for her whom he should never again behold with his mortal eyes. A plain woman, to whom he had been in a way both husband and child. A plain woman? Yes, but one whose very garments had appeared to exhale com- fort for those of her household. Perhaps the world holds no higher meed. Seeing him thus, and oblivious of their presence, sympathetic neighbors began to whisper among them- selves, and, with the whisper, each touched his head ominously. He had yet one intense interest. "My little girl," he would say, fondly, as Dorothy busied herself in serving him. He talked much to her, more than in his 8 9 DOROTHY entire life, of the far-away, misty days of her baby- hood. Through it all there was an easily recognized note of anxiety, lest the now strong, supple girl should love the shadowy past too well. More and more he dwelt on his own part, in carrying in his own arms the little crying child from its mother's grave, and giving it shelter at his own fireside. "It is all the real good I have ever done." Uncle John was talking to a sleek, well-groomed stranger, a Mr. Barnolde by name, who had been for several days a guest in the Sumner home. He was one of the many that the new conditions of things had floated into the village. He wore a white tie, a black coat, and claimed the credentials of a Christian minister, by a coincidence (as it developed) of that denomination which Uncle John loved. These, with a highly pious manner, made him a welcome guest. "Yes, taking that little child, and giving her a home was really all the good I have ever done," re- iterated Uncle John, mournfully. "You say well, my brother;" and the unctuous stranger rolled his eye in such an excess of piety that, had one of the old-time saints been present, he must have slunk away in shame at his unworthiness. "Yes, you did well, you have sheltered one homeless child. Far be it from me to boast, but I must tell you how, through the mercy of God, I, the humblest of His creatures, have sheltered hundreds." At this he proceeded to place before his aroused listener a graphic picture of a great building in the 90 A FOURTH OF JULY midst of beautiful grounds, in which hundreds of happy children had been at home, of which it appeared he had been the great benevolent head. It sounded so beautiful, and harmonized so per- fectly with the now dominant chord in the failing man's thought, that the old, philanthropic spirit was excited, and not a day passed but that the stranger must needs repeat it all over and over. Middletown now being fully aroused, the sentiment became rife that something should be done to indicate to the outside world their local importance. This finally crystallized into preparations for the "biggest Fourth of July old Winfield County had ever seen;" on which day the corner-stone of the new court-house would be laid. "The Professor must make the speech," said the Citizens' Committee at its first session. "By no means," objected the modest scholar. "You need some one prominent in State politics, whose name on the posters will make it impossible for the bitterest enemy of 'removal' to stay away." This seemed good advice, and the Committee at once took the matter under consideration. There was to be a new Governor elected the coming fall, or, if the people saw fit, the present one elected to succeed himself. "Mebbe His Excellency, the Governor, would n't mind coming down to this neck o' the woods to look after his fences for a spell." It was "Long David" who made the suggestion. 9 1 DOROTHY The idea "took," and the Professor was asked to write the letter of invitation. Perhaps the truth had been scented; for in an incredibly short time a letter bearing the Executive seal was received and read aloud in the "Store" (not without a wholesome awe). Yes, he would come. So much being assured, the remainder of the day's program was easily arranged. That the interest in the proposed celebration should extend to the several townships, a competitive review of delegations from each was planned; this to take place on the march to the woodland where the "speak- ing" would occur. A prize which would probably take the form of a silken banner, though this was left to the good taste of Mrs. Williamson was to be given at the hand of the Governor himself to the leader or captain of the largest and best appearing delegation. The food-supply of such a gathering is always a question of importance. It was so now. To evidence the generous hospitality of the new county seat, a "barbecue" dinner, free to all, was decided upon, and a committee each member learned in the art was ap- pointed to prepare the pits (these being veritable under- ground ovens) in which quarters and quarters of beef were to be roasted. Of course "burgoo soup" would be supplied. This item needed no discussion, it being well understood that no public gathering could be an entire success if this were omitted.* *This soup was prepared by a judicious blending of chick- ens, turkey (wild preferred), rabbits, squirrels, pork, and any other kind of meats at hand. These were placed together in 02 A FOURTH OF JULY As masters in the preparation of this delicacy, "Long David" and "Shorty MacPeters" held equal honors. These readily agreed to drop all theological differences for the time, and be responsible for this part of the day's pleasure. All this, and much more, huge posters in marvels of red and blue proclaimed from each cross-road and place of public meeting in the county. With the dawn of the eventful day, anxious eyes were turned towards "The Knobs," for from behind these, each morning, the sun crept up with more or less assurance. This morning, as if realizing its power to tantalize, it lingered awhile, then swept on and up into the heavens. By seven o'clock the streets were full of people. By ten the martial strains of fife and drum announced the near approach of, first one, and then another, rival delegation, until each township in the county was represented. The review was to occur in what was known far and near as "Uncle John's pasture," this being an open field of perhaps twenty acres, which lay back of the Sumner home, and directly on the way to the wood- land beyond. The Governor's carriage had been drawn up close to the side of a driveway, along which the delegations must pass where he sat surrounded by not a few "lesser" lights ready for the review. great iron kettles, which were filled with water, and set simmer- ing fully twenty-four hours before wanted. After these " funda- mentals," the seasoning was added, this being an art in itself. No modern chef has been able to duplicate this old-time delicacy. Each neighborhood had its local authority, who, on public occa- sions, took charge of the preparation and directed the serving. 93 DOROTHY The Committee had spent much time on the plans for this event, and considered them well-nigh perfect. Each delegation had its own captain. Besides these, there was a general commander known as the "Mar- shal of the Day." The latter, as it happened, was a favorite character in the county. He had been a cap- tain in the late war, and, it was well known, had not lacked in bravery. His was really a martial figure as he rode in and out among the lines. At his side flashed the bare sword, which was popularly supposed to have been often "bathed in gore." His head-covering was his old "captain's slouch," in which a jagged hole told of a narrow escape from a bursting shell. With such a leader, it was thought the pageant would be one to dwell forever in the memory of man. But who can foretell the unexpected? Coon Hollow delegation was passing into review, Plum Creek was following, and the "Knobites" were decorously swinging into line, when suddenly a farmer, in an agony of fear over the threatened stampede of his team, thought he saw an opening ahead through which he might slip out of the delegation, and on to the woodland, so, without so much as a "by your leave," he made a dash for the opening. What followed takes longer to recount than did the actual happening. The driver immediately behind halted; another turned out; another farther down the line called out anxiously, "Are they not going to have the review?" This, like the old game of scandal, was passed down the line as "not going to have the review," and an overpowering desire to reach the woodland by 94 A FOURTH OF JULY the shortest possible route at once took possession of all. In vain the marshal galloped up and down the line, the ends of his red sash keeping time to his oscil- lations; in vain he explained, commanded, threatened, and finally bathed the entire company in that brand of language commonly ascribed to troopers; each dele- gation, with a single exception, was effectually stam- peded. The unusual always demands an explanation. When the news was proudly carried to "The Knobs" that its vote had been the deciding one in the county seat contest, each resident at once felt a proprietary interest in the new town, and, of course, approved heartily of the proposed "celebration." So, about the same hour that the sun decided to be gracious, a dele- gation, including almost the entire population, left the hills. The question of a captain had early settled itself. Who better than young Robert Stirling knew the lay of the land, and therefore who so able to guide to success? Robert at first demurred, but, consenting, threw his entire self into the preparations. Strange that, amid these, there should have been ever before him a single face now piquant, now tender. Unconsciously his plans began to revolve around a single pivot, that she of the "piquant, tender face" should approve, should commend. The goal reached, and the review begun, he had caught a glimpse of an apparition in pink and white. An apparition it must have been, else why should the heart-blood hasten and the erstwhile steady brain start 95 DOROTHY off on a violent spin, which, fortunately for "The Knobs," resolved itself into a fixed feeling that, if those eyes were watching, he must do his best. At the appearance of the confusion he hastened to the side of the marshal. Learning that the supreme desire was to restore order, he at once rode up and down his lines urging all to remain quiet, which they did. The Governor was already leaving a trifle dis- gusted, it must be confessed, with the turn of affairs when a very much flushed young man rode up, and after a respectful salute, called his attention to a very staid and orderly delegation (though a trifle motley) that was passing. As he looked he saw vehicles whose springs had been mended with hickory withes, farm- wagons of the most primitive type, in which women crouched upon the straw. There was harness, in which bits of rope helped out the worn leather. There were women in sunbonnets, and serious-eyed men clad in the universal blue jeans. The Governor had been more than human had not a smile hovered about his mouth a smile which deep- ened into reminiscent pathos. By a trick of that nec- romancer, Memory, the present blended with his own conjured-up past; for it was but yesterday as men count time that from a life as barren as that upon which he now looked, he had forged for himself a place in the State's foreground. He looked steadily at the slow-moving procession; then, turning to the waiting young man, with a gra- cious bow he placed in his hand the coveted prize. 9 6 A FOURTH OF JULY It was a dainty piece of silk, such as in olden time a lady might have given to her knight as he rode away to battle. In color it was blue like the sky above. In the center were certain quaint letters done in .silken white. They spelled the single word "Success." Was this to be a talisman? 97 CHAPTER XII. AN INCIDENT OR TWO BARRING the unfortunate incident of the morning, the "celebration" was throughout an unprecedented success. The company was not so sufficiently modern as to have lost its interest in the "Immortal Document;" therefore it listened attentively to its reading, and did not fail to applaud the sentiment, "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal;" following this, as if it had been one great voice, it sang "America" with great fervor. The Civil War was as yet not far in the back- ground, so there were many present in suits of "Union blue," battered mementos of march, of bivouac, and of battle, worn only on "state occasions" like the present. The wearers of these might be pardoned if, with an emphasis on the "My," their voices contrib- uted not a little to that fervor. The governor that was, and was to be (each citizen so decided before the speech was half over) was at his best ; and at the close of the address showed his democ- racy by such a handshaking as "old Winfield" had never seen. Later, at the hour fixed, the people surged about the site of the new court-house, watching the 9 8 AN INCIDENT OR TWO ceremonies attendant upon the placing of the corner- stone, which all dimly foresaw marked a new era, not only for Middletown, but for the county as well. All these "duties" being accomplished, the simple pleasures of the day were due. The "underground ovens" did their part well, and "juicier meat," it was declared, was never eaten. During the entire day ap- preciative crowds surged about the improvised stands where busy helpers handed out dippers full of steam- ing "burgoo." At all this the Williamsons were thoroughly inter- ested onlookers, even Aunt Violet being present, al- though it had required a good deal of persuasion to induce her to attend. "Why, Aunty, would you treat a governor with so much disrespect? Here he comes almost to your own door, and yet you think to stay at home!" It was the Professor who made this final remon- strance. Finally she gave a reluctant consent, not wholly owing, however, to family persuasions (though this last was unsuspected). Among the "big goin's on" at the old home, which the memory of the exiled Violet made the most of, was a visit to the plantation by the Governor of the State (a college friend of the "old Marsa's"), accompanied by a party of charming women and no less charming men. Violet still had visions of dainty, white-gowned women lounging under the shady balconies, of leisurely drives, and of rides in which cavalier and lady yet formed reminiscent pictures, and of great neighborhood gatherings in honor of the distinguished guests. Ah! what "goin's on" 99 DOROTHY these had been! She could catch even yet, at times, tantalizing whiffs from the great kitchen. And now a "govenah" was coming as the Professor said, almost to her back door; "another govenah," of course, but still a man of consequence. So she, who dearly loved a title, at length set out to attend. She was dressed for the occasion in her "robes of state." With a skill of her own, she had bound deftly about her head a prized silk bandana, itself a relic of happier days; the ends of still another met and were drawn, not without grace, over her breast. An immaculate white linen apron came quite to the hem of her "stuff" dress. Thus attired, and with the eagerness not pos- sible to be eliminated from her face, she might have posed as a model of "Expectation." With due mod- esty, she settled herself in an inconspicuous place, where undisturbed she might see and hear all. "Dat a govenah? Humph!" was her first com- ment. She had seen a tall, plainly dressed man enter the stand, and her quick eye had caught the deference paid him, and had so singled him out. She had also been quick to note alas for her peace of mind! the brown, calloused hand and the telltale stoop of the shoulders that had been his, since, w r hen too young a lad, he had wearily followed the plow over a stumpy field. "Humph!" It would be hard to read into the exclamation all that it revealed of the perturbed Vio- let's heart emotions; for disappointment and homesick- ness were at the moment fighting for mastery beneath the neatly pinned kerchief. IOO AN INCIDENT OR TWO But, whatever her feelings, she knew her "man- ners" well enough to sit statue-like throughout the really eloquent speech. At its close, though she was among the first who rose to go, her immediate egress was checked by the great crowd of people, eager to take part in the prof- fered handshaking, at which permitted familiarity this disciple of decorum was frankly amazed. As she stood with folded hands, looking her displeasure, it happened that a little child caught sight of her statuesque, ebony face, and, connecting it with some hobgoblin of nursery tale, began to scream. In the confusion that followed the efforts of the mother to soothe, an inkling of the reason of the fright was borne to the innocent cause. It certainly was not "dignity" that at the unfortu- nate revelation, sought the shortest cut to the Pro- fessor's back door; for dignity, it is said, is never in a hurry! An hour later "Mis' Milicent" looked in on a strange scene. Though it was a July day, a heavy fire roared in the kitchen stove. Spices were scattered heedlessly over the table, and a streak of flour orna- mented the cook's forehead, who, unconscious of the unusual, stood beating (pommeling would be better) some luckless batter. "Why, Aunt Violet, what are you doing?" No response. "Why, I thought I thought," the "Mis- sus" hesitated for the old servant could at times lay down very emphatic boundary lines, over which even she dared not cross "I thought you were at the 'cele- bration.' " 101 DOROTHY "'Celebration,' humph! Go 'long, honey; go 'long! I 'se got to do something to d'stact my mind; clar out !" and she waved her black hand in the direc- tion of the mistress's own room. "And say, Mis' Millicent, Mis' Millicent!" she called, for the mistress had already disappeared (knowing it to be the part of wisdom to await an explanation till the "storm" had blown over), "you tell Marsa Professah I doan' want him to talk to me any mo' about this kind of quality. I knows 'em; they ain't ouah kind of folks, and they never will be, even if he keeps on a-teachin' of 'em till his haar is gray; so there!" Having thus asserted her authority and relieved her mind, she turned with renewed vigor to the mixture in hand, from which was to be evolved her favorite "spice-loaf." There was yet one other to whom the day was destined to bring disappointment, and that one, not- withstanding the success of the morning, was Robert Stirling. For this, as the reader knows, there could be but one source, Dorothy. Yet not Dorothy alone, as it turned out, but Dorothy and strange as it may appear the handsome, debonnaire young stranger at the "Beeches." During the weeks that had intervened since the latter's arrival, Dorothy had kept herself entirely aloof. The family had commented upon this more than once, but none (unless possibly Violet) thought of connecting this unusual reserve with Clay's presence. The young man was, in truth, puzzled. It certainly was not like the Dorothy of his sister's letters to make so much of a mere prank. It would be more to the point, he argued, for her to accept the 102 AN INCIDENT OR TWO joke and plan some retaliatory move. However, he soon received an enlightenment. On a certain day he had gone into Violet's own quarters, and, throwing himself down before a table, had declared himself in a condition bordering on starvation, to avert which threatened calamity Violet hastened to place before him "a bit of a snack," a something not to be despised, as Clay concluded when a half chicken, a quarter of a pie, and a jar of jam ranged themselves before him. But still he was not happy. The truth was, he had another sort of hunger. "Aunt Violet," he said at length, "it 's awfully lonesome here without a fellow, or a" he hesitated "girl in sight. I say," gathering courage, "why does that Dorothy you have all talked so much about keep herself so scarce? She has not been here, as you know, since I came. Do you suppose she is really offended at the little trick I played her?" Violet paused in the act of cutting the second slice of bread; a peculiar expression passed over her face. Quite unsuspected by the family she had been carry- ing, as we know, her own little secret, and secrets are seldom pleasant companions. Instantly she saw a chance to drop her burden. "You see, Marsa Clay," she began, not without diplomacy, "dat chile is just nacherly grievin' for her folks. Yo' see," lowering her voice to suit the im- plied calamity, "she hain't got none." This astounding declaration was at once followed by the incoherent babyhood story of the young girl, told with many a flourish of the narrator's own. But 103 \ DOROTHY what was this Clay was hearing? For Violet, now that she was launched, was not to be shaken from her purpose of making a full confession a confession that would not be complete until Clay's own little innocent joke about "Turkey Crik" (forgotten as soon as writ- ten) had been recalled. 'I jes' done tole her dat same mawnin' yo' come,'" Violet added, regretfully, "and she done shut her lips dat tight, and hole her head dat high, I see in a minute she plum' misunderstood ; for co'se yo' doan' think she is like dem low-down white folks down yonder," her term for the South. "Honey, dat chile is mighty nigh like ouah own folks." "Well! here is a fine situation!" Clay spoke almost to himself; the confession had made all very plain. Clearly the task before him, if he would reinstate him- self in the girl's good graces, would not be easy. "Well, Aunty, do n't worry" for Violet was watch- ing him anxiously "I will make it my business to hunt up this troublesome young lady, and straighten this out." "But what if she won't make up? Girls is mighty queer when they gets sot." Clay smiled, then his lips closed as tightly as Dorothy's own. "Then I '11 make her, that 's all," was his response. Violet, watching him as he strode away, did not at all doubt his ability. Besides the surface desire of setting himself right, in his heart Clay owned yet another. The tedium of the quiet life was becoming irksome. His sister's let- 104 AN INCIDENT OR TWO ters had been full of the rustic beauty of the scenery about, and she had urged him to make the visit. To do so he had been obliged to forego a pleasure he and his room-mate had been long planning, this being a visit to the latter's home, which was in the South, and not far from what had been his own home neighbor- hood, and where a large circle of young friends were ready to welcome him. His sister's last letter had been the deciding one. She had written : "Come for the summer; Dorothy will show you where the black- berries grow the largest and the sweetest; in what pools the fish love to hide ; and you and she may race the ponies over the country roads." And now there bade fair to be no Dorothy, and she the central figure in the rustic picture ! Clearly he must hasten to set himself right. But, seek for it as he might, the cov- eted opportunity did not come. But it would be strange, Clay thought, if the "celebration" of which all Middletown was talking, and of course planning to attend did not bring it; and each intervening day found him dwelling on the expected meeting. And thus it happened that if Robert was ever on the alert for a certain bright face, none the less was the young stranger at the "Beeches" as he wandered in and out among the happy groups. The day, which throughout had been to him a source of amusement as well as a puzzle, was well-nigh spent, when at last, by a turn in the path, he suddenly came face to face with her whom he sought, and, happy coincidence, she was alone! She was about to pass with frigid bow, when, with an air of great ceremony, 105 DOROTHY he removed his jaunty cap from his head, and salaamed very low, as if he were a subject addressing royalty. Dorothy paused in sheer amazement. At once he spoke. "Will not Her Majesty pause while an abject sub- ject makes an apology?" Of course she paused, doubts of his sanity beginning to form in her mind. "Hon- estly, Miss Dorothy," he said, resuming his natural tone, "there is an apology due you. Sit down, will you, while I make it?" (They had by chance met in front of the great swing, where their first unfortunate meeting had occurred.) "Yes, an apology." This in answer to her look of questioning surprise. "And let it take the form of an explanation. You see, when a fellow has been getting letters from home for a year, and in each of which the writers have taken pains to talk of no one, or of nothing, so much as of a certain individual they call "little Dorothy," it becomes a very sad mistake when the misguided young man at length comes home, ex- pecting to find a "dear little slip of a girl," with whom he can romp, and finds instead a grown-up young lady; and, what is worse, a 'frozen' young lady, and, worse still, one who refuses to thaw out. Yes, I did make a grievous mistake," he continued. "But," and now his voice grew very low, "it seems to me even such a sin might be forgiven in a Christian land, especially if the sinner happens to be very sorry, and he is; and that is what I wanted to tell you." A pair of brown, compelling eyes were looking very earnestly into a pair of blue ones. The blue began 1 06 AN INCIDENT OR TWO to falter, then suddenly to kindle with defiance. "Turkey Crik," and the humiliation implied, had been recalled. "I did not care so much for the mistake,", she said, stiffly; "but but " "But what?" interposed Clay. "O well, we country people 'amuse' you, and some- way I do n't quite appreciate such a mission." "Dorothy, you are dreaming." But she would not be interrupted. "It is as if God had set such as you on some high pedestal, some vantage ground of superiority, and given you leave, as a source of entertainment, to watch and enjoy the hapless attempts at life of a race of inferiors ; to take note of our habits of speech; to draw pictures of us." Clay winced; he remembered that only yesterday he had drawn a rather airy sketch of "Long David" in one of his most striking attitudes. Clearly if he would carry his point and win the friendship of the girl by his side, he must stem the tide of her bitter- ness so fully revealed. Finally he managed to say: "Dorothy, all this is without cause. You have lived too much among your books, and not enough among people. You have cultivated your imagination, and allowed your heart to grow bitter at fancied slights. What if I do laugh at Long David's speeches, at his drawl, and, if you please, at the highly original ideas of his tailor. There are 'odd' people the world over." "It is all right." Dorothy rose to go, but a de- 107 DOROTHY taining hand held her. "Long David and the rest may fight their own battles; I am not called upon to do anything of the kind ; but I I hate 'superior' people." It was a rude speech, and Dorothy could have bit her lips with chagrin the moment it was uttered. "I beg pardon; I did not mean " Again she essayed to go, but again a" hand detained her, and this time not gently. "Dorothy Sumner!" and there was a touch of im- periousness as well as reproof in the tone, "this is worse than nonsense. Here you are, yourself an alien, your ancestral home thousands of miles away." Dor- othy flashed a quick look of inquiry upon him. "O, you need not look surprised ; I know all about you. Little stranger that you are, you are by far too ready to flash swords in behalf of these good people, with whom your lot has been so strangely cast, and to sus- pect a critic when none appears." He had been quick to note her look of genuine dis- may at what she thought her rudeness, and as quick to take advantage. His voice became coaxing. "Be a good Samaritan. I am so lonesome; take your old place at the 'Beeches,' and for this summer be my com- rade, my chum, my little sister." Then a strange thing happened. As the blue eyes softened for soften they did she forgot the pleading voice at her side; for the words "alien," "stranger," had been talismanic. With their utterance she forgot the present, and once more caught a glimpse of an open doorway with the ever-present little child playing about 1 08 AN INCIDENT OR TWO it, and now the sweet face of misty memories seemed very close to her own. He, the young man by her side, had said that he was lonely. Ah! how lonely she had been! Finally the blue eyes lifted themselves slowly, all resentment vanishing with the movement; and he of the brown, looking into their depths, knew that he had won. "Too wise to argue farther," he said, gayly. "Now let 's shake hands on all this, and the compact is sealed." The tone was a laughing one, so, with her natural friendliness, Dorothy laid her hand in the one already- outstretched. The hand she gave was well-shaped, soft, and cool, though a trifle brown perhaps. All this the young man noted in the instant it lay in his. An "instant," but what may not happen even in so short a space of time? Just as the compact was being sealed, who should come around the clump of trees that acted as a screen for the swing but Robert Stirling. Robert, who, at last free from the demands of his somewhat trouble- some constituency, had found time for that of which he had dreamed, and for which the day had dawned. Somewhere within the shady grove he knew he should find Dorothy winsome Dorothy! Ah! the surprised hurt of finding her as he did! For a full minute he stood as if unable to move, then, in the pride given him at the moment, he made as if in search of some one, turned and passed on. Seeing him thus, the girl blushed to the roots of 109 DOROTHY her hair. Intuitively she had read Robert's conclu- sions. They that is, she and Clay were, as she had quite forgotten in the stress of the conversation, in the "Lovers' swing." This meant much in rustic tra- dition. But, infinitely worse, he had appeared at the instant of the fateful handclasp. She well knew that no other evidence would be necessary in the court of rustic public opinion to decide this as one more of the many "lovers' scenes" the gnarled old swing had known. Her companion noted her confusion, and, not being "rustic wise," at once connected it with the overgrown youth who had so quickly disappeared. "Dorothy, you little cheat, I believe you have a sweetheart. Come, let 's go over to the 'Beeches' and sneak a plate of Aunt Violet's biscuits, and you must tell me all about it." "There is nothing to tell; indeed there is not," she reiterated over and over, until Clay, now quite the jolly comrade, was willing to accept the denial, more- over with a satisfaction he did not stop to analyze. O, Dorothy! and was that homeward walk, so sweet to the memory of the other, quite "nothing?" Or was the denial merely made to still the beatings of a tumultuous heart? The answer lies with the oncoming years. IIO CHAPTER XIII. ROBERT AND DOROTHY "This is true the wide world over, One is beloved and one is the lover." ANGER, astonishment, and dismay struggled to- gether in the heart of Robert Stirling as, with an im- petuous stride, he took himself away from the presence of Dorothy and the stranger. In this hour of wounded self-pride, how he hated himself for harboring that strange, strong something, which, wholly unbidden, had walked boldly into his heart and had presumed to dominate his life. "Yes, had dominated it," he in bitterness acknowledged to himself. There had been something more than mere love of knowledge, he confessed, that had held him to the school, when the stony little farm had issued its spring- time call. Nor had he, he told himself, at heart cared a straw about the location of the miserable old county seat. In this hour of self-abasement he grimly acknowl- edged that for months he had not had a plan or hope but that in and out of it had flitted a bright face, a shapely brown head, a pair of eyes that now laughed at him, or flashed a championship (sadly needed, he knew, in those first few months of his school life), or III DOROTHY looked approval when he led, as it became his habit to do, in school-work. But now the foundation upon which these foolish dreams had been builded was, with one stroke, sud- denly swept away. "In some way," he said to himself savagely, as he strode on, "the miserable network shall be torn away, and he would," he told himself, "get back where he was before the sweet enthrallment be- gan." For that it had been sweet he did not try to deny. Alas, Robert! you have to learn, as has many an older, that we never "get back." Let experience but write with her stern, unyielding finger upon that quiv- ering thing we call our heart, and, lo! forever after we are another self ! That the two, whom he had just seen, were lovers he did not question. Had he not seen the little hand creep into the soft white one of the stranger? Why should he not win her, and that swiftly^ as the brief weeks indicated he, with his easy air of superiority, his cultured bearing so different from his own? and why should he not desire to win one in every way so charming ? At this he paused ; his world had not been so small but that he knew there were, here and there, pitifully small creatures who thought it rare pleasure to win love that they might cast it aside. For an instant he forgot his trouble in the thought. If such were the design of the careless young man yonder, he had best beware. There was hot blood coursing in other veins than his ! How the remainder of the spoiled day was spent, 112 ROBERT AND DOROTHY Robert never knew. The hill people were troublesome with questions, and he answered them with an im- patience foreign to him. Mother eyes are quick to see, and it did not long escape the little woman in black that something had gone very wrong; but she forbore to ask, knowing that, whatever the trouble, she would finally share it. Later she thought she had an inkling of the situation, when a much-at-ease couple sauntered slowly by. The girl she knew as "the Dorothy" of the Seminary, but her companion was a stranger. Yet, had she known it, the sauntering was very innocent. Dorothy had ventured to declare "burgoo" a greater delicacy than Southern biscuits. The last had been sampled in the shade of the "Beeches," and when the mother saw them the two were en route for the final comparison. As they passed, Robert was but a little distance away. Seeing them, he bent yet a little more closely over the articles he was collecting for the homeward drive. As he did so, his eyes fell upon the silken token he had only that morning received at the hands of the governor so long ago it seemed an age. The sight of the unoffending silk, particularly its mocking inscription, maddened him. "Success! what a farce!" he muttered between his teeth. Then, seiz- ing the hapless talisman, he crumpled it into a ball, and, hurling it from him, turned savagely to his prepa- rations. If Robert were so disturbed, what of the in- nocent cause of it all? (for she was, in all truth, at least until the moment, "innocent"). Sentiment, as 8 113 DOROTHY the world counts sentiment, and as Robert had that day in his battle with self counted it, had as yet no part in her life. Until now her heroes had been heroes of great deeds. Men and women had passed before her in the pageantry of the written page, without awakening a self-conscious thought. In a sense she was still the child Clay Worthington had expected to meet. And it was this rare quality of ingenuousness, this childlike responsiveness, that had so appealed to the Williamsons, and made them blind to the fact that she was perilously near that crucial point where "brook and river meet." But what right had Robert, more than another, to question her friendship with another? In one sense, none; in another, much. That from his first days at the Seminary she had been his friendly champion he knew, and it had meant much to him. He did not suspect that this championship had had its origin largely in the Professor's approval, for that the latter approved of the "boy from The Knobs," who so soon distanced the best pupils of the village, was very evi- dent. This of itself settled matters once for all with Dorothy. Then had followed the coup of "The Knobs" vote. With a flutter of the heart, which she would have stoutly denied, she intuitively caught the "personal element" in the act, though this she did not acknowledge even to herself. "It was certainly a fine act," she told herself, and somehow she must let the actor know her approval. So, on the evening of the spelling-match, when more than one of the girls told her, as they were busy about 114 ROBERT AND DOROTHY the matter of wraps, and with a series of giggles, that the "Knobite" was waiting to see her home, and that she 'd never dare, she calmly walked out of the door, and, with the utmost indifference to all critics dared. But is a woman's nature but a complex set of springs, which, if the hour and touch be right, readily responds, and forever after vibrates to that tune we call joy, or to its more somber sister sorrow? When night had fallen upon the day of the "cele- bration," when the stars had come out, and the placid moon looked down on the little village, now strangely quiet after the day's turmoil, Dorothy in her own little room sat very still by the open window. Presently she arose, and turned toward a drawer. She took from this a curiously carved box, and began to undo its fastenings. It had belonged to her mother. In it was a daintily made child's dress. She had worn it, so she had been told, when "Uncle John" had carried her from her mother's grave; besides this, there were letters, most of them written by the young husband to her of the sweet and gentle face. There were a few other trink- ets gathered during the short life of the young girl. But Dorothy was in no mood to read the letters, though this she had often done, nor even to look once more at the two young faces that smiled at her from a quaint old daguerreotype. But taking each article out slowly, one by one, she stood as if lost in thought ; then carefully, as if the very walls might see, she took from the folds of her dress a cherished hidden some- DOROTHY thing. She smoothed it out gently, even tenderly, then placed it at the bottom of the carved box, then replaced the articles one by one. It was the despised talisman ! She had seen an object lodge, as if it had been violently thrown, in some underbrush near the path along which she and Clay were passing. Her com- panion was busy with a story, and did not note her start of surprise as she stooped to regain it. Nor did he know that there were times through the remainder of the day when she came near being a conspicuous failure as a "good comrade." Ah! if Robert could only have known! 116 CHAPTER XIV. CAMP SUNNY SLOPE IT had been months since that day in early autumn when Princess, though a bit protestingly, bore her master from the ken of the kindly hearts to whom he had ministered, and on to that new life which, as he rode, took a more distinct place in his mind. As he journeyed, the soft maze of the rich Indian summer hung over the hilly slopes, and bathed the level fields with its beauty, till the shocks of corn looked, in the distance, as if a fairy had cast about each a bridal veil of gossamer. The country roads were heaped with fallen leaves, and here and there, among the tangle of briers in the sheltered fence-corners, a few purple clusters of iron- weed or plumes of golden-rod still defied the nightly encroaching frosts. Much of the time the man rode in a silence broken only by the foot-falls of Princess, or by the sharp pro- phetic whistle of the wind among the despoiled boughs, or by the dropping of nuts, or the scamper of squirrels in their zeal of winter preparation. , Sometimes he rode unannounced into a village, and stopped for the Sabbath. If opportunity offered, he never failed to give his awakening message. At times the immediate result was so great that the people be- 117 DOROTHY sought him to stay. But no; "he must be," he said, "about his Father's business." Sometimes, on the journey, a hospitable home re- ceived him over night ; but there were times when, with the approach of the chilly nightfall, he would unloose Princess, let her browse by the roadside, and would make his own meal from the purple clusters that yet hung undisturbed from pendent boughs. Then, wrap- ping a blanket about him, he lay down, and, remem- bering that the "Galilean" also had not where to lay His head, he slept quite content. He purposed to continue this method of travel till tired nature should protest, then he would take the swifter railway or the northward-bound boat. Wlien the journey first began, although unyield- ing purpose sat upon the traveler's face, care and a measure of sadness also kept the stronger quality com- pany. Nature is a tactful preacher. She touches the surg- ing heart, and peace steals in to soothe. Her gentle breeze bathes the brow, and the weary, questioning brain drops its problems. Then, when the soothed hearer is ready for the sermon, she rehearses of God the Creator, "without whom there was not anything made; of the protecting care of this Father illus- trating this one last point, by a thousand instances from her busy hive. She discourses further of Eternity, and of Time as but a fragment of the same; and if but a fragment, then how vain many of the ambitions with which man busies the passing moments! 118 CAMP SUNNY SLOPE After this manner did he, who had been "surplus," commune much with himself as the days of the journey lengthened. Once as he paused, his hands resting on Princess, the oft-quoted lines came to him : " O why should the spirit of mortal be proud? Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud, A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, Man passes from life to his rest in the grave." Then the parting words of the Professor rang in his ears: "There are no humble duties; each is God- given. And the only reward life has to offer in any sphere, is the satisfaction that arises from within." Suddenly the broad shoulders squared themselves. Victory from within was at last asserting itself. "God helping me, I will know that satisfaction," he said under his breath. And at this, disappoinment fled abashed. His "enemy" had buffeted him in vain. He was at last his Master's faithful servant, ready to serve, it mattered not where. The logging season in the great Northern woods had opened with unusual vigor. A buying firm, with a million or so of good American money back of it, had bargained for the entire output of a large region. That the output should equal the expectations, a strong force of men had been set to work. These were scat- tered about the woods in separate camps, of which one called "Sunny Slope" was chief. Heavy snows had fallen early. And the woodmen lost no time, so each day saw the downfall of great DOROTHY trees that had grown strong amid the winds and temp- ests of passing years. Then came the lopping off of the branches, the steady monotonous creak of the sleds as they carried the logs to the "skidway," ready for hauling to the river banks ; from these the spring fresh- ets would float them to the "milling town" lower down the stream. On a certain day in early winter "Sunny Slope" was in a state of hushed excitement. The new "flume" had collapsed, burying beneath its debris the four men who were at the time making the perilous descent. Two of these had been taken out, quite beyond the need of aid; how great the injuries of the other two, still pinned beneath the timbers, and yet alive, none could tell. "Sunny Slope" felt the accident the more keenly because the building of the flume had been the pet project of "Boss" Stephens, whose headquarters were at that camp. Stephens had been a lumberman for the last five seasons in British Columbia, and had been familiar with the flumes of that region (ice-packed roadways) that wound up the heavily wooded moun- tain sides, down which the great logs whizzed to their destination with a rapidity which put to shame the slower motions of the sleds. He had argued that a short roadway of the kind, leading up to a range of heavily wooded hills, would yield large compensation in the saving of both time and labor. He had finally carried his point, not, however, without protests and ridicule. For over a month the road (built on heavy logs for a foundation) had been 1 2O CAMP SUNNY SLOPE in operation, and had won its way into universal favor. Hourly great piles of logs glided down, and were caught at the bottom by men with skidding tongs, and deposited in piles easy of access. Finally, as its favor increased, it became a thoroughfare for the men going to and from the hills. There was just enough peril in the exhilarating ride to appeal to these men of iron nerve. The men were busy removing the bodies from the debris, and still others were quickly coming to the scene from other work points, when a man was seen aproaching, whose gait and bearing proclaimed him a stranger. As he drew rein, he at once grasped the situation, and realizing that this was no time for in- troduction or explanation, he slipped from his horse, and, throwing a coat over the shivering animal, at once made his way through the excited crowd, which at that moment, like many another, lacked leadership. In an instant, with his own hands, he set about hastily improvising a bed of hemlock twigs, then grasped a blanket at hand, and, doubling it over, he directed that the injured men be laid upon it. This having been done he knelt to ascertain the extent of the injuries. "Hiven has sent us a docther," said one who owned Erin as his fatherland. "A praste o'im more apt to be thinkin', and sure we 're afther nadin' him bad enough," was whispered in reply. The examination revealed, in the case of one, a broken limb and a badly bruised head. The other was 121 DOROTHY yet unconscious, and seemed literally a mass of bruises, though no broken bones were found. A word of inquiry, and each was carried to Sunny Slope, the stranger going ahead, and quietly seeing to it that the best bunks were made ready for the suf- ferers. In the next hour the stranger, whoever he might be, made rapid progress into the hearts of the men. The broken limb was set, and this without ado. The bruised head was carefully sponged and bandaged. Consciousness had, in the meanwhile, returned to the other much bruised individual, and while the new- comer had been busy with the broken limb, he had, with a quick eye for the most efficient helpers, set one or two at work wringing blankets out of hot water, greatly to the relieving of the sufferer. Throughout it all there had not been a word of explanation. None was needed, for instinctively each woodsman knew the stranger was the "missionary" whose coming had been the butt of many a "mess" joke. How strange the Providence that had so wonder- fully timed his arrival, when there had been so many exigencies of the journey to hinder or hasten! No, not strange; for a certain promise has come down through the centuries. Years before, the "surplus man" had heard it and claimed it: "In all thy ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct thy paths." The present had been only one of many fulfill- ments. 122 CAMP SUNNY SLOPE A single underlying fact, not yet noted, lay back of the strange series of providences that had sent Wil- liam MacByrne as "missionary to the woods:" a fact which demands recognition at this point. The industry of that region required the presence of a large company of men, and the life of these had proven anew "that it is not good for man to be alone." Stories of the wild, rough life drifted back to the homes which some of the men had left. Stories that told of the sneaking in of "the drink" and of revels that became orgies, told also of sickness and of death. Christian sentiment, always slow to crystallize, at length aroused itself, and demanded that something be done for the woodsmen. Morality and religion are not without a commercial value. So, as the movement grew, the "firm" at length gave the great weight of its influence to the call for a consecrated man to give his life to the urgent need. Hence the letter to the bishop. All this had been known to the men, and at length, so irresistible is the travel of news, it was known that the request had been met, and the man was already on the way. The woodsmen received the news with marked dis- approval. They knew in advance what he was to be, a whining, cavernous-faced "saint," a constant check upon their lawful pleasures. There was only one re- lief in prospect: "he would be easily disposed of," and not a man but stood ready to do his share of the "dis- posing." 123 DOROTHY Bat in an boor he had so strangely come, and in a day, without a word of donor, had become a recog- nized put of the camp life! Death, no natter where or in what form it may cone, is never without pathos. So it was a silent 4jnni of hronaul men that carried the two lifeless forms to the pares dot had been dug in the frozen There had been no thought of a burial service; rather the thoogjkt had been that Acre should be none. The preacher had shown such a helpful spirit that 01- will had as jet found no opportunity to Tent itself. h* 1 <^ .%. J^ ^t u was oxKlip Mil via, Dowerer, IMC OK parson would probably Tnmiiirf the open grave 9 a place to indicate hs errand. Well, he might as well know, first as last, they would hare none of that. Therefore he was Terr pointedly fcli-owl of the few arrangements that were node. However, lunriog no dignity to be place to follow the Kttfc gma> to Ae UBa^b. The bodies were about to be lowered, when, with a sadden outstretching of the arm, a dear voice that earned with it an wader note of fomnunrt.. called out, "We wiQ wait a minute, boys;" and at the instant the same wite* low,, ({tnttc. yet wooderxully sweet, begun vhe exhortation m song! CAMP SUNNY SLOPE There was about it all an clement of persuasiveness that brought with the opening words a rush of home memories. The words and the music were familiar to most of the men, and by the time the chorus was reached the greater number joined in the singing. "Father," the preacher with bared head was pray- ing, "Father, Thou hast taken the soul of our com- rades. We know Thou wilt judge righteously; we leave them and ourselves with Thee. Amen." With the dying echo of the last word MacByrne was on his way back to the bunks where lay the injured men. "Say, the parson knows the way all right to the Almighty's front door," one said to the other, while the last frozen clod was being beaten down. "Yes," answered Irish Mike, "and o'im afther thinkin' He will ginerally be in whenever the parson knocks." A trifle irreverent, perhaps, but a straw which augured favoring winds for William MacByrne, of whom neither the world nor his brethren would ever again set over against his name that heart-breaking word, "Surplus." 125 CHAPTER XV. BARK COTTAGE THE injured men were doing well. The broken limb, especially, was knitting together in a manner that testified to the skill of the impromptu surgeon. As the latter watched each day's progress, he often recalled one single hour of his brief stay in the hospital. The head surgeon had happened to be lecturing to the class upon "Emergency Cases," dwelling largely on the need of self-control and of that inventive faculty which, if possessed, enables the operator to do his work with success, even though ordinary appliances are absent. In the midst of the lecture a messenger interrupted the surgeon. A cab-driver in a runaway had suffered a broken limb, and was at the instant being carried into the hospital. In such accidents, one from the class was usually detailed to meet the emergency, always under the watchful eye of the chief. The choice in this instance fell upon MacByrne. Even the great surgeon smiled his approval as the deft, strong hands quickly passed from one point to another in the operation. In a short time the sufferer was ready to be borne away by the white-capped at- tendants. How fortunate this choice the camp at Sunny Slope had reason to know. The rivalry of the different camps, stilled for a 126 BARK COTTAGE day by the fatal accident, was soon at its usual height, and each day was again filled with hard, driving work. Men as tired as they had no time nor inclination for more than a gruff "How comes it?" to such of their comrades as fell by the way. While the "French cook," with a great deal of swearing and still more sputtering, prepared the daily rations of pork and beans, he had no time for the delicate administrations we are apt to associate with the sick. So the care of the injured men fell naturally to the newcomer, who ten- derly and unwearyingly did his work. Sunny Slope soon came into distinction on account of its "new member of the mess," and it was not un- usual for a hurrying rider to call on the oustide, "Man sick at number four;" or "Man hurt at number seven." Nothing more than the bare announcement was needed. There was one in the camp who had read the story of the "Good Samaritan" to a purpose. The stranger had been given a seat at the "mess," and one of the bunks in the lower tier was his; but none suspected how, at times, when he crept into this cheerless sleeping-place though the cheeriest man among them all his whole self cried out against the "herding," and for a corner, however small, which he might call his own. Even Princess shared her master's discontent. Her stall was at one end of a long row in the camp stable, where the work-horses ate their corn and hay, champed their heavy bits, and were driven in and out at un- canny hours. Often the master came into her stall; then he 127 DOROTHY would gently stroke the shapely head, and say softly, "Princess, you deserve better; be patient." At this Princess would give a deprecatory toss of the head as if in protest at her surroundings, in which, doubtless, memories of past "bran-mashes" and more comfortable quarters had a part. But "dumb" though she was, she was able in her own way to convey to the thought- ful man as he passed out a pledge of comradeship in whatever ill might come. Back of Sunny Slope was an abandoned log build- ing, formerly a "camp quarter" in the days of smaller operations. The walls of this were solid enough to last decades. The great-throated chimney was also intact, but the clapboard roof and the puncheon floor had been removed piece by piece. MacByrne had eyed this questioningly from the first, thinking of a home for Princess; but one day as he stood looking it over, the winds that were whistling down the great chimney were silent a moment, then, touching him gently, whispered into his ear a single word "home." A home for master as well as servant. He at once set to work to clean, and then to repair. As his anxiety to hasten the work became known, Stephens "the boss," in gratitude for services rendered, detailed two men to forward the work. There were saplings in abundance for roof-poles, and enough slabs had been left from the shanties for the floor, but to find material for the roof was a puzzle, until MacByrne bethought him of the beautiful birch- bark so plentiful in the woods. This nailed to the closely laid saplings made an ideal roof. Then, be- 128 BARK COTTAGE cause the wind still whistled through sundry chinks, he covered the entire walls on the outside with the same. The result was a picturesqueness beyond his planning. In a glow of satisfaction MacByrne chris- tened his new home "Bark Cottage," and the name so appropriate became a fixture. By this time December was hastening. The calen- dars made much of the announcement that, on a cer- tain day, joy-bells would ring and chorals chant in gladness the birth of Him who came as the World's Supreme Blessing. But MacByrne knew that in the woods there would only be the creak of sleds over the snow, the crack of murderous whips, and the whiz of logs down the repaired flume. Nevertheless he set his heart on being in his new quarters on Christmas- day. The possibilities of this developed with the weeks. The space at his disposal was a single large room, with a loft above. This was in good repair, and was reached by a pair of steps. It had been the sleeping- room of the vanished camp. Attached to the building was a roomy, tumble-down shed, which had been the old cook-house. This he had moved a few feet, and "barked" inside and out for warmth's sake. Here Princess was soon contentedly at home. The loft of the main building was heated by a fireplace, as was the lower room. As the building neared completion the inside walls were found to be so weather-stained and unsatisfactory that at the last MacByrne covered even these with the silvery gray bark. A few more touches, and the work was done. 9 129 DOROTHY On December 25th though not all knew the date the word was passed quietly from mouth to mouth that "the preacher" was now at home, and would be glad to have his friends drop in after the day's work was done. There had been not a little curiosity concerning his work, so during the evening, not only all from Sunny Slope, but a few from neighboring camps, straggled in, as if half ashamed of the concession they were making. Once in, however, they soon forgot their restraint. Each of the great fireplaces was fairly rollicking in the ecstasy of flame. The few books that had followed the preacher to the forest were on some shelves in a corner, and on a rudely constructed table lay papers and a magazine or two. The skillful hands that knew no rest had fashioned a few chairs from willow withes, and these were grouped about the fire. MacByrne and the cook (already fast friends) had held through the weeks a little secret together. With the last load of supplies there had been smuggled into camp a barrel of apples and a sack of actual popcorn. The open barrel stood in one corner and bore the legend, "Take one." The cook, quite in the spirit of the occasion, lent himself to the charm of popping corn, and presently pans of savory kernels the better for a sprinkle of salt and a bath of butter invited eating. A few, with a desire to see all, went upstairs. "Why, what have you two beds for?" one asked, as he noticed two handmade cots that fitted into the 130 BARK COTTAGE shadowing angles of the room. MacByrne hesitated, then said softly: "May you never need to know; the extra one is for my next sick boy." There was an unusual silence that Christmas night as first one, and then another, crept into his cheerless bunk, and when Mike, with his customary awkward- ness, tipped the candle over and left them in darkness, there was only a single oath, and that was promptly smothered. It was well, for it had come at a moment when men were busy with a vision in which mother hands shaped kernels, like those just eaten, into delicious balls, or slipped big red apples into inviting stockings. Still it must be confessed, if at this particular juncture the "Woods Missionary" had been compelled to forward to his superiors in office a "statistical re- port" of his labors, many would have shaken their heads at the painful absence of "results," even of en- deavor ; for he must of necessity have reported, "Not a single religious service held." Yet all would have judged leniently could they have measured the self-dissatisfaction which at times overwhelmed the lonely worker. He believed with all his heart that it had pleased God that, by the "fool- ishness of preaching," men were to be saved, and when the wickedness of the camp pressed in upon him he felt in his heart that to him had been intrusted the blessed remedy for it all, and he longed for a pulpit, if only a stump of a tree, from which to give his old DOROTHY warning message of a wrath sure to overtake all who feared not God. But how should he preach when there was no chapel, even no Sabbath? And the sentiment of the camp, unspoken but clearly understood, was, "You 're all right, Parson, and though we never expected as much, we like to have you around; but understand! no pious talk; we will have none of that!" Clearly there was, as yet, only the ministry of serv- ice. The rivalry between the camp "bosses" for the largest output precluded a day of rest. Besides, the most zealous Sabbatarian must have questioned the expediency of a "day off," which meant extra carousal, and more than likely a brawl over the card-table, that fascinating table, that has come down through the centuries bearing ever its sickening trail of blood. "I declare," said one who remembered better things, "sometimes I forget when Sunday comes." How to make the men remember, and remember more than the mere name of the day, became the preacher's problem. A side remark of Irish Jem's contained a hint: "Sure, beans and bacon is not bad for dinner, and I can go 'em for supper if there is a wee sprink- ling of praties, but to have the same ould mixthure for breakfast, bah !" That day there was a consultation between Mac- Byrne and the cook. "Slapjack pancake you call them slapjack for all dose men? Me cook all day, to-morrow, and next week, then not enough. Besides," and he gave a final shrug of the shoulders, "I got no 132 BARK COTTAGE what you call him? no grids I no fixed for slap- jacks." But the practical man knew no rebuffs. All day long he was busy with his new problem. Suddenly he remembered that near the flume there lay a smooth steel plate. It had been ordered for the repairing, but had not been used. Instantly; in his mind, MacByrne saw it polished and fitting closely on the cook's range; and after a few hours of faithful work his vision was realized. The next morning was Sunday. The men, cross and surly as usual, turned out of the bunks at the usual hour. The first comers to the mess-room pricked up their nostrils at an unusual whiff; then such a howl and clatter as went up when the cook was seen bringing to the table stacked plates of hot cakes, while back at the stove stood the "preacher" with rolled sleeves, and, it must be confessed, a very red face and a wholly unministerial air, dexterously turning a fresh relay, now brown to a turn. When the added discovery was made that the brown jugs gracing the table contained syrup, freshly made from brown sugar, with one more grunt of satis- faction each man settled down, and soon began to call out, "More!" The critical moment, that for which the preceding ones had been planned, came when even the hungriest began to push back from the table. For a moment the preacher faltered, then his voice rang true and strong. "Comrades, this is Sunday, you '11 know when it comes 133 DOROTHY again; for when it does you will eat slapjacks again. Suppose we spend a few moments of the day as we should." And again the clear voice stopped all argu- ment as it rang out in the exultant strains of the Doxology. Yes, he certainly had looked unministerial ; but an incident of the same day showed him with a mien almost prophetic. It was in the afternoon, when, sick at heart with crowding memories of happier days, he started for a walk in the bracing air. Suddenly he came upon a crowd of men who had come together at the cry of "fight," and who, with jibes and oaths, were taking sides until the fray promised to become general. "Bill Wilson" was the acknowledged bully of the woods. Tall and heavily built, his appearance was enough to inspire fear in any who saw him angered. For a week he had taken an unusual delight in twit- ting Jem. He had mimicked his brogue, had told stories in his presence of his country, and of his country- men. All this merely to see the Irish lad's face burn and his C5 r es flash fire as he restrained himself. But at length Wilson went too far. At the insult for such it was Jem had paused, his face livid with anger; then, with a tiger spring, he had landed on the broad back, wound his arms about the heavy-corded neck, at the same time gripping with his fingers the big ear conveniently near. Wilson had just dislodged his death-inviting assailant, felling him with a single blow, when MacByrne appeared. If the action of Jem had been a surprise to those BARK COTTAGE who witnessed it, that of the "preacher" was the cul- minating one. With a strength none knew he pos- sessed he seized Wilson, and forcibly drew him off his prostrate victim, and thrusting him aside, bade him be ashamed to fight a mere lad. Then, before either Wil- son or the men could recover from their surprise, he sprung upon a near-by log, and certainly Paul the Apostle never reasoned more forcibly of "righteous- ness" nor with more fervor of a "judgment to come" than did this plain "Woods Preacher;" and as audi- ences miles away had been used to tremble at his por- trayal of God's wrath, so did this smaller one as its sins were relentlessly held up. At last he had preached his initial sermon! That same night there was a low rap at the door of Bark Cottage. As MacByrne opened it, to his sur- prise he saw before him Wilson, him of the morning's conflict. Had he come stealthily seeking revenge? No; strange as it may appear, a single "Gospel-tipped arrow" had winged its way to the heart of this wicked man, laying it bare in all its hideousness, and he had seen himself as others had long known him, a braggart and a brawler. With this view had come a longing for better things, and, like another, he had come by night to inquire the w r ay of salvation. MacByrne talked with him long and patiently, and finally he fore- swore his wicked life. And this unexpected outcome proved the beginning of better days, not only for Sunny Side, but for the entire woods. 135 CHAPTER XVI. PIVOTAL BY the time his old friends at Middletown had fully awakened to a conception of what the new life meant for the village, their yet well-remembered "preacher had spent his first season in the woods." Each week had witnessed progress in the self-imposed task of soul-winning. Bark Cottage had been from the first a center of good cheer. To it men came to write the long-neglected letter home, and sometimes to talk over life plans, once loftier than the present in- dicated. When the cottage had been but a few weeks old it received an unusual visitor. He was well-dressed, and clad in heavy furs to protect him from the severe cold. As he moved swiftly from camp to camp, not one in the entire "woods," whether "Boss" or wood- cutter, could avoid a hint of obsequiousness in the touch of the cap that saluted him. The visitor, and recipient of this unconscious homage, was the business head of the great firm of which they were all employees. He soon met the new "friend" of the woodsmen, and his keen eye, accustomed to measure men and take their worth at a glance, quickly looked him over. As he did so he was obliged to make a mental note, "re- served for further study." He had been attracted by 136 PIVOTAL some quality which at this first meeting he could not name. That night, as the two sat together in front of the cottage fire, strangely enough the "Woods Preacher" did most of the talking, and, listening, the "dignitary" strove in vain to hide an amused smile that, in spite of himself, played about his mouth. The idea was so preposterous that a stranger should presume to plead for a business change, far-reaching in its scope, and unbacked either by woodcutter or "boss.' The plea was being strongly urged that men and teams should rest one day in seven. "Well, I do n't mind to try it," the "dignitary" at length assented, "though my judgment is, that it will only mean more brawling; but there are many who now contend that, leaving God out of the ques- tion, the thing pays." "My friend," the preacher replied, solemnly, "it is never possible to leave God out of question. He will not be left out." Like a flash it came to the startled listener that, until this moment, he had been attempting this very thing. For an instant he searched the earnest face be- fore him, and as he did so he recognized in the light of the fearless eyes that quality that had drawn him at the outset. // was sincerity. There were two surprises that followed this visit. The one an order for Sunday rest for men and teams ; the other followed in an assignment of supplies from the milling town. It proved to be a small cabinet organ for Bark Cottage, and its arrival marked a new 137 DOROTHY era in the social life of the camp. There were no trained fingers to touch the keys, but the preacher's own could stumble among the chords, and before a week had passed still other bronzed men came in "to see," as they said half ashamed, "if they had forgotten it all." It is now time for us to return to that little self- centered village from which, as we know, the "Woods Preacher" had traveled, and which was now in the throes of a complete change; but there remains one other event which, because of its far-reaching effect upon the woodsmen, demands recital. Once more "Woods Preacher" and "dignitary" were sitting close together; this time in the business office of the latter, who, because he was a wise "digni- tary," believed in the personal oversight of affairs, and so had located that office, and his home for the present, in the milling town easily accessible to the woods, where not a detail of the work escaped him. The "preacher" was once more talking earnestly, and, as before, he had but one theme, "the woods- men's needs," among whom he did not now doubt a Providence had cast his lot. Certain plans for the next season lay very close to his heart. As he talked he saw only the men, now beginning to crave better things, for whom the powers of darkness were making a final stand. Before him sat the man who he be- lieved ought, under God, to be a helper in their des- perately hard upward climb. Sincerity can not be counterfeited, and in the end '38 PIVOTAL forces recognition. As the earnest, self-forgetting man talked, the mind of the listener drifted from the pres- ent, and became busy with his own past, and in the introspection he realized that, until this moment, he had known but one motive, self. As MacByrne had once said, "He had sought to leave God entirely out of his life." Was it true that He would not be left out? It came to him now that "self-seeking," which he believed universal, was not wholly so; for that this "Woods Preacher" sought only the good of others he would stake his entire business acumen. And further O, wonderful admission ! the "preacher" was right in his present argument. There icas something better, something nobler in life than being a mere money-getter. Ah that he were in as close touch with the great God as he believed this man to be, that he might embody these higher aims into his life! This "man of affairs" was not more skilled in gauging character than was the one by his side in read- ing spiritual signs. Suddenly he caught the yearning in the other's face. Wonderingly he paused, then said softly, "My friend, you would see the Lord? Behold, He is here!" Then, bowing his head, he bore this man of the larger world quite to the Father's Throne, and, when it was reached, the latter, with the inborn faith of the moment, cried out, "My Lord and my God!" MacByrne went back to his men with a happy heart. Not a wish of his had been ungranted; while he with whom he had talked, and for whom he had prayed, was wont to say afterwards that in that hour DOROTHY he began to live; for in it he had tasted the sweets that a life yields when it is consecrated to the good of others. A few weeks later, MacByrne with great satis- faction stood watching a company of workmen who were giving the finishing touches to the longed-for chapel, in which, another season, he was to give that simple message which, he believed, held in itself the secret of the world's redemption from every evil under which it groaned. As he watched the finishing strokes (the men were hurrying, it was the Nation's birthday and a little patriotic service had been planned for the afternoon), he seemed more restless than the occasion required. At length he took out his watch; his eyes were far away and wistful. As he looked, he said softly to him- self: "Robert must be just now wheeling his 'dele- gation' into line. How I hope the boy wins out!" The wistful look still held place. "What changes are coming to little Middeltown !" he mused. The reminiscent glance at the little place that had once been home was not yet ended; for at the instant a shapely head and a winsome face blurred his vision, and a pair of eyes which, strangely enough, had in them a hint of coming trouble, looked into his. "Ah, little Dorothy, what of the future? There is but One who knows," he said, as if in answer to his own ques- tion, "and He cares! Were it not so, many of us must sink beneath our loads." At this he turned cheerily to the work in hand. 140 CHAPTER XVII. IN THE LIVERY OF HEAVEN MIDDLE-TOWN had not known such a busy summer. That old leisure was forever gone when the charm of even a trivial happening lay in its dissection at the "Store" a dissection that did not leave untouched a single salient point, whether humorous or philosoph- ical. New and startling events rapidly succeeded each other, and in the whirl, somehow, the old insensibly slipped into the new. It was in vain that, for a day or two after the "celebration," Long David and one or two others hung around the old meeting-place, keen for a sizing up of that event, eager to give and receive side-bits of gossip. It would not do. The new people and the awak- ened old were, as David said, "everlastingly too much in a hurry." The utmost that any one of these had time for was to call out, "Big time yesterday, heap of folks here," usually adding, "Guess the old town is going to go;" which interpreted rightly, meant, "The new town was to be a success; for the old, with its leisurely ways, its neighborly interests in each other's joys and sorrows, was forever gone." Perhaps something of the pathos of this going crossed Long David's mind, as, standing listlessly in the shadow of the "Store" porch, his gaze took in the 141 DOROTHY one long street, now yellow with unwonted clouds or dust, and noted the hurrying people. As he looked, a group of dirty men, with pick-axes on their shoul- ders, slouched by on their way to their cheap, hastily built lodging house. (For the new railroad had al- ready curved "The Knobs" and was about to enter the village.) He stood taking in each detail of the change; then with a shrug of his shoulders he strode off, muttering as he went: " 'T ain't wuth the candle, I say," answering an imaginary disputant; "I say it ain't wuth the candle." There have been others, who, as the smoke has cleared away from that contest with the world in which they have been victors, have had it borne in upon them that contentment and the joys of a simple life have unwittingly been the price of that victory, and, realizing this, have echoed the same heart-plaint. But there was one of the newcomers who had an abundance of leisure, that being the Rev. Mr. Bar- nolde, of whom mention has already been made. He was still at the home of Uncle John Sumner, and his was the'most familiar face at the "Store." His hands were strangely ready to relieve those of the "clerk," sometimes to the latter's displeasure. One day the latter (known throughout the village as Joe) unbur- dened his heart in confidence to Long David. "One would think," confided Joe, "the Reverend owned the business, from the way he pries around, sticking his nose into everything, getting the price of this and of that. He is so powerful anxious to relieve 142 IN THE LIVERY OF HEAVEN 'dear Brother Sumner' that he has.-even taken the book- keeping almost entirely into his own hands." "Tut, lad! 'Sour grapes, sour grapes;' that's all that ails ye; reckon the parson don't mean to do no harm," was David's rejoinder. But nevertheless he and others of the old cronies were not slow in sizing up the newcomer. They were too orthodox openly to criticise a minister; but none thought it amiss to guess slyly "the Reverend was a kerrect jedge of where the pot biled the strongest." This in allusion to the bountiful table comforts of the Sumner home. From the outset the Rev. Mr. Barnolde's right- eous soul had been troubled by the unchurched con- dition of the community. The circuit was a large one, and MacByrne's successor could only make the "point" once in three weeks. This occasional service and a sparsely attended Sunday-school, with the inevitable "class meeting," represented the sole "means of grace." Occasionally the young people of either denomina- tion strolled off to the services of the other Church, but such a frivolous process was greatly frowned upon by the elders of both Churches. "Sad, deplorably sad!" and the sympathetic stranger dwelt so often and with such unctuous solemnity upon the fact that Uncle John at length became quite af- fected. Why should this condition continue when quite in line with Providence was a minister close at hand? John Sumner had been for years the greatly de- ferred-to "pillar" in his local Church. Now that the H3 DOROTHY "pillar" was losing its stateliness, would the associates of a lifetime go contrary to their leader's wishes? Such a course is not usual with Church people; so it was not long until the Rev. Mr. Barnolde, for a "comfortable consideration," became associate pastor. And the congregation which had been familiar with MacByrne's sharp, incisive denunciations of sin, was now soothed by mellifluous sentences, while a sybil- lant voice, a rapt pose of the head, and a deprecatory clasp of the hands called attention to the extreme piety of the speaker. And yet a more unpopular preacher had never entered the pulpit. So little does a work- aday world appreciate advertised piety. "How did you like the sermon?" one ventured to ask of Long David, as, with an inscrutable counte- nance, that worthy sauntered out of the church on a certain Sunday, and on to a clump of trees where a company of men and boys stood "visiting." David responded with a wry face, then: "O, the sermon was all right, I guess; but I tell ye, neighbor, some way oil never did set well on my stomach;" and David voiced public sentiment. With this change Barnolde became permanently "at home" with the Sumners, and trying days set in for Dorothy. She saw with sadness her father's in- creasing apathetic condition, nor did she forget the last appealing glance of "Aunt Lucy" and its mute committal to her of the failing loved one. It had been her chief concern, since, to see that her father missed .none of those little ministrations it had been the absent one's delight to render. Nor was the task perfunctory ; 144 IN THE LIVERY OF HEAVEN for "the old man with the gray hair" had been the great love of the young girl's life. From the beginning the two had been more closely knit together than are some fathers and daughters. But much of this was now changed. Mr. Barnolde was constantly by the failing man's side, and the fleet- ing weeks brought no hour when father and daughter were alone together, and one by one he appropriated to himself the little services it had been her delight to render. Poor Dorothy! She had hours when anger mas- tered her, and others given over to helpless despair. Her unhappiness daily increased, and how to rid the home of the intruder became her chief problem. "If I could only have one little hour alone with father," she said, "I would risk the result." And for this hour she began to watch, both by day and by night. But if the home held its "skeleton," her life was not wholly unhappy. Throughout all the delightful vacation they of the "Beeches" did not fail to include her in all their simple merry-making. The compact of "comradeship" between herself and Clay, so misunderstood by Robert, had borne a rich fruitage of delightful companionship. Still there were times when this friendship hung by a thread. The young Southerner had a rare sense of the grotesque, and a gift of caricature as well. It was inevitable that local subjects should be forced into duty as "subjects." As we know, Dorothy had objected to this in the be- ginning, and as the summer progressed her lack of enthusiasm for his "works of art" tried the embryo DOROTHY artist not a little. One day, in great glee, he showed her a "masterpiece" underneath which he had written, "Laying down the Law." It was a "Store" group done to life, with Long David in the center, evidently enunciating some mighty fact. To his surprise "the little lady," as he often called her, instead of joining in the laugh as he had expected, seized the drawing and tore it into shreds, crying out angrily^ "You do make fun of us, you know you do!" The young man looked at her steadily, then said softly, "Never of you, little Dorothy, never of you," and this was very true. Immediately as a "peace-offering," that was not without effect, he drew yet another sketch. From his pencil there came the rapt, almost seraphic face of Barnolde. The body was slender and sinuous. By a few deft turns of the pencil a curve was added, now here, now there, until the face surmounted a snakey form; from which one might argue that even the "Beeches" mistrusted the guest at the Sumner home. There were yet other points of contention between the two, the origin of which neither suspected. Each was the product of a distinct type of civilization. The one type had grown sturdy and self-reliant among the hills and rocks of Scotland, scorning all help save that of the God they had covenanted with, spilling its blood readily for the cherished doctrine of human lib- erty, and handing down the virtue of self-reliance to her whom the Southerner called "Little Comrade." The ancestors of the other had been served until such service had become a part of life, and it was with a 146 IN THE LIVERY OF HEAVEN distinct sense of annoyance that this latest scion of a haughty past found that, during this Northern spent summer he must forego these same personal services. But to Dorothy, that one well and strong as he should take it as his right to be served, seemed shameful, and when Aunt Violet would hobble to fetch him a desired object, something very like scorn curled upon her lips. The blue mist that constantly overhung "The Knobs" seemed ever to the Professor a tantalizing veil which he longed to tear aside. The opportunity came when, near the close of the vacation, a day's outing in their fastnesses was planned'; an outing which, of course, included Dorothy. She was up on that particular morning with the song of the birds. As she came out upon the back porch, she was surprised to find that her father had been up before her, and was taking the fresh morning air in an easy chair which "Cousin Sarah" had drawn out on the porch. He was quite alone; for the Rev- erend Mr. Barnolde, not being entirely weaned from things earthly, was at the moment enjoying his morn- ing slumber. Dorothy's coveted opportunity for a heart-to-heart talk had at last arrived. In a moment she was at his side, and in the old fashion of her childhood had knelt beside him, her head upon his knee. "It has been so long," she said, "since I could get near you, could cuddle down and love you." The soothing presence of the young girl, together with the healing balm of the morning, was not with- 147 DOROTHY out effect, and an answering, trembled hand stole out and rested with loving benediction upon the bowed head. Overjoyed at the privilege of the moment, Dorothy began to pour out all the burdens of her hot little heart. "O, father, will you not send that dreadful man away? He is spoiling our home. He is intruding him- self between us. I can never see you, never serve you." "Child, despise not the Lord's anointed. Remem- ber, we are not to speak evil of ministers." "But I do not believe he is a minister; but whether he is or not, there are other homes; he does not need to remain here. O have him go anywhere, so he leaves us together." "Dorothy!" John Sumner was surely arousing, "you are talking without reason. He not a minister?" "No, father, I am sure he has deceived you. Even the Professor does not believe he is what he claims to be. But whether he is or is not, does not matter. Only send him away, and let us be together again." "If I had known you felt so " John Sumner seemed as if awakening from a troubled dream; and then a hurried step was heard, a door opened, and Mr. Barnolde, consternation writ- ten on his face, appeared. "Why, my dear brother, what do you here? You risk your precious health. How could you so disturb him ?" this to Dorothy, who leaned over his chair. Her eyes flashed. She was not quite sure how her father would receive what she was about to say, but if the home was ever to be rid of its incubus she IN THE LIVERY OF HEAVEN felt that the moment had come for action, and if her father would not, she must take the initiative. "Mr. Barnolde," she began as calmly as was pos- sible, "your anxiety is altogether unnecessary. You seem to have thought no one could care for my father but yourself ; a rather strange conclusion for a stranger. His care has always been my best loved task, and I will not yield it to another." "You have grievously misunderstood the impulses of a kind heart," Barnolde made reply. "What did I see here?" he waved his hand toward Uncle John, "but a lonely, weak old man trembling on the brink of eternity. I thought "But not so weak as you supposed." It was the surprisingly strong voice of Uncle John that made the interruption. Unwittingly the speaker had appealed to the re- maining spark of that virile manhood that had so char- acterized him; besides, his eyes had been opened to Dorothy's unhappiness, and a fear had been born in his heart, "What if Barnolde were untrue?" "I fear," the latter heard him continue, "we have not been considering my daughter as much as we should. I did not know that your presence was dis- tasteful to her; so ' "I have called and called breakfast. Why do you not come ?" It was Cousin Sarah who made the inter- ruption. Hospitality had been with John Sumner a virtue of the years, and he at once said to the discomfited man, "Of course you will breakfast with us; there is I 49 DOROTHY no occasion for a sudden rupture; afterwards we will talk certain matters over." The early meal had scarcely begun, when a familiar voice outside called, "Why, Dorothy, not ready on this, the day of all the year!" Dorothy gave a start. She had quite forgotten the day's outing to the hills. She stood perplexed. Should she go? Inclination said not, but it was Uncle John who, in his old, imperious way settled the matter. "Go; there has been little enough pleasure knock- ing at your door. Another day will serve us as well, and you may tell the Professor that I shall then want to talk over certain matters with him." So Dorothy, wondering vaguely what part the Professor was to have in Mr. Barnolde's departure from their home, made a few hurried preparations and joined Clay, who waited a bit impatiently at the door- way. And John Sumner was left alone with the bird of prey! The morning was superb, and as the two ponies that bore the young people took the tortuous hill-path, the burdens that had been so real to Dorothy suddenly rolled away. The "skeleton" was about to depart from the home, and Uncle John (unexpected happi- ness) was certainly better. After all the poet was right, " God is in His heaven All is right with His world." The young man by Dorothy's side was in truth winsome and fair to look upon qualities never yet 150 IN THE LIVERY OF HEAVEN underrated by woman born. Besides how could heart of any maid resist that gracious air of his, that defer- ence to womankind? Could Dorothy? Had Dor- othy resisted? Was it in truth (though unconfessed) the presence of the debonnair cavalier by her side, that made the day so wondrously fair? We may not an- swer. But we may record that as the two, happy as are those upon whom life has cast no shadow, rode together into the hills, a pair of earnest eyes came out of the shadows, and looked into the young girl's own, and a strong face, of the Savonarola type, that could easily bear its owner to a martyrdom, if not of fire, then of self-abnegation, seemed wonderfully close to hers. It was the face of Robert Stirling, with whom fate was hastening another meeting. CHAPTER XVIII. IN A SINGLE DAY QUITE unknown to the rest of the party, Pro- fessor Williamson had an object in the day's outing, not wholly in the line of pleasure. Once, as he and MacByrne had ridden together over these hills (their errand had been to plead that Robert remain in school, for the little farm was about to claim him), their conversation had been of the prob- able mineral value of the hills. Returning, they had paused at an unusual ledge of rocks, not far from Robert's home. MacByrne had taken a fragment of the same in his hand, scanning it, meanwhile, with the eye of a critic. "Do you know," he remarked to the Professor, "this is identical in appearance, and I believe in com- position, with that used in the great cement works in New York? If it is," he continued, "some day it will be utilized, and then these hills will come into their own." This had been long ago, but, from a paragraph in a recently received letter, it would seem that "The Knobs" and their possibilities had not been forgotten; for MacByrne had asked that, at the earliest oppor- tunity, the Professor secure a specimen and send to an assayer, whom he named, for analysis. The ful- 152 IN A SINGLE DAY filling of this request was a part of the day's appointed duties. Finally the hills were reached. Quite at the sum- mit of the one over which their winding path lay, two large trees, an oak and a pine, cast their united shadow over a large, smooth rock. This the party at once recognized as an ideal place to spread the luncheon. The camp-fire was at once lighted ; for there were ears of corn and potatoes to be roasted, and the fish Clay and Dorothy were expected to catch were to be broiled. Aunt Violet had accompanied the party, and was soon as much in charge as if she were in her own kitchen. Leaving her for a little while, the Professor and Mrs. Williamson picked their way among the stones along a bridle-path, until, just beyond a heavy group of saplings, a small home, little better than a cabin, stood revealed. This the Professor pointed out as the home of Robert Stirling and his mother. There were two objects in the visit they were about making. One being to obtain the help of Robert in securing the desired specimen; as for the other, the Professor had set his heart on having mother and son lunch with the party. In this his wife heartily agreed. The two were at home, and received their unex- pected guests with simple grace. Upon Mrs. Williamson's entrance into the room her attention was caught by a single piece of furniture quite out of keeping with the rest. It was a mahogany chest of drawers, and in its graceful outlines the sur- prised lady recognized a genuine Chippendale. The DOROTHY scrupulous care which had been bestowed upon its polish testified to the high esteem in which it was held. After the greetings she could not refrain from expressing her admiration. "It belonged to my grandfather," the mother ex- plained, not without a touch of pride. "He valued it highly. I think it was his mother's, and it was his wish that it should remain in the family. It has been a little harder," she continued, "to respect that wish than he probably ever thought." She paused, and Mrs. Williamson knew she was recalling its last hard jour- ney northward. The objects of the visit were soon made known. Of course, Robert would help. Indeed, at the Pro- fessor's request, to have quarried the entire hill had such a feat been possible would have been a pleasure; but as for joining the party at lunch, he shook his head. Somewhere in the hills, at this very moment, he felt sure, Dorothy was strolling with her lover. He had no desire to meet either. While he was lamely trying to invent an excuse, he caught sight of his mother's wistful face. A thought of her lonely life came to him. "Perhaps," he thought, "she would be happier for going; if so," and his lips tightened, "all the Dorothys in the world though in truth there could be but one should not deprive her of the pleasure." "Yes, we will be happy to come," was the final reply. Meanwhile another scene was taking place farther down the ravine. A little creek, which began in a IN A SINGLE DAY series of springs in a distant spur, wound in and out among the hills, wearing for itself an ever-deepening bed. Finally, finding an open spot, it spread itself into a broad pool, where it lay deep and still as if resting for its further journey, forming an ideal spot for fishermen. To this Dorothy and Clay had at once hastened. Once at its edge, Dorothy without delay secured a vantage seat, and, as Clay complained, began at once "to make business out of fun," and the call, "More bait, if you please," came with too great fre- quency. Clay could not remember a similar expedition, when he had not been accompanied by an ebony-hued "Cuffy," who did not question but that he had been born for the specific purpose of relieving his "young Marsa" of all the disagreeable features of the jaunt. "I say, Dorothy," Clay called, "I wish I had a 'boy' here. I would keep him busy for this one hour anyway." Dorothy, quite sure from past experiences that he was trying to inveigle her into an argument, very serenely, and in the utmost silence, watched her cork, which was bobbing in a manner to satisfy even the renowned Mr. Walton. "I said, Dorothy," Clay called a little louder "and young lady, I will thank you to listen I said I wished I had a 'boy' here to wait on us. Now, what are you going to do about it?" At that moment Dorothy's line swung out, curved over each of their heads, and a large bass lay floundering at Clay's feet. "It seems to me," the girl at last made reply, "if DOROTHY I were a big, strong man I would disdain" there was a proper amount of emphasis on the verb "to have any one to do for me that which I could do for myself." The gauntlet had been taken up, and at once the old battle of the centuries (oft an occasion of blood- soaked battle-fields) raged, with sharp thrusts of words and quick repartee. "Dorothy, really, you are too strenuous, not only in your principles, but in your present efforts to pro- vide a mere dinner. I am quite exhausted with the contemplation. Work if you must; but as for me" he finished his sentence by thrusting the end of his pole into a convenient crevice in a rock, and as the hook sank into the water he apostrophized it thus: "There ! catch a fish if you want to ; if you do n't it is all right ; your neighbor will catch enough for two." Then he threw himself full length on the bank, and hardly aware of what he was doing, he began to study the young girl before him, as he had not studied her before. It was realty a charming picture upon which he looked. The sun, filtering through the straggling branches of the trees, touched with tint of gold the wavy brown hair, which, in the fashion of the time, rippled back from the clear forehead^ and fell in curls over her shoulders. The eyes, now that the girl was quiet, were of a peaceful blue; but Clay knew that, with the mood of the owner, they could lighten with merriment or flash fairly black with scorn. 156 IN A SINGLE DAY Perched upon a rock, she was the one touch of "life" needed to emphasize the charming bit of rustic scenery, of which she was a part. Some such a thought must have passed through the young man's mind, for he called out: "Dorothy, you are looking extremely well this morning; but of course you are aware of that. Wait till I catch that pose!" making a great pretense of sketching. At this, Dorothy bent over her line apparently very much interested in the lapping waves that touched the rock on which she sat. There was a dexterous turn of the supple wrist, and a tiny perch gyrated in the air, then slowly descended till the quivering thing brushed Clay's cheek, who quickly thrust it aside. "And you are looking very lazy, but of course you are aware of that. Stretched out so comfortably, you look a fit subject for the ministration of several 'cuf- fies.' Pity they are not at hand." How much more she might have said remains in doubt; for at that instant the pole that Clay had planted gave a violent lurch. His sportsman instincts thoroughly aroused, he sprang forward to grasp it, and soon "the catch of the day," a magnificent trout, lay at his feet. Dorothy looked on, it must be confessed, a bit envious a fact that did not escape her companion, who could not refrain from a parting shot. "You see, little Dorothy, that a victory that is worth while belongs by right to the one who plans rather than to the one who delves. But come, let us go; we already have enough to feed a regiment." 157 DOROTHY "No," Dorothy replied. "I am inclined to think you require a rest after such unusual exertion ; besides, though a mere 'delver,' I am bound to match your trout." Clay, nothing loath, again stretched himself out on the yielding grass, and as Dorothy bent to her self- imposed task he resumed his interrupted study of this sturdy specimen of girlhood who understood so well the game of "give and take." Involuntarily he closed his eyes; he was catching a glimpse of his own household his beautiful mother as he remembered her, and his gracious sister. Again he scrutinized the girl on the bank: "They are not more beautiful than she; no, nor a whit better," his judgment whispered; "and yet and yet " he was conscious of a difference he could not put in words. "Aunt Violet is right," he said at last under his breath; "these people are not 'our folks;' they just can not be." Once more his eyes closed, and another shadow- face, this time very proud and wondrously beautiful and patrician in every line, seemed to come between him and the girl on the bank; and at this he covered his face with his hands, and thought as he had not during all the idle summer. An exclamation from Dorothy aroused him, and he turned to see a trout larger than his own floundering on the bank. "Yes, you are even now;" this in re- sponse to Dorothy's look of triumph ; "but see ! you are flushed and tired, while I " He broke off suddenly as if weary of the whole subject. "Learn a lesson, IN A SINGLE DAY little girl ; it is not everything to be strenuous." After which sage reflection the two began to pick their way back to the camp, over and around fallen logs. Clay though still busy with his thoughts, being none the less the alert comrade, ready to render the little atten- tions which had made the summer a delight to the girl, and had set for her (though this she did not realize) henceforth a new standard of manhood. A turn in the path brought into view a ledge of rocks, at which the Professor and a companion, whom each recognized as Robert, were at work with pick and mallet. Was it fate that at the moment of recognition a very stubborn brier should catch in the hem of Dor- othy's dress, and that Clay, with the gallantry of his race, should stoop to remove it? Still further, that while he was thus busy, he should say, "Dorothy, you know the sign of a brier in your dress?" Dorothy knew nothing better; but of course she must needs be told, so Clay repeated the country-side jingle, "Catch a brier, catch a sweetheart;" "and say, Dorothy," he continued, "there he is," indicating Robert. "Watch how savagely he glowers." And for once Dorothy had ready no reply. Robert saw the whole byplay, and as he did so he hit the rock at which he had been pounding such a savage blow that an extraordinary fine specimen was dislodged, and, as if knowing what was expected, fell at the Professor's feet. There was a constrained greeting between the young people as they met. Clay very much desired to stay, and ostensibly lent a hand, but in reality to be- 159 DOROTHY come better acquainted with this taH young Hercules who, he felt sure, had a regard for Dorothy. But there were the fish to be taken to Aunt Violet. Well, the "dinner rock" was only a little way off. A bright idea struck him, he turned to Dorothy: "Here, Cuffy, take these fish to Aunt Violet ;" and Dorothy, catching the humor (this had been the charm of their friend- ship), answered promptly with a courtesy: "Yes, Massa, take tackle too;" and before he could hinder she had seized the tackle that lay at his feet and was half way up the hill. The questioning surprise of the Professor, and of Robert as well, was so great that Clay felt obliged to recall the conversation at the pool. "How well the two understand each other!" Robert thought, and the world proceeded at once to take on a yet inkier hue. At the dinner it was evident that no mistake had been made in the invitations. The "little mother" was soon quite at ease with these friends of her son. Pride came to the rescue of Robert, as it has a habit of coming to its votaries. There were many topics in common for conversation between himself and the Professor; MacByrne being one (with whom, it came out, each kept in touch), the probable outcome of the rock analysis another, and the future of the hill- country in connection with it. Toward the close of the meal, Clay gave the party a distinct surprise. Turning to his sister he said, "Millicent, I believe it is high time for me to start towards the university." A chorus of surprised exclamations interrupted him. 1 60 IN A SINGLE DAY After the first outbreak he continued : "It seems hardly like a vacation without a run down to the old home neighborhood ; so, while you have been talking, I have been planning, and I believe I will start at once, to- night if Aunt Violet can get me ready. I will go directly to Richmond, look in on the aunts there, visit Van Allen at his home for a few days as I promised, then we will go to Harvard together." "Van" had been Clay's room-mate during the en- tire time he had spent at the university, and the Aliens had been neighbors of the Worthingtons in happier years, and it will be recalled that it was a visit to this home that Clay had given up in order to summer at the "Beeches." The Williamsons were used to Clay's comings and goings their "Will o' the Wisp," they sometimes called him so they took his announcement without surprise. "Clay is young; Time will steady him," his sister was wont to add, lovingly. Aunt Violet, however, was loud in her lamenta- tions; he was "her own chile, that she had missed," and his going would leave an actual void in her life. Two pairs of eyes covertly watched Dorothy, stealthily noting the effect upon her of the new plans. Is it true, as some aver, that vanity is inherent in the masculine heart? Be the answer as it may, Clay, who in the beginning had so insistently urged the bond of comradeship, felt not a little chagrin that Dorothy took his announcement with scarcely more ado than if he had declared his intention to fetch a pail of water from the near-by spring. Indeed so undisturbed was DOROTHY sue, that Robert, also watching her, said under his breath, "They have already talked the going over." The coming years alone might determine whether she was at heart as unaffected as she seemed, or whether the early philosophy of Aunt Lucy had become her own, and she, too, had learned "never to let on." But not one of the happy group that sat about the improvised table and did justice to Aunt Violet's camp- cooking, guessed that, before the day should end, there was that to happen which should make its simple pleas- ures a mocking memory. On the homeward trip the Professor and his wife changed places with Clay and Dorothy, and themselves rode on ahead, the younger people jogging behind in the light wagon, in which Aunt Violet sat supreme, amid sundry picnic baskets. Dorothy had succeeded in starting the latter upon her favorite theme, "de good ole times," which recital Clay interspersed with humorous quips of his own. Suddenly they observed a man driving hurriedly towards them. He stopped, and talked earnestly a moment with the Professor, who turned, and the two together came slowly back to the wagon. Dorothy, seeing the move- ment, felt her throat tighten, and her heart falter in its throbs. In that instant there swept in upon her a vision of her home, of her father, even of Barnolde, all these had been forgotten in the pleasures of the day. With a premonition of coming sorrow she sprang un- assisted from the wagon. 162 IN A SINGLE DAY The Professor had now reached her. His face was very grave and overspread with sympathy. He laid his hand upon her shoulder, and, as in a dream, she heard him say: "Dorothy, you had better get in this buggy that has been brought for you. Your father, they fear, is dying." 163 CHAPTER XIX. " EARTH TO EARTH" As A bolt of lightning descending suddenly from the heavens is able to touch with its consuming blast the strongest oak of the forest, and in an instant its heavy protecting bark is stripped from it, so, with this sad message ringing in her ear, the incidents of the day dropped from the mind of the stricken girl, and her thoughts were only of the dying father to whom she was hurrying. As she crouched on the seat by the pitying neighbor, she gave herself up to the grief of the hour, moaning over and over the refrain, "O, if I had remained at home ! O, if I only had not gone !" It is difficult to comfort one in the throes of be- reavement. Words seem but the emptiest platitudes, so the kind-hearted man could only reply: "There, child, do n't cry. You did not know this was going to happen. None of us ever know in this world what a day will bring forth." Notwithstanding the attempt at comfort, the girl continued to sob until the home was reached. Once there, everything seemed strangely unfamil- iar. A neighbor met her at the gate and silently helped her out, bidding her be quiet lest the dying man be disturbed. Kindly neighbors had gathered in little groups in the kitchen, or stood talking in hushed tones 164 "EARTH TO EARTH" under the trees in the yard (blessed country people, never too busy to wait with sympathetic hush the pass- ing of a soul!) These silently made way for her as she passed. In a few minutes she learned from Cousin Sarah the events of the day. After her going in the morning, her father had ap- peared unusually alert, and going to the "Store" (which was itself unusual), was at once interested in the day's business. Early in the afternoon he had dis- patched "Joe" with- a message to the office of Squire Hubbard (an old and trusted friend), and had seemed greatly disappointed to learn that he was absent at the former county seat, and would not return during the day. A discussion then arose between himself and the Reverend Barnolde, who had become aware of the message sent. "Joe" could not fully understand the matter in dispute, but was sure it was in reference to certain papers. Finally the two passed from the "Store" into the house, Uncle John unusually wrought up over the matter in dispute. They had gone into an inner room, the elder man's thin, sharp tones mean- while rising higher, opposed by the mellifluous yet now positive ones of his companion. Finally Barnolde had gone to his own room, and as Uncle John had come on out into the kitchen, Cousin Sarah noticed that he seemed faint, and immediately pulled into its place his chair. He had stood for a moment looking pensively out of the vine-covered window, then tottered and sank into the waiting chair, quite unconscious. The family physician was hurriedly summoned. At the first glance he had looked grave, and uttered ,65 DOROTHY the single word, "Apoplexy," and added, "No, he can not recover, he will probably not regain conscious- ness." As the young girl entered the darkened room, the sufferer lay very quiet, his life ebbing peacefully away.' By his side sat the shaggy country doctor, the sym- pathetic arbiter of fate for these many years to the country round about. He gently rose and made way for Dorothy, who sank on her knees by the dying man. Even in the extremity of her emotion, it did not escape her that, standing in the dim shadows of the room, silently watching her and all that occurred, was the Reverend Barnolde. "O father," she called, "O why did I go? Father, you must speak if only to tell me that I am forgiven. I did not dream, how could I know?" she wailed. Tears coursed down the kind face of the doctor, familiar as he was with these last sad scenes. "You could not have helped, Dorothy, had you been here; no one could," he told her. But she, through her fall- ing tears, continued to stroke the wan hands, and with gentle touch to caress the ever-kind face, already tak- ing on the majesty of death. She could not believe he would go without a word ; so, after the first burst of emotion, she still continued to call, "Father, father, you will surely speak to Dorothy." To the surprise of all, as if in response to the call, the closed eyes slowly opened, and with unutter- able tenderness centered themselves on the kneeling, 1 66 "EARTH TO EARTH" sobbing girl ; then looking away as if in search, paused at sight of a figure in the doorway. It was that of Professor Williamson, who had fol- lowed hard after Dorothy. An unexpected thrill of returning life now animated the prostrate form, and he made as if he would rise. The Professor, in an- swer to the beseeching look, immediately bent over him and asked if there was something he wished done. At the same instant Barnolde stepped forward till he, too, was at the stricken man's side. It was pitiful to watch the effort to make the tired lips once more respond to the bidding of the strong soul that had tenemented within. Slowly a few words were articukted. "You get paper, ink quick!" Though surprised at the re- quest, an attendant hastened for the articles. At this the Reverend Barnolde leaned over and, taking Uncle John's hand, said piously: "Dear brother, do not disturb yourself about things earthly. Jordan is very near. Earth recedes, dear brother " The exhortation, however well meant, was not continued, for at the sound of the voice the aroused man sank back wearily, even hopelessly, and soon the heavy breathing told that unconsciousness had returned; an unconsciousness never to be broken till the tired brain, happily free from all pain, should put on new strength and awake in the likeness of Him who said, "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these, ye have done it unto Me." The outgoing life might well claim this promise, for it had been indeed rich in ministry. 167 DOROTHY Middletown, always with a predilection for funer- als, had never known such a one as gathered in the little church itself so much a part of that life that was gone to do honor to the memory of the departed. Curiosity had little part in the gathering, for these were the friends of a lifetime, and many held in their hearts the memory of a kindness shown. For instance, there were certain women who sat during the sermon with tears quietly coursing down their sun-browned faces; these were still known in the village as "sol- diers' wives," and each was mentally recalling times when the pitiful "thirteen dollars" a month failing to arrive, Uncle John had stood between them and actual hunger; for it had been a maxim at the "Store" that no soldier's wife should be denied the necessities of life. At the close of the service, as the company filed silently by the open coffin, one of these women lingered unusually long, and even" at the last moment turned away reluctantly. She and the incident that held her to the still face in the coffin were well known. It had occurred while her husband was "at the front." News had not been received from him for weeks. During these days of anxiety, when hunger was knocking at the door, a creditor, through the proper officer, levied on the family cow, and it was driven away. That night, as the helpless mother sat stunned, her hungry children about her, suddenly her ten-year-old son called out, "Mother, mother, look! there is Brindle!" Sure enough, outside in the shadow stood a man letting down the bars in order that Brindle, evidently in a hurry, 1 68 "EARTH TO EARTH" might pass in. This accomplished, he turned and was gone without a word. That man now lay before her, and it was into his face that the still grateful woman looked. And, seeing her, the villagers recalled how at the time John Sumner, hearing of the outrage, had faced the creditor, paid the debt, and delivered mean- while, it was openly hinted, a caustic lecture gratis. To the young girl, who sat closely veiled, the whole seemed a dream from which she must awaken. It was a part of the same dream that presently some one should hand her gently into a carriage, and that, although the way lay along the familiar street, it should seem un- usual and shadowy. As in a dream she saw a mother step out of a door- way and still some children at their play, and it came over her that once she, too, had played as did the chil- dren; once she had been happy as they were happy; but this was long ago, O so long ago ! Finally there came the harsh sound of falling earth, then the solemn voice of the preacher committing dust to its mother dust. All was over. Once more she was quite alone in the world. "Well, it 's mighty queer, that is all 1 ve got to say about it." Middletown had now gotten its breath, and was discussing happenings of the hurried days fol- lowing the sudden death of their neighbor. Each in turn had found it impossible to account for the sudden absence of the Reverend Mr. Barnolde, who, it had transpired, had left the village almost, if not quite, simultaneously with the death of John Sumner. It was .69 DOROTHY vaguely reported that he was called away by sudden sickness; but the neighbors shook their heads, and " 'lowed" that it was the "queerest thing they had ever known." "As good as Uncle John had been to him, too!" one added. "Seems like he ought to have staid, if only for the looks of things." "May be there was death or sickness in his own home," one less critical urged. "Well, if there was, he should have said so, out and out. We would all have felt better." And this the larger part of dissatisfied Middletown continued to urge. Meanwhile sorrowing, conscience-stricken Dorothy carried a new burden. Each sentence of that last inter- view with her father and with this man so distasteful to her seemed burned into her brain. "Had she done wrong?" she asked herself over and over. 170 CHAPTER XX. A FRIEND NEEDED To GATHER up the snapped threads of life, to go on with the mockery of living when all is gone that makes life worth while, is one of the hardest trials that await the bereaved. This Dorothy realized as she went about the now strangely silent house. It seemed to her at times that she must surely find him who had been its soul, sitting, as was his wont, by the western window. It was well for her, at this juncture, that she had the motherly sympathy of Millicent Williamson anJ the fatherly protection of the Professor. She had yet more, for the entire neighborhood owned a peculiar and sympathetic interest in the again orphaned girl. Many, recalling her own father and mother, had watched with satisfaction her growth toward woman- hood. As these peered into her future, all rejoiced that, in their own parlance, "Uncle John had been well off," and if he, then Dorothy; for there were no rela- tives save Cousin Sarah (she who had kept the home), and she was ''comfortable," and to spare. None turned these matters over their mind more frequently, nor to a better purpose, than did Professor Williamson. One day, shortly after the burial, in a conversation 171 DOROTHY with Dorothy, he asked her: "Did you ever hear your father speak of a will? Or do you know anything of the whereabouts of such a document?" She shook her head. In all her life she had neither thought nor heard of such a matter. The Professor looked troubled. "It would simplify matters so," he explained as her eyes asked why. But his question was soon answered, and in a man- ner wholly unexpected. The day's mail brought him an unusual package. Breaking its seal, he found, to his surprise, besides a formidable looking document, a communication from the Rev. Mr. Barnolde, which, after a very brief intro- duction, called attention to the inclosed verbatim copy so the writer said of a will, the original of which would be found in the possession of A. Kenge, a resi- dent Middletown lawyer; and in which it would be found that the late John Sumner had bequeathed his entire estate, including all personal property, to the writer, to be held in trust for the establishment of a Home for friendless children in the now rapidly grow- ing town of Middletown. A few sentences followed, which hypocritically re- cited the reluctance he had felt at undertaking the trust, and how he had finally consented from an im- perative sense of duty. He went on to say, further, that owing to the friendly relations existing between the "Beeches" and Miss Sumner, he had thought best to communicate first with him (the Professor), as he desired to call especial attention to the codicil in which Mr. Sumner 172 A FRIEND NEEDED had expressed the wish that his daughter might find it in her heart to further the proposed plan. And then the writer added that this would be peculiarly satis- factory to himself, as he was about to write her. Professor Williamson was usually a model of calm- ness, but at the unexpected disclosure he was excited beyond measure. He had barely glanced at the "copy" which, he noted, began with the usual phrases, when it occurred to him that on so important a matter he would need concurring counsel. He thought at once of Squire Hubbard, who, he knew, had for years looked after the legal business of John Sumner, and whose ab- sence on the day that the latter had been taken ill was so regretted. Losing no time, he sought him, and sub- mitted the "copy" and the letter as well. "The hypocritical fraud!" was the Squire's com- ment after he had hurriedly read. "He is by no means, though, the first to steal the livery of heaven to serve the devil in." But his face grew grave as he continued : "Do you know I regard this as a serious matter? Again and again I advised John Sumner friend as well as client to put on paper what I knew to be his wishes for the child he loved as his own. But he always put me aside. You know there are some who regard such preparations as a notice to Death that one is ready to receive him. This was pre-eminently true of John Sumner. Suppose we go at once and examine the original." Kenge they knew as a nondescript lawyer who had floated into the changing village, and whose chief char- acteristic had appeared to be an inordinate hunger for 173 DOROTHY clients. They found the gentleman in, and from his manner evidently expecting them. "Yes," he replied in answer to their inquiry, "my client left with me for safe keeping the original, a copy of which, he writes me, he has submitted to you." So saying he drew from a drawer a closely written docu- ment, which he spread before them. "I may as well tell you," he continued, "that it was my pleasure to prepare this will at the desire, and in accordance with the wishes, of the testator, the late John Sumner, and to witness his signature." The two friends eagerly scanned the submitted document. It began : "Whereas, I, John Sumner, being in my right mind, do give and bequeath to the Reverend Henry Barnolde, the following properties, to wit:" Here followed a description of certain properties, each enumerated item familiar to the Squire. "The same to be held in trust by the said Barnolde, and to be used by him in establishing and maintaining a Home for friendless children in this my home, Mid- dletown." The document was to all appearances genuine. It being attested by Uncle John's own signature, familiar for miles around. It was witnessed to, by a name unfamiliar to both, but finally recalled as that of a young man who had been an employee in Kenge's office. Following the signature was an added codicil, dated a month later. This, unlike the will, was written throughout in John Sumner's own hand, and evidently T 74 A FRIEND NEEDED at his own home, he having (according to Mr. Kenge) on a certain date, called for the will, had retained it for a time, and then returned it with the addition. The codicil read : "It is my further wish that my daughter Dorothy, if she so inclines, shall lend herself to the cause that lies so near my heart. Further, that until the neces- sary building be erected, the family home shall be open to receive such children, for whom application shall be made. As she was herself welcomed to this home, I beg that, in my name, she welcome others. Freely she has received, let her freely give." "Cruel," the Professor muttered under his breath. "But that does not sound like John Sumner," the Squire made response. "What do you think of it all?" It was the Pro- fessor who asked when they had passed into the open air. "I do not pretend to understand it," the Squire re- sponded. "But I believe any court will hold it genuine." "And Dorothy is penniless?" "I fear so," the Squire replied, soberly, adding, "She must know about this. You had better see her at once." At this, the Professor recalled the clause in the letter to himself in which Barnolde had said he was "about to communicate with Miss Sumner." He must be beforehand, he thought, with the story he had to tell. As he directed his steps toward the Sumner home he grew anxious lest the promised letter had already 175 DOROTHY arrived. Seeing that another mail was in, he turned into the post-office, and made inquiry in Dorothy's name, and was not at all surprised to have handed him the expected letter. He turned, and soon knocked at the door of the great kitchen where he knew he would find both Cousin Sarah and Dorothy. After greeting them, he said to the latter, who had risen, "Sit down, Dorothy, and you" this to Cousin Sarah "you must each hear the strange thing I have come to tell you." First he produced and read Bar- nolde's letter to himself. Their surprise was beyond words. Then he told of his visit, in company with the Squire, to the office of Lawyer Kenge, and of the ex- amination of the document, and added, "Dorothy, this whole affair is beyond our understanding, but rest as- sured, the unjust will must be proven genuine before your friends will allow it to be accepted." But Dorothy had not yet caught the import of it, nor did she, until Cousin Sarah arose, and, crossing the room, put her arms about her, and, amid falling tears, cried out: "Never mind, dear, I can not believe John meant to do this dreadful thing. But do not worry. I have enough for both of us." And with this the truth burst upon her. It is difficult to analyze correctly a flood of emo- tions that suddenly overwhelm one. But Dorothy was conscious of one that was supreme a terrible heart hurt. Of the mere matter of houses and lands she did not think, but that, in a plan or wish that had lain near his heart, her father had held no thought of her, had in 176 A FRIEND NEEDED * fact ignored her ah! there lay the sting. Had he but honored her with his confidence, how gladly she would have lent herself to the carrying out of his wishes; but to do so in conjunction with Barnolde that she could not do, though the expressed wish of her father lay before her in the writing she knew so well. "Dorothy," the gentle voice of Professor William- son recalled her, "he who is, I am sure, responsible for all this trouble, said he would write you. The letter has just arrived. I will wait 'to see if it contains anything that I, as your friend, ought to know." With a feeling that, on this day of surprises, noth- ing need be surprising, she received the letter into her hand. As she did so, a shudder passed over her. She seemed to feel the presence of the writer, and to be as unable to extricate herself as is the song-bird under the fateful spell of the serpent that charms it unto death. At length she broke the seal and began to read. As she continued her eyes widened in horror, a crimson flush overspread her face, and then, with a gesture of disdain, she flung the offending epistle far from her, and, putting up both hands, sat with covered face. "Dorothy, I must know what has so distressed you." So saying, the Professor recovered the letter, and read from the beginning to the end. "How crafty the man!" was the Professor's thought; "by this double stroke he has thought not only to silence all troublesome questions, but" and his eyes fell on the now weeping girl "also gain yon dear little wood-thrush for himself." 177 DOROTHY "Do not mind, Dorothy," this aloud ; "I will reply to this. In the meantime dry your tears. This part of it all need never be known outside of your own home and the 'Beeches.' " The reply soon reached Mr. Barnolde. In its read- ing that gentleman, greatly chagrined, gleaned two facts, one being that the dearest wish in the entire con- spiracy had forever miscarried; the other, that until public opinion (always fickle) had veered somewhat, his business in Middletown were better done by proxy. 178 CHAPTER XXI. HOMELESS IT is curious to reflect upon the mental processes by which, in a crisis, the mind of a community may become a unit. It is apt to start with certain well- defined premises and principles. It then weighs all evidence, brushes away, with a mere sweep of the hand, all specious reasoning, and arrives at a conclusion from which there is no appeal. The matter of the strange will at once overbalanced every other in Middletown. For once the mere ques- tion of "improvements" slid abashed into the back- ground. When one person met another, they at once formed a committee that went into immediate session, considering the unprecedented matter down to the last detail. The arguments usually ran as follows : John Sumner they had known, only to honor. That throughout his life he had been at heart a philan- thropist, was conceded. But if this were an acknowl- edged characteristic, there was another: he had been unflinchingly just; and that the will was manifestly unjust, all agreed. "It was unthinkable," one said to another, "that such a man as he should take a child to his heart, love her, tenderly care for her, then, in the dawn of her womanhood, thrust her unprotected upon the world." 179 DOROTHY Barnolde, it was now recalled (he had not yet re- turned), had been universally disliked. His prolonged stay in the Sumner home in the face of Dorothy's well- known displeasure (and Cousin Sarah's as well), had contributed to that dislike. And so many, as they said, "began to put two and two together," and, as one indi- vidual, to talk "undue influence." But a country-side decision and a legal one are often wide apart; indeed, such have been known never to coincide. Would the present be but another instance? Those who had the matter closest at heart could not tell. And these were not a few, as it transpired. Professor Williamson was troubled as a year ago he had not thought it possible to be over any village happening. Until now he had not suspected how the heart-tendrils of both himself and Mrs. Williamson had entwined themselves about the young girl. That there had been fraud on the part of the man who had so cunningly ingratiated himself into John Sumner's favor, he did not doubt ; but how should he set about to make it plain to the world ? In his distress, he bethought him of an old college friend, a classmate in fact, whose home was in the capital city of this, his adopted State, and who was now a member of Congress, and known as one of the fore- most lawyers of the State. His office was still main- tained in the capital, its business being managed by a partner. As Congress was not in session, the Professor felt sure of the personal interest of this friend. A letter was at once dispatched, that aroused not only friendly interest, but professional instincts as well. 1 80 HOMELESS So much so that, after further correspondence, the friend decided to visit Middletown. "Say nothing about my coming," he wrote. "Let those we oppose, think } : ou, like the young girl, are re- signed to the inevitable." A few days later, Professor Williamson and Squire Hubbard went once more to examine the will. With them was a very unassuming stranger. Not one in the village through whose streets he walked suspected that he bore a name so distinguished that in the entire State there was not a cross-roads but knew it and honored it. Kenge was out, but the office boy produced the document, and they took ample time to note its points. Later, the three, in the privacy of the "Beeches," talked the matter over down to the last detail. It was the friend, whom we shall know simply as "Lawyer C ," who summed the matter up "There is little doubt in my mind that the will is genuine that is, genuine in the sense of having been attested to by John Sumner. "There is," the lawyer continued, meditatively, "something strange about a genuine signature. It is as if the writer unconsciously transcribed something of his own personality. That in- tangible 'something' is present to a large degree in that cramped one we have been considering. The old man must have been a character in his way. I should like to have known him ; but" and the alert lawyer took the place of the speculating literary critic "there is no doubt that there has been fraud and of a grave nature. That clause of the will making the legatee his own executor, and without bond, and with full 181 DOROTHY power of disposing of property, is so unlikely in a public trust, that it, of itself, indicates fraud. You will see and mark my words that at the first possible moment he will begin to turn the estate into cash. That done, Middletown will scarcely see its coveted building. Further, there is not a doubt in my mind that the will was obtained, as you believe, through persistent over- shadowing, and by a successful appeal to a strong phi- lanthropical bias on the part of the victim. Now, it must be your immediate part to gather up quietly, but surely, evidence to substantiate this belief we hold in common. As for the codicil, I am sure that it is an outright forgery as I am that the signature to the will is genuine. Again you must secure proof. I am so confident of what I say, that I now advise you to watch for the filing of the will, notice of which, according to the law of the State, must be published. Then wait until the last day of grace, and give notice that you will at the next term of court contest the will. In the meantime say nothing of your plans. Keep every scrap of evidence you may find absolutely secret. Barnolde, I have no doubt, is shrewd. If he is forewarned, he will be forearmed. Keep him until the last minute ignorant of your intentions, and until the last of your method of procedure." The Professor thought earnestly. This meant for him a great responsibility. Should he assume it? He could not without the best of counsel. "Can I count on your assistance until the end?" he asked. .His friend was silent. A vision of his multiplied 182 HOMELESS interests swept over him. He stood in silence for a time, then said slowly: "Yes. Write me freely; keep me in close touch with all that happens. I will advise you from time to time as seems necessary. I will be free to leave Wash- ington in March, and then I will give this my personal attention. I will do this first for the sake of justice, and then," and a rare smile lightened his face, "for the sake of a certain widely scattered 'class.' Now that we are through with business, a mutual account of the years is in order." With this, the Squire took his leave, and the two talked long into the night. In the morning, one re- turned to his duties, and the Professor returned to his own difficult task. Amid all these plans, what of Dorothy? After the first passionate outburst, she went about strangely calm. Neighbors, watching her, said one to another, "She has not begun to 'sense' what has hap- pened." The truth lay beyond their ken. She was young. Thus far the world had mercifully hid from her its seamy side, and, with the assurance of youth, she did not believe it had one. Perhaps the liberty-loving Ryedale blood had been awakened, and was stirring in her veins. Be that as it may, she was conscious of a strange thrill of exultation in that her future now lay completely in her own hands. Her grief lay in the supposed alienation of her father. It humiliated her more than she would have confessed, that he had confided a heart-desire to a stranger rather 83 DOROTHY where, only *e> rt far away. If you could only help me in due/ way I wovid try * hard to be mdbj of the confidence." At dris Aum Vk>kt, who had been a dose listener, broke in : "You do n't know, dale, what yon 'e talking about. Yo' place is beah, where yo' ole Anode wOl take care of you." With dm Mr*. Williamson quite agreed; but it occurred to the Pmtrrnir that perhaps Dorothy was nearer right, and that it might be better, considering the strain and humiliation which Bamolde s >y(ii |M would by upon her, if she should leave die village for a time. When in her appeal to him the words "far away" had fallen from her lip*, a coincidence flashed He had but recently received a letter from Mac- Byrne, which in the stress of events had remained un- answered. This, unlike his preceding ones, made no mffftmt of his "beloved woodsmen." It was brief, and it sole object had been to secure the help of the Pfofewor in obtaining a teacher for the new high school which die rapidly growing milling town now boasted, and had been written at the instance of a Mr. Stuart, "the chief owner of the woods," the writer had ex- plained, of whose sterling qualities be took time to 'How fortunate it would be for Dorothy," be was in the change he now perceived inevitable, "if she might have the protection of loyal-hearted William MacByrne." 1*6 HOMELESS One question alone arose, and that such was the man's honor must have a satisfactory answer: Was she competent? She who had seemed to him a mere child? In a moment he had scanned her closely, not- ing, not for the first time, how well sorrow vjiose mission is to strengthen had done its work. "Yes, he would risk it," was his final verdict. Dorothy had not supposed that her heart would ever again be so light as it was that same night when she laid her head upon her pillow. The entire matter of the far-away school had been fully considered, A letter was already on its way to Mac Byrne announcing her immediate departure. At last she was to have that which she so coveted, a niche all her own among the world's workers. Although she was to lose the com- panionship of the "Beeches," she felt a rare sense of security in the near presence of him whom she yet called the "circuit preacher." A few days later and her last little preparations for the long journey were complete, yet she still lin- gered in that which had been to her throughout the years home. At the sight of the leavetaking, even the heart of the despoiler must have saddened. Aimlessly she went from room to room: familiar pictures mostly of Churchmen looked down at her from the walls. Leather-bound books, each a pan of herself and fraught with Sunday afternoon memories, lay on the shelves. Among these, itself bound in leather, was a small hymn-book. At the sight of this 187 DOROTHY where, only so it is far away. If you could only help me in that way I would try so hard to be worthy of the confidence." At this Aunt Violet, who had been a close listener, broke in : "You do n't know, chile, what you 'se talking about. Yo' place is heah, where yo' ole Auntie will take care of you." With this Mrs. Williamson quite agreed; but it occurred to the Professor that perhaps Dorothy was nearer right, and that it might be better, considering the strain and humiliation which Barnolde's return would lay upon her, if she should leave the village for a time. When in her appeal to him the words "far away" had fallen from her lips, a coincidence flashed upon him which staggered him with its significance. He had but recently received a letter from Mac- Byrne, which in the stress of events had remained un- answered. This, unlike his preceding ones, made no mention of his "beloved woodsmen." It was brief, and its sole object had been to secure the help of the Professor in obtaining a teacher for the new high school which the rapidly growing milling town now boasted, and had been written at the instance of a Mr. Stuart, "the chief owner of the woods," the writer had ex- plained, of whose sterling qualities he took time to speak. "How fortunate it would be for Dorothy," he was thinking, in the change he now perceived inevitable, "if she might have the protection of loyal-hearted William MacByrne." 1 86 HOMELESS One question alone arose, and that such was the man's honor must have a satisfactory answer: Was she competent? She who had seemed to him a mere child? In a moment he had scanned her closely, not- ing, not for the first time, how well sorrow vdiose mission is to strengthen had done its work. "Yes, he would risk it," was his final verdict. Dorothy had not supposed that her heart would ever again be so light as it was that same night when she laid her head upon her pillow. The entire matter of the far-away school had been fully considered. A letter was already on its way to MacByrne announcing her immediate departure. At last she was to have that which she so coveted, a niche all her own among the world's workers. Although she was to lose the com- panionship of the "Beeches," she felt a rare sense of security in the near presence of him whom she yet called the "circuit preacher." A few days later and her last little preparations for the long journey were complete, yet she still lin- gered in that which had been to her throughout the years home. At the sight of the leavetaking, even the heart of the despoiler must have saddened. Aimlessly she went from room to room; familiar pictures mostly of Churchmen looked down at her from the walls. Leather-bound books, each a part of herself and fraught with Sunday afternoon memories, lay on the shelves. Among these, itself bound in leather, was a small hymn-book. At the sight of this 187 DOROTHY her heart, already very tender, overflowed. She took it in her hands, and, as she turned the pages, each was suggestive of the voice she was not to hear again. "The orphans," she said to herself, grimly, "will be none the poorer; this shall be mine for a keepsake." She lingered longest in the sunny great kitchen. The evening sun shone through the western windows, but it warmed only a bare four walls. It was as if the home had known a soul, and that were fled. Outside, Cousin Sarah was giving final directions to the driver who had been engaged to carry her own belongings to her own home, meanwhile wiping away the steadily flowing tears. The heart of this good woman was very sore, in that Dorothy was not to ac- company her. She could not understand a feeling that would compel a young girl to forego comfort and pro- tection when it was so gladly offered. But the Pro- fessor, standing by, understood and approved, and that lightened Dorothy's self- reproach," for her heart seemed well-nigh breaking in that, besides the parting, she must yet give pain. There was yet another leavetaking, and this took place in a spot quite apart from the living. To reach it Dorothy threaded her way slowly among sunken graves. She paused at last, and read afresh an inscrip- tion, which she had often read, on a plain, much-dis- colored marble slab: "Mary, aged twenty-three, Wife of John Ryedale." 188 HOMELESS That was all. Perhaps the artist in marble had himself thought it little; for above the words he had chipped out an open Bible, and above that a pair of folded marble hands. (Many times in the years the child's hands had strayed over these.) Beneath this there had been carved another line, and Dorothy knew this, in itself, reflected the kindness of the man whom, through all the years, she had called father. The added words were : "John Ryedale. Shot dead at Shiloh. He was a brave man." A pitifully small family history. As she stood lean- ing against the stone her old struggle with memory came on afresh; once more she sought to recall the appearance of those whose names she read, but the effort was in vain. Only a big, tall man, a laughing, happy little child, and a sweet-faced woman came out of the mists to greet her. Kneeling there on the mold, she recalled that, in her "keepsake box," along with the daguerreotypes of her father and mother, were old letters from her mother's home. She wondered now why, through the j^ears, she had felt so little interest in her far-away relatives, and then the answer came to her, "She had been so happy, so free from care." Was it now too late ? At length she arose to go. As she did so her hands crept out as if they would fain caress the unyielding stone. As they lingered on the chiseled Bible, she vowed to herself to be as brave, as true, in the new life * 189 DOROTHY to which she was going as they said her father had been on the battle-field; and at the thought, again the ever- haunting sweet face seemed to become a floating, shad- owy figure, and to envelope her in its brooding tender- ness, and the feeling came to her that in her present trials she was not alone. She had given herself yet another errand. In an- other part of this same "God's acre," beside the earlier one of the wife he had so sincerely mourned, was the new-made grave of John Sumner. To these Dorothy in silence took her steps. Reach- ing them, she stood in silence ; then bent, and scattered over each flowers she had herself gathered from the dear home garden. Had there been any hurt, any re- sentment remaining, it must have vanished with the act. She knelt by these, as she had knelt by those of her own parents, and as she did so she said to herself as if in farewell, "Some day, dear father, we shall meet and talk it all over." From this it would seem that he of "the gray hair," sleeping so peacefully beneath, had not taught his les- sons of faith and trust in vain. It was now growing late, and as she turned to go she was too engrossed to observe the approach of a quick and hurried step. In another moment, with a turn in the winding path, she stood face to face with Robert Stirling Robert, who, through all these weeks of changing fortunes, had watched each day's develop- ments with the keenest anxiety; chafing under the re- straints he felt himself placed ; asking himself over and over, "why that poltroon of a lover had not appeared 190 HOMELESS to do something" exactly what he did not know, but something, anything to relieve the situation and com- fort Dorothy. His restlessness had been such that "Shaggy" was already quite resigned to the daily "town trip," and was, at the moment of the chance meeting, trying to appropriate certain stray wisps of hay in Long David's tumble-down shed, while his master took the shorter cut to the village. For a couple of heart-beats the two stood facing each other, and then O strange mystery of sympathy ! an overwhelming sense of her desolation, such as she had not known until the moment, swept over Dorothy. And, strange to say, a certain once despised line, which in another sorrow had said, "I am sorry," rose before her and demanded remembrance. Surely the writer of that line, who had appeared so unexpectedly, had come to utter the sympathy he had once written. Ah ! she had not known she was so hungry for com- fort. Instinctively she gave a glad cry, and reaching out her hands she took a step forward. Alas! poor tempted Robert! With the glad cry, with the outstretched hands, his heart well-nigh stopped beating. For an instant it seemed he must take the sorrowing girl in his arms, must whisper to her over and over that all that had happened did not matter since he was strong and could protect her, and a hun- dred other things, such as men have been telling women from the beginning of the world ; but at this moment, when soul was looking into soul, when hearts were DOROTHY about giving up secrets, a careless, nonchalant, self- satisfied face intruded itself upon Robert, a face with eyes that looked proudly into his, and reminded him of that which he had been about to forget. He drew back, a chill settled at his heart, and seemed to freeze his tongue ; so much so that, instead of the wild, burning words he had thought to say, he heard himself, as in a dream, uttering the merest com- monplaces of sympathy, which sounded even more hol- low than they were. Dorothy was quick to catch the change. Robert was not more proud than she, so there was an immedi- ate marshaling of pride and self-control. "Thanks;" it was a quiet constrained voice that spoke. "My friends are all kind; indeed, they over- whelm me with a sympathy that is quite misplaced. I know I shall love my work, while, as for leaving Mid- dletown, who of us does not like a change?" "By the way," she continued for Robert was speechless "what message shall I take your friend, Mr. MacByrne? Shall I tell him you are still de- voted to his majesty, Sir Bones?" She was laughing now, her old enchanting self. And so they parted. And so must we for a time. For in that new life to which the young girl is going she must have time (as must we all in our life's battle) to indicate of what material she is made, whether of that pure gold which comes out of the furnace purified, or of that baser alloy that melts before the first hot blast. 192 HOMELESS The journey to that spot where "brook and river meet," whether it be figure of speech or actual reality, is always long. - But that point of time, when the brook at last pours its small offering of waters into the deep, dark, swift-flowing river is inexorable in its approach. Those who have listened to its sweet song of content, as it curled about the roots of the forest-trees, or dallied with the soft caresses of the mosses on its banks, may well ask if the gentle ministry of these which it so loved is in its larger life to be forever lost? Happily, no. The attuned ear catches alway a sweet under-note in the river's deep roar, and the sym- pathetic eye a gentleness in its waves as they lap the shore, that hint and will for evermore of mossy banks and of overhanging boughs. So must a life, if it be true, reproduce in its riper, richer fruitage, the hopes, the dreams, the inspirations, the ambitions of its childhood. Were it not so, they who guide the young must at times faint beneath their burden of anxiety. 13 193 CHAPTER XXII. DAVID ONE is not necessarily pessimistic, if, when ap- proaching the zenith of life, the unwelcome truth finds lodgment in the "inner consciousness" that a single individual is ordinarily of small importance. This truth is frequently enforced by striking illus- trations. If a ruler, greatly honored throughout the world for his strength of character as well as broad statesmanship, is suddenly summoned by the "stealthy figure in gray," before an hour has passed, as if in mockery of human greatness, a new ruler has been solemnly sworn to be to the nation all that the dead man was, and the national life knows no break. It is so with those high in ecclesiastical councils. At a beck from the same grim figure they falter, then fall; their little world which they have touched pauses to deliver certain eulogies, then goes on, not infre- quently to new successes; for, as a rule, younger, stronger, and better-trained hands take up the work, often grudgingly yielded. Sad? By no means. Such happenings are but ob- ject lessons, teaching us that the Father's plans are eternal, and do not depend on any thing so frail as the life of an individual. 194 DAVID Had Dorothy been at all vain, and had she been able to look through the space that soon separated her from her childhood's home, that vanity must have suffered a shock in beholding how readily her little world ad- justed itself to her absence. True, a large part of it had paused to bid her "Godspeed ;" then, as if to make up for lost time, had girded itself afresh for the "fray," which, properly translated, meant the hurried building of new houses, the establishment of new business enter- prises, and of supreme interest to all the completion of the new court-house. Curiously enough, among the first items of business transacted in the completed building, or rather in one of its office rooms, was the filing with the proper officer of the "Sumner Will." At this a few old friends shook their heads and muttered, "Too bad ;" but none thought it their province to interfere, and still fewer found it in their hearts to look coldly upon the Reverend Mr. Barnolde when he suddenly returned, and with an air of great celerity began to exhibit plans for the proposed building, and incidentally to arrange for the sale of the Sumner properties. Yet there was one, as the reader knows, who did not forget. There is a saying, so common as to savor of folk-lore, that "the devil is a deceiver," and further that, "if a bit of work emanates from his workshop, a 'loophole' will in time be found through which the truth will finally filter." Perhaps Mr. Barnolde would not have been so complacent in mind had he known that Professor Wil- liamson who, to all appearances, was altogether recon- 195 DOROTHY died to the turn of events was constantly on the watch for this traditional "opening," and that even before his return a discovery had been made that might prove his undoing. Strangely enough, with the finding of this first faint clew if clew it should prove the Professor had him- self little to do. That discovery which we must now note had taken place on the day of Cousin Sarah's departure from the Sumner home; a day on which Professor Williamson learned, not without surprise, that there was one who had the matter at heart equally with himself. Long David had been stirred by the incident of the will, as possibly he had not been since that long ago day when he had marched, with a prouder step than he had since known, away from this same village to that far-away and intangible "front." He had been a mem- ber of that same company that had known John Rye- dale as color-bearer. He had, in fact, been near him when he fell, and since that hour had felt a strong sense of proprietorship in his comrade's child. He literally scouted the idea that John Sumner had meant to impoverish her whom he had taken to his heart. In the first days of the denouement he had stood, or gone about, in a sort of bewilderment. Re- covering, he began to buttonhole passers-by, and to demonstrate to each that the whole thing, from begin- ning to end, was a "fraud," and could not be anything else. But from these he at length turned with a sigh. Middletown, he was forced to acknowledge, was very busy with its own growing importance. Besides, 196 DAVID half the town, as he found to his disgust, was in love with the elegant new structure the bequest had made possible. But he had leisure to consider the matter down to the last detail. The Sumner home now began to have an unusual fascination for him. He invented lame ex- cuses for visits to different parts of the house. He catechised Cousin Sarah concerning the habits of her erstwhile guest, wearing, meanwhile, such an air of inscrutable mystery as might have put the Sphynx to shame. Instinctively he guessed the attitude of the Pro- fessor, and at last resolved to lay before that gentle- man his own hopes, his own fears. So a certain evening found him knocking at the door of the "Beeches." The Professor received him kindly, but, knowing his penchant for "news," did not feel free to confide to him his own efforts. The conversation lasted more than an hour. At its close, David, with an air of finality, drew himself up to his great height, and said: "I tell you there's been villainy, rank villainy; and I am sure" lowering his voice and looking furtively about "the old 'Varmint' has left his 'tracks' if if we only knew where to find them." With this he gave the Professor a look of pathetic appeal as if to say that he, with his superior wisdom, ought to be able to fur- nish the information. Should he tell him all ? the Professor asked himself. No; he did not dare. So, with an evasion of which he was ashamed, he replied : "The trouble is, that such as he seem very successful in covering up their misdeeds; 197 DOROTHY yet if, as you say, he has left 'tracks,' they are certainly about the Sumner home. Cousin Sarah leaves to- morrow. Perhaps you might drop in and help that good woman with her moving. That would give you a fine chance to investigate." David took his leave with a heavy heart. He re- alized that he had received scant encouragement. Nevertheless on the morrow he threw himself with a fine zeal into the task of helping, as had been suggested. But the day waned, and although (as he never failed afterward to remark, when he told the story) he kept his "weather eye open," no "find" appeared. A droop- ing note now began to pervade his cheery whistle. "What if, after all, he had hugged to his heart a mere delusion ?" But a single article remained, that being a cedar chest filled to the brim with Cousin Sarah's bed fur- nishings, including her Rose of Sharon, her Peony, and her log cabin quilts, each rich in county-fair honors, to say nothing of the odors of rose-leaves and lavender: The chest, being large and unwieldy, had been as- signed to the storage-room of the house. In these last hurried days its broad surface had furnished a favorite receptacle for articles that were changing places. At present an old pile of ledgers, representing the business of the "Store" for years past, had found temporary lodgment upon it. These must be moved in order that Cousin Sarah might have her own. David gathered them up one by one in his long arms ; then turned, thinking to place them upon a bureau that stood close at hand. As he. 198 DAVID did so, a part of his load fell to the floor. Stooping to regain these, he observed that a letter had fallen, evidently from between the leaves of one. Picking it up, he was surprised to notice that it was addressed to William MacByrne, and in Uncle John's unmistakable writing, and, strange fact, had not been mailed! David's face brightened. He was about to give a prolonged whistle, but caught himself, and looked guiltily around. Yes; he was alone! Should he open and read? It came to him that if this were what he sought, he should want privacy for the reading, and it would be well if the Professor were present, so he but- toned the precious "find" within his coat, and proceeded about his work. That same evening, in a retired room at the "Beeches," a strangely assorted pair sat in silence over a letter which had just undergone a close scrutiny. The result had been disappointing. It had been found to bear a date of a few weeks after Mr. Bar- nolde's arrival at the Sumner home, and was in reply to one from MacByrne, who had evidently written con- cerning his "woodsmen's needs;" for there was a sen- tence or two which mentioned an inclosure to be used as thought best. Save for a word or two concerning the comfort and satisfaction the writer derived from the companionship of Dorothy (which might be used as showing the friendly relationship between the two), the letter was valueless ; for the writer had then lapsed into a plaint concerning his unhappiness at the death of his wife. As David sat, bowed over in his chair, his arm on 199 DOROTHY the table, toying with the letter, his was indeed a pic- ture of dejection. Suddenly he sat bolt upright, then grasped the let- ter in both hands, and, unmindful of the Professor's presence, of whom ordinarily he stood in wholesome awe, he sprang to the light, turned it on to its fullest extent, then crouched down over the paper, and ex- amined it anxiously. His companion at once scented the unusual, and, coming to his side, demanded to know the occasion of it all. As soon as David could find his voice, he explained that, with a chance shift of his position and a conse- quent different angle of light, it had seemed to him that under certain of the words he had detected the faintest of pencil marks, but that the marks had seemed to dis- appear. "You look," said David, his voice trembling with a feeling he could not control. A microscope was close at hand. The Professor seized it, and soon, under its strong magnifying qual- ities, a strange fact stood revealed. It was indeed true many of the words were underscored, lightly of course, but surely underscored! By whom, and for what purpose? David thought he knew. "Don't you see?" he went on to explain, "before Barnolde could write that disgraceful codicil, he had to have a sample of poor Uncle John's writing, and here, in this letter, he found it quite to his hand, and a nice little sum of money besides." The Professor smiled. "It is always easy to be- lieve that which suits our purpose. Still I believe you 200 DAVID have stumbled on something of value; but Barnolde will not yield without a stubborn fight, and if this matter were in the courts, where it is bound to come, we should need more than a few underscored words to convict him of forgery." "Why are you going so soon?" the Professor asked in surprise; for David had already grasped his some- what battered hat, and was making as if he were about to go. "I kinder thought I 'd saunter around towards the Sumner house and see what kind of a story them old ledgers has got to tell." "But the house is closed," protested the Professor. "Yes mebbe, but the 'Store' ain't likely to be. I '11 just drop in there and accidentally remark that I forgot to tend to something I done bespoke Cousin Sarah I 'd look after. Let me see;" and his look was the least bit quizzical ; "what was it now I promised her? Well, never mind. I '11 remember it, shore, by the time I get there." Whereupon he favored the Professor with such an extraordinary wink that the two might have been regarded as boon conspirators in some matter of state importance. The Professor stood for a moment lost in thought, then he answered gravely: "Come to think of it, those letters I was busy on when you came in should go into the post to-night. I will accompany you." A look of surprise passed over David's face, then changed into satisfaction. The Professor had com- mitted himself! The "Store" was soon reached, and each entered, 201 DOROTHY Intent on their respective errands. Professor William- son's took but a moment, and with its accomplishment t he turned as if homeward bound. But as David, a few moments later in the friendly shadow of the porch, turned the key in the door of the ertswhile friendly kitchen, he was not surprised to hear a familiar voice whisper in his ear, "David, what if we two are mere housebreakers ?" "Wall, mebbe; but better that than heart-breakers." His companion did not think it worth while to argue this question in comparative morals, so in silence the two passed into the familar rooms, up the winding, old-fashioned stairway, and finally into the storage room with its anxiously sought pile of ledgers. They went in perfect security, for David had ad- vertised his errand well. "He had plum' forgot," he had said, "to take keer of a barrel of carpet-rags he had promised Cousin Sarah to take on the morrow to the weaver. They was back in the attic, and unless they was tended to, the rats would have a mighty soft nest." David remembered that the letter that had caused the present search had fallen from one of the newer ledgers, so he turned to these with an anxiety he did not attempt to conceal. "This is the one, I am sure," said he, singling out one. In silence the two men turned its leaves, but not a single scrap of paper rewarded their search. "I fear we have had little foundation for our hopes," Professor Williamson said, a bit cruelly, it seemed to David. 202 DAVID "I tell you there is proofs of that man's wrong doings somewhere, I feel it here!" said David, laying his hand upon his heart. And the Professor, looking, saw with surprise that the man's eyes were full of tears. "You see," he continued, as if in apology for his weakness, "I knowed her father, and and someway I have taken more stock in what honest old MacByrne used to call 'Providence' ever since I 've seen the way that little child has been watched over and keered for through all these years. Now, do you suppose that that same Providence has got tired of His job, and is going to let things run at loose ends this way? No, sir! this thing is sure going to be straightened out. There 's proofs somewhere, and I 'm going to help Providence find them." So saying he seized the innocent ledger, and as though it had been Barnolde himself, he shook it viciously, and, as if to reward his faith, a single sheet of paper fluttered out and on to the floor. Both men stooped to regain it. At first they saw only a sheet of foolscap with random words sprawled over its surface. These words might or might not have been in Uncle John's writing. But David would know no discouragement, so once more he crouched down by the light, and, putting the letter and sheet of paper together, began the study of what he believed to be an enigma of some sort, and that in some way the one was a key to the other. Presently he began to give out a yell that, had not the Professor stopped it with his hand, must have brought all Middletown running. 203 DOROTHY "David, whatever you have found, and may think, make no outcry. No one must know, at least not for the present." "Think ! Humph ! there 's no 'think' about it. Here it is just as plain as day. Here is the 'devil's loophole,' just what we Ve been looking for. Seeing is believing; look!" The Professor looked, and saw what David was excitedly pointing out. The underscored words in the letter and the random ones on the sheet of foolscap were identical! "I believe you are right, and this is important. Let us at once go bak to the 'Beeches' and talk the matter over." Such was the Professor's encouraging response. We are interested only in the outcome of that con- versation which lasted well into the night, and in which David learned of the Professor's own efforts, of the counsel employed. At the name David's eyes opened in surprise. To think one so distinguished had been in Middletown and he had not known ! "It is the counsel's explicit instructions," the Pro- fessor explained, "that all evidence obtained, everything in fact, be kept absolutely to ourselves. So, David, you must say nothing about this to any one. I will immediately confer with Lawyer C . He will, I am sure, place this writing in the hands of an expert. At least he will know better than either of us what course to pursue. Dorothy is already on her journey north; even she must not be disturbed." (David was already planning a long letter.) To all these strange instruction: David gave his 204 DAVID consent; but it was hard, the following morning, to go about as if nothing had happened ; harder still to greet Barnolde, when he shortly returned, with a show of friendship ; but hard, above all, to hold his peace when the Sumner properties began to be widely advertised for sale, and sales announced as consummated, save for the formality of the necessary papers. At this last David again sought the Professor. "Do not worry," said the latter; "the gentleman must be given an opportunity to make plain to a possible jury his intentions." "I see," said David. "You 'low if you give him rope enough he'll hang himself. Is th^t it?" "Something like that, I suppose," was the reply. "But to comfort you I will tell you that to-morrow I expect to file my intention of contesting the will; that will stop the sale of property till the matter is set- tled by the court." 205 CHAPTER XXIII. "VENGEANCE IS MINE" THE weeks following Dorothy's going were weeks of torture to Robert Stirling. That, at the moment of the chance meeting, there had been an appeal in her eyes he could not doubt nor put aside. But why, since her heart was another's, should she appeal to him? Had he been mistaken? Ah! what happiness if this were true! But and he put the new-born hope aside that could not be. Had he not seen? Did he not know? He was often at the Williamsons' now, and, though eye and ear were ever alert, he caught no hint or word that would help solve the troublesome question he was ever considering. However, upon a certain occasion he was destined to learn a certain something which, because of its far- reaching effects upon himself, he would never forget. He had been busy in the Library helping the Professor arrange and tabulate certain references. Many of the larger volumes were, in consequence, out of the shelves, and, at the suggestion of "Mistress Millicent," Aunt Violet was busy doing some cleaning ; not so engrossed, however, but that she took a lively interest in the con- versation of "her bettahs," particularly when it turned upon Barnolde's return, and his evident anxiety to turn the Sumner estate into money. 206 "VENGEANCE IS MINE" This was a subject Robert had to school himself to discuss without feeling. "The worse than thief," he had said in reply to a remark of the Professor's. At this they were surprised by a series of contented chuckles which came from the direction of Aunt Violet, and still more to hear her, in a voice of triumph, declare: "Well, mebbe he' 11 get money. What if he does ? Money ain't everything. He did n't get Miss Dorothy, dat's one ting sho'. Him want a chance to tohment dat po' lam' foh ebber! Him!" and with a contemptu- ous shrug of her broad shoulders she turned yet more zealously to her work. Robert's look of amazed inquiry made an explana- tion necessary. It was given in the fewest words pos- sible. Robert sat in astonished silence. Finally he asked in a choking voice : "Does any one know of this?" "Cousin Sarah, of course," the Professor replied, "and besides her, one other, 'Long David,' as the village people call him. In some manner ( being so much about the house) he learned enough to make him curious. I thought best to tell him all, and enjoin secrecy. For Dorothy's sake we could not have it become village gossip. I must warn Violet." Robert was silent, but it was evident that the work in hand had lost its zest for the worker. The air of the comfortable room had suddenly become stifling; his hands shook as if in an ague. A half hour later he was baring his brow to the searching autumn winds, now whistling through the shady grove. He had not in all his life been so angry. It was 207 DOROTHY well that a certain sallow-faced man did not cross his path, else Middletown must have known another sensa- tion. He was taking himself with rapid strides straight to Long David's unkempt home. He was not yet con- scious of definite plans, only he must get out where he could breathe; to that end he would saddle "Shaggy," then off to the hills ; but first he must talk with David. He had just taken his faithful animal out of the stall when David came out of his own back door, a little precipitately, it must be confessed. "David Johnson !" a shrill, falsetto voice called, "if ye do n't split up that pile of stove-wood, you will get no supper, and I want you to understand that. You 're that trifling " But David had shut off reproof, as he frequently did, by getting out of reach. Just then his eye fell upon Robert, who, pretending not to have heard the domestic fusilade, was finding it uncommonly hard to fasten the girth of "Shaggy's" saddle. David fell to with a will, and soon the animal was ready for the hill scamper, but evidently his master was not. "David," Robert spoke huskily, "you have known of the contents of Barnolde's letter to Dorothy?" David's response was a low whistle. "David," Robert was again speaking, "something has got to be done." "What mout you be thinking of doing?" "That is what you must help decide. One thing: he shall not stay here and breathe the same air she once breathed." 208 "VENGEANCE IS MINE" Again David whistled : "And that is how the land lays, is it?" Robert paled, then flushed. "Never mind. All that I have to say is, something must be done." David pondered a full minute; then, with the least possible backward glance in the direction of his own doorway, he began with a far-off, retrospective air: "I tell ye, I have often thought them old Pilgrim Fathers knowed a thing or two. They was a little severe, mebbe, but there is times any family man will bear me out in this when some of their little schemes their duckin' ponds, for instance would come mighty handy. Of course if such a pleasure party as I am mentioning should happen to come off on a chilly evening like this is going to be, it might be a little un- comfortable. But then we all have our little incon- On a certain evening (how long after the conversa- tion recorded above it would be unbecoming to ask), Mr. Barnolde sat musing by the Sumner fireside. He had now occupied the home for several weeks. He would have promptly acknowledged that it was not the homelike place he had known in other days. The ab- sence of Cousin Sarah's housewifely touch, as well as her heavily laden table, was very evident. As he mused he was not in a jubilant mood. He had held during the afternoon a long conversation with Lawyer Kenge. "It was a bit provoking," he told him- self, "that when everything (barring, of course, a 14 209 DOROTHY certain disappointment) seemed to be moving as he would have it, a cloud should appear that could neither be despised nor overlooked." Professor Williamson had that day given formal notice that, at the next ses- sion of the court, he would contest the validity of the Sumner will, and the battle, which from the first he had planned to avoid, was on. To perfect a line of defense had been the object of his close closeting with Kenge, and he was expecting, as he sat before the fire annoyed with intruding reflections, that gentleman to arrive at any moment, to outline still further a plan of action. Suddenly there was a knock at the door. With much assurance he arose to answer the summons. He saw no dne, but as he peered out wonderingly he was seized, and, before he could cry out, a strong hand was upon his mouth. In a twinkling he had been blind- folded and bound, and in another he was being hurried with scant ceremony down a path, across a street, along a road, and finally over a bridge, which, even in the darkness, he recognized as being one that led to an old mill now in disuse though its deep pond was still a favorite resort in winter for village skaters. "Merciful heavens! was he to be drowned like an entrapped rat?" for his captors had taken him to the water's edge. "If the darkness were only not so dense, chat, in some way, he might discover the identity of his silent assailants!" As if in answer to his thought, the bandage was removed from his eyes; but in the darkness only two weird, shadowy forms, each unrecognizable, greeted his 2IO "VENGEANCE IS MINE" straining vision. Suddenly he felt himself seized, then flung far out into the yielding waters. But when he had thought himself sinking, he was drawn to the shore by a rope, which, in his terror, he had not known was about his body. As he staggered on the bank, trying to rid mouth, eyes, and ears of the water that seemed choking him, a hollow, sepulchral voice called out, "Souse him again !" and again his feet flew into the air, and once more he was struggling in the water; and then it crept into his benumbed brain that this did not mean death, only punishment; and if conscience had not told him for what, he must soon have known, for again the peculiar nasal drawl, with a tantalizing familiar yet elusive ring, called out: "Do n't be skeered friend ! We 're just washing away a little dirt, a little moral dirt mebbe. You '11 be all the better when we 're through. You 'd 'a' liked the bird as well as the nest, would you? Well, friend, it will certainly take another dip to get you in prime con- dition, and then I have my doubts." "Here, it is my turn!" It was a close, tense voice that whispered almost in his ear; and once again the wretched man was hurried to the water's edge, and a hand how strong it was; how sinewy! grasped his throat. He tried to cry out, but the sound died away. He tried to beg, but tighter grew the merciless fingers. This was not mere punishment, this could mean only death. He sank to the ground, the world reeled, he knew no more ! "Thou shalt not kill !" He of the merciless fingers paused. Had some one actually spoken? The voice 211 DOROTHY had seemed so near! Again, "Thou shalt not kill ;" but this timely command came as a whisper on the evening breeze. "Kill?" O no! He had not meant to kill, that would mean murder! The ringers loosed in terror at the thought. What if the man were already dead ? Ah ! the unspeakable horror of the thought ! Only the reprieved have known such joy as was his a few moments later when he whom he so despised slowly staggered to his feet, a pitiable, shrinking, yet a living man. "It is enough, it is more than enough," he said to his companion ; "let us be going." "My friend," the sepulchral voice was again speak- ing, "you might as well understand, first as last, that it 's never goin' to be very healthy for you in this neck of the woods. Take the advice of one who means well, and clear out." At this the men, whoever they were, disappeared, and, though nearer dead than alive, Barnolde, unbound, made his way slowly and painfully back to the Sumner home, where Kenge had been awaiting him. How, upon his arrival, there were questions and counter-questions ; how Kenge paced the floor and called for immediate vengeance ; how Barnolde himself cow- ered through it all, fearing, trembling, with a dread he dared not name, all this is better imagined than told. The public was never taken into the confidence of either, but it learned a day or two later that their "honored citizen" had received another imperative sum- mons home, and that his entire business was, for the present, in the hands of lawyer Kenge. 212 "VENGEANCE IS MINE" On that self-same evening, even while lawyer and client planned, a solitary figure might have been seen slowly journeying along a lonely road that wound in and out among the hills. If appearances might count, the traveler was in a deep state of dejection. His head rested upon his breast, and his hands hung wearily at his side, scarcely touching the bridle-rein of the ani- mal that carried him. "A murderer," he muttered again, and again. "Yes, murder was in my heart. Another minute and all would have been over." He shuddered, then in an agony of self-condemnation he touched the rein; then, scarce knowing what he did, he slid to the ground. A great stone was by the roadside; upon this he sank, and while he sat, a strange thing happened. A face (even in the darkness) came close to his, and eyes that sorrowed looked into his own. He caught himself wondering if MacByrne was actually present in the flesh. Then it came to him that it had been the God whom that true friend so faithfully served had interposed to save him from the effects of his wicked hate. With this revelation there was another. He saw his heart as he had not before seen it, full of hopes, dreams, ambitions, for not one of which he had thought it worth while to ask guidance. Since the new view of himself and of his weaknesses, could he, dare he, attempt to live his life in his own strength ? It was a strange altar at which this old battle of a soul was now about to be fought. The night-winds swept through the murmuring pines on the hillside. The widening creek sang its own blithe song, as intent 213 DOROTHY upon its mission it leaped from rock to rock. The stars came out, and looked down, as perhaps they had looked on that other night in Gethsemane; but finally, as the first beams of the morning sun crept in among the hills, the youth arose ; a new light shone in his face. Hence- forth the world would have no temptation that would swerve him from the service he had chosen. 214 CHAPTER XXIV. HUNTED FOUND SPRING at length drew near; and with it the long anticipated "court week," during which the validity of the "Sumner will" was to be contested. This same will had been, through the long winter, a fruitful topic for discussion, not only in homes, but in all places of chance meeting throughout the county. It had even intruded itself into the "half hour" most planned to allow themselves before "preaching." As for "quiltings" and "apple-parings," these had become mere debating societies where the right and wrong of the question at issue was argued with more or less wa'rmth. Sympathy for Dorothy was by no means the occasion for this widespread interest. It lay rather in that proverbial love of Americans for fair play. If the Reverend Mr. Barnolde had a "case," they wanted to know it ; and if, as the opposition had taken it upon themselves to prove, there had been "fraud," they wanted that established beyond cavil. "Guess we will lay off for a spell, and see how it comes out," was the decision as the week approached in homes all over the county; a decision wonderfully strengthened when it was learned that the most distin- guished member of Congress the State boasted whose 215 DOROTHY mere name caused a thrill of State pride was to be present and conduct the contestant's case. It became really a matter of patriotism to be pres- ent: There had been considerable speculation whether Kenge would be alone in looking after his client's interests. This was set at rest on the day preceding the trial by the arrival of a small, wiry, thin-featured man, whose sharp, ferrety, black eyes snapped and glinted, as with one contemptuous sweep they took in the simple surroundings, and with scant courtesy ensconced himself in the best room in the tavern, which, it came out, had been reserved for him for weeks. Middletown scarce dared draw its breath, for the name sprawled over the tavern register was that of the Honorable Jeremiah Flint; a name quite as noted, in its own way, as was that of the opposing counsel. It was openly boasted that no man had cleared so many criminals as he. His one question, when consider- ing the acceptance of a case, was said to be, "How much is there in it?" the "much" having no refer- ence whatever to such paltry questions as mere law, or even justice. The reply being satisfactory, he threw himself into its conduct with a zeal that seldom failed of success. He had his own methods of procedure, browbeating and intimidation of witnesses being chief. Professor Williamson looked grave. How would the witnesses upon whose testimony they must largely depend, endure the withering sarcasm sure to be heaped upon them? For instance, there was "Joe," honest to the core, but by no means worldly-wise. What if he were to fail in his story of Barnolde's successful 2l6 HUNTED FOUND ingratiating of himself into the business of the "Store?" There was also Cousin Sarah, the boundaries of whose world did not lie far beyond Middletown ; and David, who had lived for the hour when, the last restraint removed, he might tell of his "suspicions," of his search among the ledgers, and of his precious "find." But "thrice armed is he who hath his quarrel just." Remembering this, the Professor took courage, for each step of the investigations had shown how just that cause he had espoused. The question of a jury proved troublesome. At the last it was still found to be made up largely of "new" people, whose sympathies were with the defendant. The Honorable Mr. Flint had his own original method of conducting a trial. He liked to place his own wit- nesses on the stand first, and draw from them his case as he wanted it to appear. As the opposing witnesses were called, he would take care to see that their testi- mony was rendered worthless. At the close, it was his habit to gather the various points together, and weave them into a vituperative speech, which he would "fling" at the heads of the jury. In case the "opposition" rallied and attempted a counter argument, he kept a reserve of vitriol on which to draw. Kenge was delegated to make the overtures to Law- yer C , asking that, in the present case, the usual order of procedure be reversed, and the witnesses of the "defense" be called first. To their surprise, ready consent was given. In fact, nothing could have suited the prosecution so well. By this unlooked-for arrange- ment Barnolde's entire line of defense would be 2I 7 DOROTHY revealed. As for the Honorable Jeremiah's vitriol, Lawyer C did not fear it. Indeed, it was hinted he had a supply of his own. Barnolde was the first to be sworn Barnolde, look- ing very sleek and exceedingly well groomed. In a clear and succinct manner he told of his acquaintance with John Sumner. "Will you tell the Court," it was Lawyer Flint who asked, "why you remained a guest at the Sumner home when a tavern was so near at hand?" Barnolde hesitated, as if taken unawares. There were many who believed this to be true. Finally he lifted his head, and in a deprecatory manner, as if loath to lay bare family secrets, began to make answer. As the hesitating words fell from his lips, the picture they drew of a lonely old man, clinging with eagerness to a sympathetic stranger was exceed- ingly pathetic. "He was always left to himself;" so ran the testi- mony of Barnolde; "the housekeeper" Cousin Sarah insensibly straightened "was always busy, and had no time to spare for an invalid, so the kind-hearted, old man was left quite to his own resources. The situa- tion so appealed to me that I sought to arouse him, to interest him; and so," he added modestly, "he grew to depend upon me, and when I desired to leave he insisted that I remain." "Where, pray, was the young girl I have been told called him father?" asked his counsel with an unmistak- able sneer. Barnolde again paused ; it would seem his very soul 2l8 HUNTED FOUND was wrung with the unwelcome truths he was being forced to utter. "Always gone, always interested with something outside the home, usually at the 'Beeches.' " "A peculiarly loving daughter, I must say," sneered the questioner. "Once more," he continued, "where was this affectionate young lady on the day of her father's death?" "Picnicking. She left almost at daybreak for a pleasure trip up in the hills, in company, of course, with her friends at the 'Beeches.' " "The 'Beeches'? the 'Beeches'?" Flint appeared to be in thought. "Ah, I have it now. The fanciful name for the home of the gentleman who has shown such an interest in the distribution of the 'savings' of the neglected old man." There was a rustle in the audience. It was easy to see that the venomous shaft had struck, and Profes- sor Williamson, sitting in a near-by seat, felt the eyes of the entire audience turned towards him, and realized that his motives were being critically weighed. "May I ask," it was Senator C who spoke, "did the bequest of John Sumner, making you his legatee, come as a surprise, or had you known of the intention? Will you kindly inform the Court?" Barnolde waited a full minute before answering; :then said : "I will answer that I did not fully know, but I may add that I found, even in my first acquaintance with him, that he possessed a rarely philanthropic spirit. His heart yearned for humanity. He was so much alone in his family that it was a gratification to him to 219 DOROTHY confide these yearnings to me, though a stranger. This he often did. He was exceedingly loyal to Middletown, and took a great pride in its future a future he had done much to secure and wanted, with all his heart, to leave a monument of some kind which should at once keep his memory green and bless his townsmen. He had many plans in his heart, but seemed most to favor the one afterwards outlined in his will. He asked me more than once to assume such a trust. I hesitated on account of the time necessary and the work in- volved." "Let us understand the matter. Do you declare you did not know of the trust before the man's death?" "I object," snapped Lawyer Flint. "I insist on an answer," continued Senator C . "Sit down," commanded Flint, and Barnolde sat down, the question only answered by inference. Kenge was the next called. It was his to tell of the writing of the will. This having been done, he testified, in his office on a certain date, in accordance with the wishes of the testator: who, he declared, closely scruti- nized each sentence before affixing his signature. All of which would be attested to by the witnesses in their course. "Was John Sumner alone with you at the time of the writing?" It was the opposing counsel who asked. Kenge unhesitatingly made answer. "He was, save for the presence of the witnessing clerk." "The will bears the date July I3th, I believe?" "It does;" and Kenge grew a little uncomfortable. 2 2O HUNTED FOUND "At what hour of the day did I understand you to say the document was written?" "I do not exactly remember as to the hour." "In the forenoon or afternoon?" insisted the ques- tioner. There was a pause and then came the answer, "In the forenoon." "And you affirm that Mr. Barnolde was not present at the writing, knew nothing of it ?" "I object," inerrupted Flint, who, not knowing to what the questions were tending, was growing nervous. Following the objection a little breeze sprang up as to certain legal technicalities, which was settled by the Judge allowing the question to stand. "I await my answer," quietly insisted Senator "He was not." And now there was a note of defi- ance in Kenge's reply. "Very well ; that is all," the questioner made reply. It is the unknown that terrifies, and in their anxiety as to what use was meant to be made of the admission obtained, both Kenge and Flint suffered their first apprehensions. By the time the defense had brought forth its remaining witnesses (most of them new people), who, from their angle of observation, testified to the sound- ness of the testator's mind, and of the disinterestedness of Mr. Barnolde's friendship for the same, the first day was quite spent. With the adjournment of court, it would have taken a wise prophet to have foretold the final result. 221 DOROTHY The preliminaries over on the second morning, and the eager crowd in its place, Professor Williamson took the stand. "Will you tell the Court what you know concerning the last day of this man's life?" It was his counsel who asked. In a few words he told of the plans for the day's innocent outing; of the start home; of the hurrying messenger who met them; of the appeal to himself in the dying man's eyes ; of the half-articulated request for writing material, and of Barnolde's intrusion of him- self at the last moment. "Will you further tell the Court of your belief of what lay back of that appeal ?" In an instant the Honorable Jeremiah had sprung to his feet. "Belief! Belief!" he shouted. "May it please your Honor, this Court can have nothing to do with a man's beliefs. We want facts ; we will listen to nothing but facts. I insist that if the gentleman has told all he knows and must now deal in fancies, that he sit down. I appeal to your Honor, must we now be deluged with fancies?" "I sustain the appeal," the Judge slowly made an- swer. Lawyer C was at once on the floor: "The gentleman has asked for facts; I consider the present an opportune moment fully to gratify that desire. "Honorable Judge and Gentlemen of the Jury: Going back, as we must, to the bedside of the dying man whose will we are considering, I state it as a fact known to each one present, that, not infrequently 222 HUNTED FOUND before the passing of a soul, through the mercy of God a clearance of vision is vouchsafed. We shall prove such a clearance came to John Sumner, and that in the last moment he realized, and sought to right the wrong he had committed. For we concede that, led by a will stronger than his own failing one, he affixed his name to the main part of the document in question, having (as we shall prove) no just conception of the matters involved. We shall also prove that he was not alone, but that Mr. Barnolde was not only present, but aided by Mr. Kenge dictated each false word. "As the Honorable Counsel is anxious for facts, we shall establish a further one, that, from the first fate- ful hour of his entrance into the Sumner home, he systematically sought to alienate the failing man from those of his own household, and to enlist his sympathies in that scheme now before the citizens of this town. And I further charge and I crave your closest atten- tion that if the Sumner estate had been permitted to be turned into money, Henry Barnolde would to-day be miles away. Not one moment did he expect to carry out the wishes of the testator. As for the codicil, that added insult to the object of John Sumner's tenderest love, I now charge it as a forgery, each word written by the man who sits yonder." Certainly never were words so foolhardy unless the fullest proofs were at hand. As Lawyer C concluded, that nonchalance, which had amounted to indifference, disappeared from the face of the accused man, and the Honorable Jeremiah became a raging terror. Woe to the next witness, unless that witness 223 DOROTHY were well poised, and woe to the prosecution if she were not ; for the one now promising to tell the "whole truth" is Cousin Sarah. A word concerning this important witness seems necessary. She was a quiet woman of few words, but of ready sympathy, and possessed of that executive ability which in any community makes its possessor at once a marked as well as a useful person. Following the death of her husband she had managed the farm it lay near the village with such success that it became an object lesson to her neighbors. Friends had marveled that she had been willing, in the midst of this, to assume the care of the Sumner home. But so well had she performed her self-imposed task that the home had scarcely known a break, and certainly neither man nor maiden a lack. But one can not be sure of the depths of those quiet, duty-doing people. There is a proverb that avers "Still waters run deep," and adds the sage reflection that "His Satanic Majesty is apt to be found at the bottom." The proverb was about to be exemplified ! She had arisen to give her testimony, smothering a very maelstrom of indignation. This had begun in the con- temptuous reference to her as "the housekeeper." It had grown as she had listened to the shameless insinua- tions of her own and Dorothy's neglect. But Lawyer C was a skillful questioner, and under his guid- ance she shortly began showing the love and sympathy that had existed in the family until the stranger's coming. 224 HUNTED FOUND This would never do; so, with a bound, the Hon- orable Jeremiah sprang quite in front of her, and shak- ing his fist directly in her face shouted : "Woman alas for the shame of it! you, too, have joined in the lies being uttered. All for the purpose of defeating the wishes of a neglected old man, who, by all accounts, was greatly better than they who fattened on his bounty! "Something has been said," he continued, scornfully, "about God. Woman," and his livid, dis- torted face was quite close to hers. "Tell the truth the truth, I say lest that same God make an example of you, as He did of your kinswoman, Mistress Sap- phira." A murmur of indignation went around the room. A half dozen men sprang to their feet, ready to champion the insulted woman. But what was she her- self doing? Certainly not cringing, nor yet weeping, as Flint had seen- scores do under such assaults. With head thrown slightly back, with set lips, and eyes that shone, she was advancing steadily upon the Honorable Jeremiah; and he is it true that bullies are inherent cowards? he was retreating before her, until he stood quite by the wondering jury. As she approached her long, sinewy fingers clutched and unclutched, until the Honorable Jeremiah had an uncomfortable sensation at his throat. But what was her purpose ? "I lie, do I?" She was looking quite into her ac- cuser's eyes. "You are mistaken. Not but what there has been plenty of lying done. But you, sir, and he, and he," pointing to Barnolde and Kenge, "in turn, are the 15 225 DOROTHY guilty ones. Do you understand ? Do I make it plain ? Mistress Sapphira, indeed!" How much she might have said will not be known, for Lawyer C , seeing her overwrought condition, came forward and (as if she had finished her testi- mony) said with the utmost courtesy, "That will do, madam;" then, with great dignity, he led the trembling woman to Ger seat. As he did so the room broke into prolonged applause. "No demonstrations, please; no demonstrations!" This from the judge, and the incident was closed. There were yet, as Long David knew, several wit- nesses to be examined before his turn, but at this junc- ture he " 'lowed" to himself he "did n't care if there was a dozen, he had to get out where he could breathe ;" so he made his way down the crowded aisle, and finally into the open. Once outside, his face underwent a series of the most wonderful contortions. Then he doubled himself together as if in pain ; finally a whole scale of chuckles smote the air, among which might be caught certain sentences: "Spunk! Grit clear through! Who'd 'a' thought it? Good for Cousin Sarah!" Still in this mood, he reached the porch of the tavern, an objective point all the while. As he placed his foot upon the first of the steps he observed that a couple of strangers had preceded him, and were already comfortable upon one of the settees. A stranger was always a source of immediate inter- est to David, owing to the infinite possibilities of giving and receiving information, either process being equally 226 HUNTED FOUND pleasant; so, in a few minutes, he had brushed aside the occurrences of the court-room, and was engaged in a delightful game of "give and take." The conversation had been begun by the strangers asking David how long he had lived in these parts. Upon receiving his reply there had followed a series of such skillfully put questions that David did not suspect he was giving a remarkably succinct history of the village, old and new. "Suppose you have a lot of strangers drop in?" one at length casually remarked. "Strangers! Humph! It seems to me there ain't nobody but strangers any more." "Did you ever happen to know among the new- comers a quiet, gentlemanly fellow answering to the name of Arnold? Henry Arnold?" One skilled in watching countenances must have noticed that, though the question was carelessly put, the eyes of the questioner bespoke eagerness. David's answer was a bit delayed. "Gentlemanly chaps a-plenty/' he finally said, "but no Arnold as I knows on, and I guess I would a* knowed." But David was now rested, and he suddenly re- membered that he might be missing much over at the "court," so he arose to go, remarking as he did so, "Yes, gentlemanly chaps a-plenty, and one of them is having a trial over at the new court-house. By the way, strangers, seats is free. You might as well drop in a spell." 227 DOROTHY "Don't know but what we will," one replied. "But tell us first all about it." "It is only a few steps to the court-room, gentle- men, so there is no time to go into details, but it is a plum' case of forgery, stealing, and a lot of other meanness thrown in. Big guns are arguing on both sides. It '11 pay to drop in." When they had reached the building the doctor was giving his testimony. David was at once interested; but feeling himself a sort of host to the men who had accompanied him, he was at some pains to show them a seat. There was a little stir as feet were awkwardly shuffled to make room for the newcomers. Hearing which, Barnolde slowly turned his head, which, until the moment, had been resting in his hands. The truth is, he was wishing himself well out of it all. He would never have undertaken the game had he thought such an ado would be made about it. A half smile played over his face : "How easy it would be to disappear, and leave the entire company, Flint included, to settle the matter as they choose!" By this time his face was turned half expectantly towards the door. "Only that lout, Long David, half mountebank, half fool," was his comment to himself, and then his eyes fell upon the two men David had just shown to a seat. Their eyes met his, and demanded recognition. A shiver ran through his frame, and an ashy pallor crept 228 HUNTED FOUND over his face; though none save the three guessed the secret: Hunted and hunter had at last met! As for the hunted? After that first choking mo- ment of recognition, there came a thought : he had out- witted men before; might he not again? There was an empty room back of the jury. If he could reach that and its open window, all would be well. There were horses tied about the "square," and "The Knobs," but a few miles away, would soon swallow him up. At any rate it was worth trying. Presently he arose (having remarked to his counsel) that he would step out for a breath of air. With that he carefully threaded his way among the witnesses. As he approached the room, un- consciously he quickened his steps, and was just passing through its door when a strong arm was laid on his, and a voice whispered, "Will you come quietly?" He might have done so, but at that instant the impatient neighing of a horse that had perhaps waited too long for his master was wafted through the open windows, and with it the laughter of some children at play. Ah ! now that he was about to lose it, how sweet was liberty, how sweet was life! He shook off the detaining hand, and with a bound reached the open window; but once there, he found himself struggling with two men instead of one. "It is no use; the hunt is over," a tense voice whis- pered. He stood for a moment, then swayed limply. In another a pair of hands held him as in a vise. Though this had happened quietly, those nearest the door 229 DOROTHY realized that a struggle of some sort was in progress. A few crowded to the door. Others followed. One of the men made his way forward until he stood quite in front of the surprised judge, and then he called out in a clear, authoritative voice: "May it please your Honor, I hereby present to you requisition papers duly signed by your governor, and in the name of the Com- monwealth of New Jersey I arrest Henry Arnold, alias Henry Barnolde, on the several charges of embezzle- ment, arson, and murder." Then ensued a scene which falls to the lot of few to witness. Men sprang upon chairs, and demanded to know what it all meant. Women without number screamed, and several fainted outright. Improvised litters tried in vain to make their way to the windows through the surging crowds. Trusty farm-dogs, until the moment curled in peaceful dreams at their mas- ters' feet, were trampled upon, and added their howls to the growing confusion, while high over all sounded a fervent, rich voice : "Bress de Lawd ; bress, I say, de good Lawd !" From which it would appear even Aunt Violet had thought it worth while to "lay off and see how it was a goin' to come out." Her weird outburst did more to avert the threat- ened panic than the imperative rapping of the judge. But a further session of the court was impossible; so, with order restored, it was dismissed for the day. Aunt Violet, already out of doors, was hastening through the woodland, intent on reaching her own back door. Her head was thrown back, and a rapt look 230 HUNTED FOUND overspread her shining face. Presently she began to im- provise : " O, it' s mighty nigh to de golden gate, And de road ain't rough, and its powerful straight, And Satan's cotched, and his chance is slim, And bress de Lawd ouah lamp is trim." At the court-room Long David was the man of con- sequence. With his voice quivering with excitement and importance he told to each batch of new listeners "the straight" of the whole matter. We ourselves, being anxious to know, can do no better than listen. It appeared that the accused had held a responsible position in a charitable institution in the State that had demanded his return. He had em- bezzled funds belonging to the same, and as one crime never fails to lead to another, fearing detection he had stealthily set fire to the building, and six of the unfortu- nate inmates had been burned to death. Can a man escape the consequences of guilt? His- tory, and a score of instances that escape the historian, make answer, no. Circumstances began to point to him as the guilty man, and as the net had begun to close about him he fled, and since officers of justice had sought him far and wide. So much David knew, and it goes without saying, so much David told. If it be wondered how David, even with his pen- chant for news, had learned so much, it may be added that he always insisted that he noticed a queer look pass over the faces of the strangers the minute they laid eyes on Barnolde, and he 'd kept his eyes on them, 231 DOROTHY a-saying to himself, "Would n't it be odd, now, if the Reverend Mr. Barnolde should turn out to be the gentlemanly chap they was a-lookin' for." 'Of course, he was among the first to note the dis- turbance at the door, and the first to arrive on the scene. During their talk with him on the tavern porch the men had readily sized him up as to his honesty, so at a sign from them he had gravely fallen in line, and had thus semi-officially seen Barnolde placed in a cell to await the train which would bear him back to justice, and out of this story. The judge was now inclined to throw the case out of court; but Lawyer C insisted that it be heard to the end; for although Barnolde (as the people still called him) might be a villain, he might still be the owner of the Sumner estate. So all evidence was introduced as planned, even to the chance leaf of foolscap, with its random words sup- plemented by the sworn testimony of an expert that the writing was Barnolde's own and the codicil the work of that miscreant. Finally Lawyer C wove together in a speech, which was listened to with hushed attention, the whole weird tale. The opposing counsel made no reply, for the very good reason that he had already left the village, more chagrined than he had ever been in all his shameless life. There had also been some hurried packing down in Kenge's office. In some manner it had been borne in 232 HUNTED FOUND on that gentleman's mind that Middletown was a very poor location from a professional point of view, and it would be as well if he were to leave before the people contested his right to do so. It is the privilege of juries to serve surprises. The present proved no exception, for on the ,slip handed the judge were the words, "We find that Sarah Gray- son, cousin of the deceased, and Dorothy Sumner are the joint heirs to the Sumner estate. We recommend that they make their own division." Middletown drew its breath, and then declared "the jury is right;" then began to picture the ovation Dorothy would receive upon her return. And there was no small disappointment when it was learned that, "being happy and contented with her work, she pre- ferred to remain." However, this was lost sight of in the announce- ment that the "twenty-acre pasture," erstwhile site of the visionary "Home," had been given as a location for a new building for the seminary, more and more a source of pride, and of unconscious culture as well, to the little community. That the greatly needed building might not be slow in coming, Cousin Sarah, with something of her kins- man's generosity, set the ball rolling with a generous subscription. Dorothy, from her distance, added her share from that which was now legally hers. So it appeared that, after all, he that was dead was yet to live in countless blessings on many. 233 DOROTHY The shuttle in the life-web of the little town in which we have been lingering flies faster and faster. As we have left Dorothy, so we must leave her home. Communities, like individuals, have their character- istics. Some are quick to discover and take advantage of that "tide which, taken at the flood, leads on to for- tune." At this juncture in the life of Middletown there are those who maintain that this last is peculiarly a trait of the growing town, and that even so small a space of time as a mere five years will witness a won- derful change. We bide our time. Perhaps we shall see not only this, but the outcome of certain other matters that con- cern us even more. 234 PART II "The lives which seem so poor, so low. The hearts, which are so cramped and dull; The baffled hopes, the impulse slow, Thou takest, touches! all, and lo ! They blossom to the beautiful." SUSAN COOLJDGE. Part H CHAPTER XXV. AFTER FIVE YEARS-A RESUME THE hurrying years had been, according to proph- ecy, rich in events for Middletown. The most san- guine of its friends had not hoped so much. Besides the honor of a place on the map of the State, it had attained to special mention as a manufac- turing point of importance. This last had its begin- ning in that fragment of rock which, it will be recalled, Robert Stirling had, one long-ago day, torn savagely from its resting-place of the centuries. The assay had shown that the geological eye of the "circuit preacher" had not been at fault; it being rich in the silicates of aluminum and lime, and, on being treated by the same processes with which the "preacher" had been familiar, yielded a cement equal in quality. There is always unemployed capital awaiting profit- able investment; so, shortly following the analysis, the young town, already used to surprises, heard without a tremor that a company had been organized to manufac- ture the cement, that a building for the purpose would at once be erected, and machinery put in place, first for crushing the plentiful rock, and also for the further pro- 237 DOROTHY cesses required ; as a consequence, each spur of the once despised "Knobs" had an emphatic and growing mone- tary value. To not an owner of any one of these rocky, pine- covered acres was this happy change so welcome as to Robert Stirling. From that day when, fresh from the fastnesses of these same hills, he had stood in the little, improvised schoolroom, in undisguised admiration be- fore the first skeleton he had seen, he had known but one ambition, that being to familiarize himself with the human body, even as a jeweler is familiar with a watch, and to make himself master of its diseases. The welcome change in values brought him the necessary funds for carrying out this desire ; so for three out of the five years that have elapsed in the history of Middletown he has been a student at a medical college. The little mother had accompanied him. He was her all, and there was no reason why they should be sepa- rated. A few rooms had been secured, and in these she made a home for him, whom, in her secret mother pride, she sometimes called "her gift to the world." Before leaving the village (though perhaps it were better to say city) Robert had gone on a special errand to the "Beeches," and having sought out Aunt Violet, said to her jestingly: "Auntie, I am going away. Cheer up ; your 'rheumatics' will have to surrender, for, once through with my studies, I am coming back, and I shall be able to cure every ill but poverty; and the people will be so well there will be little of that. But in the meantime I have a favor to ask of you." Aunt Violet was at once all attention, for this broad- 238 AFTER FIVE YEARS A RESUME shouldered young man had grown next in favor "to her own chile, Marsa Clay." "Mother is going with me," he continued. "Mis- tress Millicent understands her affection for our old chest of drawers ; we can not conveniently take it with us" a reminiscent smile hovered about his mouth ; he was recalling its trip northward "will you not under- take to stow it away for us where it will not be in the way, and yet can be cared for?" Aunt Violet was, of course, all complaisance; but it was "Mis' Millicent" that, hearing of the proffered request, gave the beautiful old bit of furniture a corner in her own room, and took it as her preferred task to see that its satiny surface lost none of its polish. The promised "new building" for the growing semi- nary had been early completed, and the "pasture," now set with trees and laid out in walks, made an ideal campus. Throngs of students now came, not only from the surrounding country, but from more dis- tant parts of the State. The Professor, as he was still called, no longer taught, but he would never allow him- self to become so busy that he could not counsel, could not direct. Upon the erection of the building and its opening to students, a new question had presented itself, that being to provide a home for the many young men who thronged its halls. After a long conversation between Cousin Sarah and Professor Williamson, this question had a happy solution. Since Dorothy's going life had proven for her very lonely, as the Professor knew. She was in- 239 DOROTHY duced to return to Middletown, and soon the hospitable doors of the old "Sumner home" itself were enlarged and remodeled, and were opened to young men in at- tendance at the seminary. Not all actual mothers of children are mothers at heart, and, conversely, many a woman upon whose breast no cooing babe has lain, or about whose brood- ing face no aimless baby hand has strayed, is strong in mother love. The Professor, quick to grasp heart secrets, had caught the truth that "denied motherhood" had been the mainspring of this woman's entire life. Though not given to demonstration, her heart knew a tender- ness that brooded over and found its happiness in caring for the sick, the helpless, the young. Happy the students to whom she had been per- suaded to minister! Their hopes, their aims, their am- bitions, became her own. The townspeople still called her "Cousin Sarah;" but one day, as she stood by a bed, wringing out hot flannels and tucking them around the ailing throat of a boy, who was fighting an attack of tonsilitis, he looked into her face, and whispered the words, "Mother Sarah." The fitness of the name was so apparent from that hour, she became "Mother" to the entire body of students, whether they were fortu- nate enough or not to come under her immediate care. In the early days of this, her :econd occupancy of the Sumner home, Mrs. David dropped in frequently as "day helper," not, however, without an awesome air; for the memory of "the Honorable Jeremiah's" undoing was yet a favorite one with David, who was wont to 240 AFTER FIVE YEARS A RESUMfi declare, "I tell you there 's spunk there, clear spunk," adding warningly, "Better be careful how you rile her!" But the two got on amicably, and out of the partner- ship (for It amounted to that) an unexpected result flowed. Cousin Sarah was neat, capable, a "model" house- wife; Mrs. David was, by common consent, "slack;" but did ever "slackness" meet thrift that it did not hide its head abashed ? Seeing Cousin Sarah's orderly habits, Mrs. David began unconsciously to adopt them, and her own home insensibly took on greater cheer. Her youngest child, on the score of convenience, usually accompanied her when she was "helping." On one such occasion she came suddenly upon Cousin Sarah carefully washing and scrubbing the silent child, who was too overawed to remonstrate. The mother was herself surprised at the "well-favored" child that came out of the ordeal. The object lesson did not need repe- tition. At another time, being summoned to her daily work, she found her employer in the sewing-room, with flan- nels and stout ginghams before her. Wondering, she looked at the silent woman for an explanation. "We will make your little folks some warm clothes to-day," was the laconic reply. The plain woman "directing all this helping" would no doubt have been surprised had she known that an- other generation would adopt practically the same meth- ods, but give them the higher sounding name of "Settle- ment work." On a certain morning Mrs. David came to her day's 16 241 DOROTHY duties, very much "out" with her husband, though this was by no means unusual. During the forenoon (per- haps with a dim notion of making peace) that individ- ual shambled into the immaculate kitchen, and made as if he would warm himself by the hospitable stove. Presently he addressed a casual remark to his wife, busy near by, but his overtures were met by a sniff of con- tempt. Cousin Sarah heard, and drew her lips together ominously, the little gray knot of hair on the back of her head quivering visibly. Clearly its owner was dis- turbed. David was quick to observe this; fearing the result he soon slunk away. No sooner was he gone than Cousin Sarah began to unburden herself: "You ought not to have answered David that way. That's no way to help, and I tell you a wife's main business, whatever kind of man she has got, is to help. Why, God took pains to say in the very start, when he set about making a woman, that He was just merely making a 'help mate' for the man He had been busy with." "But He never done it," interrupted Mrs. David, who knew her Bible quite as. well as she that was re- proving, "till He 'd found out that His precious 'man' was a-goin' to be a plumb failure unless something was done for him. And that 's what more 'n half the men are, to this day." "I know David tries you," Cousin Sarah responded, more gently. "I know he likes to talk better 'n he likes to work; but, bless you! he is not the only one that 's troubled that way. But he is not all bad. He 's got a good heart ; besides he 's got sense, and I 242 AFTER FIVE YEARS A RESUM& tell you the longer I live the more I see, real sense is scarce! Seems to me it would be a good plan, seeing as you and he has got to put up with each other, that, as everything else around little old Middletown is a-picking up 'improving,' they call it that you might help David ketch the fever." It was the longest speech Cousin Sarah had ever made, and she felt a little ashamed at its close. She would have been surprised, however, had she known how closely her chance shot had struck the source of contention between David and his wife. The truth was, he had that morning confided to her a cherished ambition and she had met the advance, not with sym- pathy, but ridicule. He had retaliated with bitter words, and so the trouble had grown. She was so unusually quiet as she went about her tasks through the day, that Cousin Sarah was sure she had hopelessly offended her ; but such was by no means the case. That night, after the children were safely in bed, Mrs. David still lingered. Had her husband been at all "observing," he must have suspected that something unusual was agitating the mind of his spouse, who lin- gered an unaccountable time, about the little stove. Finally she arose and came closer to where he sat. David started " 'most out of his boots" as a gentle hand touched his shoulder, and a voice, from which all raspi- ness had vanished, said, "David, I have thought it all over, and I I guess I was wrong, and I believe, if I were you, I 'd try;" adding, "It wouldn't hurt noth- ing, noway." 243 DOROTHY A long, earnest conversation followed, and at its close two hearts were closer together than they had been since that far-away blissful "moon" of time, much laughed at by smart paragraphers, yet given to all, great and humble alike, to whisper of a lost Eden and of a coming Paradise. The children looked on in wonder the next morn- ing, for the father did not need to be called; even the surprised stove glowed in unusual heat at his unwonted ministrations. A few hours later he was nervously crossing the woodland, and then, hat in hand as we have seen him once before he was knocking at the door of the "Beeches." Once more the Professor shows him into the library, and once more David asks advice, this time about a matter wholly personal. The truth is (though David will not tell it all), since that hour when he walked in semi-official capacity by the side of the two officers, and had seen the key turned upon Barnolde, he had himself yearned to exe- cute that kind of authority. His comprehensive eye took in approvingly each detail of the spick-and-span new jail, as well as the comfortable "sheriff's home" near-by, and he said to himself, even in that moment, "Ah! if I were only master here!" and it was this aspiration he was coming to lay before the Professor. If that true friend were to pronounce him presumptu- ous well, he would be disappointed, but he would say no more; but if he should approve why, they were about nominating a sheriff, and he would "try to see what could be done." 244 AFTER FIVE YEARS A RESUME The Professor listened, not only patiently but with interest, looking the political aspirant over from the heavy shock of long hair down to the pair of boots w-holly innocent of polish, a smile meanwhile hovering about his mobile lips, "Yes, why not?" he was saying to himself. There were certain fundamental qualities necessary for one who would undertake a public trust ; such as honor, honesty, and courage. Certainly David Johnson lacked in none of these. As for those other supposed essentials, he was probably as rich in these as any who might be selected ; for the location of the court-house had called into existence a whole brood of petty office-seekers. "Why, yes," David as in a dream heard him say, "that would be fine; I can see no objections whatever;" adding yet more kindly, "If you would like, I will speak to Squire Hubbard myself." He did speak to the Squire, and the Squire, quite pleased with the suggestion, spoke to a few others deep in political secrets. There must have been effectual work done ; for the nominating convention was but a few days off, and when it had come and gone, and the public turned to the ticket at the proper place, they read, "For Sheriff David Johnson." One ambition had been gratified; David in his heart confessed another, that being to make his majority the largest any candidate in "Old Winfield" had ever known. As a preliminary to that end he mapped out for himself an "Itinerary" that included each cross-roads, even each farm-house in the county; nor did he despise 245 DOROTHY to an extent the furbishings of the tailor, and, with the new purpose that shone in his eyes and lent spring to his limbs, he seemed at last to have come into his own. Sometimes he "dropped" into a farm-house sus- piciously near the noon hour, and the good wife, hav- ing been busy with her work, would offer apology per- haps for the appearance of her children. He would wave her off with a knowing and friendly air: "Never mind, never mind. Why, bless you, we Ve regular 'stairsteps' at home. Can't tell me anything about children." He had such a "taking way" with the little folks, could tell such wonderful stories, and, if occa- sion offered, could gently trot the most refractory off to slumberland, that more than one tired woman thought enviously of Mrs. Johnson and of her "bless- ings !" He could not travel so far that the "Sumner will" was not yet a favorite topic for conversation, nor so far but that his own connection with the matter was known. Of course, he had to tell the story all over each time, adding little quips and special settings, until it at length crystallized into a tale that was listened to with the most absorbing interest, and some way left the impression (although, of course, David did not so intend) that the narrator was very much of a hero. Though these are little vanities over which we may smile, his "canvass" was not altogether selfish. Occa- sionally he would say to a father, "Fine son that of yours," or "Splendid girl that;" "You ought to send them in to our school ;" and the advice was not inf re- 246 AFTER FIVE YEARS A RESUME quently taken. And thus he went from house to house, and what with his friendly, helpful ways, his wise and astute winks when matters of national im- portance were mentioned, there had never been so pop- ular a candidate. Of course he was elected, and by his coveted majority. All this occurred in the early part of that period of time we are considering. He filled out the term for which he was elected with such success that he was chosen to succeed himself, and at the reopening of this story he is an acknowledged "political possibility." As for Mrs. David: No longer harassed by that wearisome struggle to "make both ends meet," which, if too long continued, turns the honey of life into myrrh ; knowing, for the first time in her life, a com- fortable home; remembering, too, Cousin Sarah's force- ful notions of wifely responsibility, she became a changed woman. True, so long as she lived she would probably consider it her duty at times to let "David know what was what;" but on such occasions that in- dividual would shrug his shoulders, and, if one of the older children were present, would say with a wink, "Water on a duck's back never hurts." At last "the Johnsons" had gotten on a plane of mutual understanding. It had been a matter of surprise to "the William- sons" themselves that they still lingered, when all ex- cuse for lingering was gone, in this that had once been their enforced home. The truth was that, having once known the quiet of "the Beeches," after having gotten on speaking terms 247 DOROTHY with the birds that nestled in their boughs, and with the squirrels that scampered along the rails, each felt loath to return to the hurrying world. Nor was that world the loser, for a certain pen was never long idle, and from this vantage spot he who guided it was, with the flight of the years, becom- ing more and more a molder of public thought. Perhaps there was yet another reason for lingering, wholly unsuspected by the gracious, kindly man. Life holds no greater happiness than the conscious- ness that, under one's personal touch, a single life is unfolding, is surely and steadily coming up and on to the highest plane possible for that life. If this be true of a single life, how great, then, the satisfaction of seeing an entire community rise to higher ideals, and become more and more a potent factor in Church and State, and to carry about in the heart the consciousness that the awakening touch has, under God, been given by one's own hand ! The unusual doctrine has been enunciated that one's love to another is based upon what we do or are to them ; that is, upon what they receive from us, rather than what we receive from them. \Vith such an unit of measurement, great might have been the love of this scholarly man for this self- same community. If Middletown has known such changes, and as this is a dual story, we turn again to Camp Sunny Slope; for does not that camp hold Dorothy and MacByrne? 248 CHAPTER XXVI. ONCE MORE AT SUNNY SLOPE IF the Intervening years have been rich in develop- ment for Middletown, they have been none the less so for the Woods and the "Woods Preacher." First, they have witnessed the cutting of the greater part of the heavy timber. Indeed, had it not been for the extension of the once much criticised "flume," which had given access to the denser timber beyond, Camp Sunny Slope must, before the reopening of this story, have been abandoned. As matters now stood, before another season should open, the 'shanties," to- gether with Bark Cottage and the chapel, were to be removed to the still heavily wooded region which lay beyond a chain of small lakes on the edge of the woods, among which one known as "Silver" was the largest. As for the "preacher," the year's choicest gift to him had been a rare peace of soul, and an intense love for his work. The fact that he had once found it hard to be reconciled to what he believed an injustice in appointment seemed a far-away and shadowy dream. Bark Cottage had fulfilled its mission of a home for the lonely worker, and more. The warm glow of its log fires, the hearty welcome to its writing-table, and, above all, the bed provided for the chance sick, 249 DOROTHY had proven, each and all, an open door to the hearts of the woodsmen. Yet it was well understood that the Cottage was not, in a sense, a public institution. In such a case it must have lost its home qualities. But as Wilson had come in the shadows of night to be shown the way to a better life, so it was known that if a man were in trouble of any kind, there was at the Cottage a kindly ear that would listen, and a clear brain ready to ad- vise. Not far away stood the little chapel provided by the generosity of Mr. Stuart, and was as rustic as the woods themselves, and so constructed that when the camp should be removed it could be shifted as easily as the "shanties." In this, since its building, MacByrne, with the regularity of each recurring Sabbath, had preached the Gospel with the same simplicity and vigor that had characterized his earlier ministry. His theories were few. First, there was the prom- ise, "My Word shall not return unto Me void." This he coupled in his mind with his own (not to be put aside) "commission" to preach that same Word. He also read that this "Gospel" was set for the "healing of the nations." This he did not question, nor that it was particularly "set" for the "healing of those im- mediately about him;" therefore the task of securing each individual's acceptance of offered mercy became his idea of present duty. Such "faith" coupled with such "works" has a given result, whether the holder live in city or in 250 ONCE MORE AT SUNNY SLOPE woods; so, although the years had seen changes in the personnel of the "camp," they had seen, too, a change in morals amounting to a revolution, and this without beating of trumpets or flourish of announcement. Men who had themselves found the source of a pure life became the custodians of camp morals we are but beginning to succeed, when we catch the secret of dupli- cating ourselves and in the work of these self-im- posed '"custodians," MacByrne's own efforts were du- plicated many times. On other days than the Sabbath the chapel became a place of common meeting. Princess, still beautiful, and upon whom the years sat lightly, had become used to the shadows of the woods. She was still her master's "close friend." They had many a canter along the winding forest ways, and to and from "The Mills." She was the "pride of the woods," and not a man but was ready, at her childish whinny, with caressing and sympathetic stroll. The surprise of the years for MacByrne had been the coming of Dorothy. He had sat for an entire day aghast at the news, gravely questioning the wis- dom of that decision which was sending her north- ward. Troubled as he was at the thought of her pres- ence at the border of the Wood, he was strongly tempted to send a counter-message. The "Stuarts" were now his close friends. In this crisis he turned to them for advice, acquainting them not only with her coming, but with her unusual history. Their interest was at once aroused, and, being a childless couple, they insisted upon receiving her into 2SI DOROTHY their home. The home, while in a sense temporary, would be permanent while the cutting of the forests continued. With this he was quite content. As the day for her arrival drew near, MacByrne quite lost his usual calm. Would she make the long journey safely? Ought he not to have arranged to meet her half way and give her his protection on the journey? But "The Mills," as the creditable town that had sprung up about the mills was called, was no longer "out of the world." For an entire season the new "road" had been carrying passengers and traffic to its doors and beyond; and one day Dorothy, with- out hurt or mishap, with her step as quick as of yore, and her face shining with the joy of meeting, stepped upon the little platform. One quick, scrutinizing glance, and this old and true friend saw that which another had seen, that the "child" was forever gone, and in its stead stood a strong, resolute young woman, competent for the work for which she had come. If one can imagine the joy of a bit of heather, which, having known confinement, is at last trans- planted to its native downs, then one may guess the avidity with which this young soul responded to the freedom of its new life. With her propensity for making friends, she soon crept into the hearts of "the Stuarts," and her presence in their home brought the sunshine each had known it lacked. From the beginning her chosen work appealed to her, and MacByrne only made a few anxious jour- 252 ONCE MORE AT SUNNY SLOPE neys from the "Woods" till he rested easy in her as- sured success. It may be that a little heart-communing, held dur- ing her journey northward, had been of practical bene- fit. Her eyes had fallen upon a single sentence in a book that had been given her. It read, "To help you attain that beauty of which the Lord thought when He made you." She laid the book aside and mused on the unexpected thought. "Beauty of soul, beauty of character;" she repeated the phrase again and again. "Of course, the Lord was her Creator." She could not have grown up a member of John Sumner's household without comprehending that fundamental truth. But had He taken special thought, as the sen- tence implied, in her particular creation ? Had He planned a beauty of soul that should be distinctly her own? She thought long and earnestly. Finally she said reverently, "Yes, I do believe it," and with the con- fession there swept over her a wonderful sense of God's Fatherhood. Such an anchorage is, and must continue to be, the foundation of the highest earthly success. She had not been in her new home a year when news of the "trial" (so familiar to us) reached her, together with its denouement. She had not until then had a hint of the efforts of her friends in her behalf, and the results were almost past belief, first, that the old home was again hers, and that Middletown awaited and expected her immediate return. 253 DOROTHY MacByrne, who had known all and had followed each step with anxiety, was overjoyed at the outcome. "Of course she would return;" this he said, refusing to recognize the pain which, at the thought, assailed his heart. "Yes, he should miss her," he confessed. "But it were better for Dorothy, infinitely better," he said, "that she should have the care of the 'Beeches ;' " and then, having fortified himself for the parting, he had a surprise; for Dorothy emerged from a vigil which she had appointed with herself, and an- nounced that she would remain at her present post of duty. It was in vain that MacBryne urged, and the Stuarts as well. She shook her head. "She loved the work," she said, "and could not yield it;" adding, "it was out of the question for her to return. The only regret being," she confessed, "that she must inflict a second disappointment upon Cousin Sarah and the friends at the 'Beeches.' " After all, none need have wondered; for hardly is there a bird that, having tried its wings, returns will- ingly to the shelter of the nest. Besides, in her vigil it had been made plain to her that what she called "home" was in reality that no longer, but was a place fraught with memories, some of them so hateful she longed to put them aside forever; and besides (but that is Dorothy's own secret ; upon it we have no right to intrude. ) When the disappointing message had started on its journey to Middletown, MacByrne, with fatherly au- thority, insisted that, inasmuch as all hindrances had 254 ONCE MORE AT SUNNY SLOPE vanished, she should resume the education which had been interrupted. To this Dorothy readily agreed, only stipulating that she remain with her present work until the close of the year. So, for three years out of the five we have been considering, she has been at a college with the selection of which the Professor had much to do. These years have been full of work ; full, too, of the pleasures and triumphs incident to that period of life. The earlier months had brought a few desultory letters from Clay Worthington, who still cherished pleasant memories of his "comrade" of a summer. He truly rejoiced (as he told her) that she had fallen on happier days; for like another (and still unlike) he had from his distance taken a keen interest in the outcome of the contest the Professor had undertaken. But these let- ters were eventually discontinued. There was no place, it seelned, in the dallying life of the young man for an appreciation of the strenuous one Dorothy had planned for herself. Directly upon her first coming to The Mills, she set herself to learn something of her far-away relatives. To her surprise she found that two sisters of her mother still lived in the old village home, in the southernmost part of Scotland. They had grieved through the years for the death of "bonny sister Mary," and had not known that a "wee bairnie" had been left motherless. It became a dream of the young girl that one day she might visit her mother's home. She had spent each of the summers since her com- ing to the "Woods" with the Stuarts, either at their 255 DOROTHY Northern home, or had joined them in summer wan- derings. She loved best the little town that already clustered about The Mills, and the deep woodland in whose shadows MacBryne patiently lived his life of sacrifice. Its solitude never ceased to woo her. It was not strange therefore her college "course" being duly finished that she should return, and think to find her happiness (for a time) in that same school which had received her when her heart was heavy, and there now that the last "dropped thread" has been caught and fastened into that "woof" which will allow no further break we meet her again. For weeks there had been suppressed excitement at Bark Cottage. The "Woods Preacher" was indeed very busy. Not a day of the springtime that had seemed so long delayed but knew a special duty. There was a sort of a shed that stood back of the Cottage, in which he seemed to be ever at work. He did not always work alone, for not a man in the entire "Woods" but counted it a pleasure to help in any project the preacher might have on hand. That at present he was making preparations for something that greatly appealed to him, none who saw him bend over his self-imposed tasks could doubt. Finally the result (in not the full meaning) of all this extra effort was in evidence. Four strong and well-made canoes stood ready to be carted to Silver Lake as soon as the ice that still bound it should be broken. Besides these, there were cozy rustic seats, to be nailed into place later on. . 256 ONCE MORE AT SUNNY SLOPE Sometimes the worker, it was thought, looked a bit impatiently at the lingering banks of snow that refused to melt. Clearly the "Woods Preacher" was living in the future rather than in the icy present. But even in such fastnesses the sun is finally su- preme, and one day the word passed around that the ice was breaking on both lake and river. Then, in a day, the leaf-buds began to swell, and in another a few venturesome scouts from the bird-army that had begun its northward flight arrived, and announced their presence in fearless song. At this, the observant ones noted, the preacher, though still hurrying, went to his work with snatches of song upon his lips, scarcely less joyous than that of the birds. This excitement extended as far as the not distant milling town. Not a single pupil of the well-beloved young principal but recognized its presence, and smiled knowingly as she sought for patches of green among the tufts of coarse brown grass. And one day, when some one brought her the mes- sage "that the ice had broken in the river farther up, and that great rafts of logs had already begun their perilous descending journey," though she had not a dollar at stake, she clasped her hands in the intensest joy. To her the freshet meant spring. Spring was but the fleeting forerunner of summer; and for sum- mer ah! for summer! had there not been cherished for an entire year a most delightful plan ? This season there was to be none of the usual moun- tain climbing or seaside cottage for the Williamsons. Instead, they were to summer at Bark Cottage, the 17 257 DOROTHY guests of MacByrne, and Dorothy was to join them! For the "Woods" would no doubt prove an ideal camping spot; and there still lurked within their shad- ows such wild animals as made them a huntsman's, paradise. Silver Lake, a couple of hours' leisurely drive from the camp, was an admirable spot for a day's outing, should the camp prove irksome, while the canoes that, now safely moored at the water's edge, hinted of hours of lazy boating, or of successful fishing, if the occupant preferred. Little wonder that each of the "exiles," as they sometimes called themselves, found the intervening days long! Now that the years had passed, looking back on them, it seemed strange to Dorothy that she had not revisited Middletown ; but each day had been too full of work, she told herself; but now that she was about to look in the faces of those who had been so dear, she was in an ecstasy of anticipation. If there was excitement in the "Woods," there was none the less so at the "Beeches." Aunt Violet was, in these rapidly disappearing days of preparation, a very repository of responsibilities, though not, as of old, the main source of dependence; for during the years a bright young girl of her own race had been installed as helper. At first Violet greatly demurred. "She knowed dem triflin' gals," and would have none of them; but on the proposed change "Mis' Millicent" was firm; so presently "Liza," directly from the South, and the 258 ONCE MORE AT SUNNY SLOPE daughter of an old house servant, became a fixture, and at the same time the elder woman's " 'sponsibility." " 'Pears like I have to keep a-tellin' and a-talkin' all the time," she complained ; but her mistress noted with secret satisfaction that, nevertheless, she came to spend more and still more time in the big arm-chair that had been placed in the sunny southern window for her especial comfort. But, now that "Mis' Millicent and Marsa Pro- fessah was going away, of course, she must done tend to everything." Not only must "Liza" be made to do her whole duty, but she planned for herself the still harder task of seeing to it that "dem triflin' white men," that "farmed" the little place under the easy surveillance of the "Master," "did n't set forever on the rail-fence a-whittlin'." So Master and Mistress made ready for their journey, perhaps with a smile at Violet's anxiety, but wonderfully free from care, know- ing that not a detail of the home would escape the watchful eye of her who was friend as well as servant. As they were about starting, a rumor which had been born in the Southland and had daily gathered to itself new strength, now spread over the entire country as a dire certainty: "Yellow fever" that dreaded scourge that in the past had, with its foul breath, turned whole cities into charnel-houses had again made its appearance, and in so violent a form that those best acquainted with the situation declared nothing could stay its ravages. The travelers hesitated, their dearest friends were in the South; but realizing that, should they remain, 2 S9 DOROTHY they would still be unable to help, they started. They could not, they said, disappoint those who waited nor yet themselves. The last touch had been given, and "Bark Cottage" awaited its guests. Sunny Slope had now something the appearance of a village, for not far from the Cot- tage another had been, during the last few days, hastily built. In it the Stuarts were to summer. The proposed transfer of camps before the opening of another season had appeared to render close super- vision by the "Chief" necessary. That there was yet another and a greater reason for the prompt accept- ance of the invitation by the Stuarts to join the happy, expectant "Woods" company, MacByrne was to learn later, and in a manner so nearly tragic that, had it been suspected, it must have overshadowed the pleasures at hand. Two men, very unlike in appearance, stood for a moment, hand closely clasped in hand, each looking into the eyes and into the soul of the other! How much had happened since that hour when the one had whispered "Courage" to that other, who, with quiver- ing heartstrings, had stood quaffing his bitter draught! But, however happy the meeting, there was enough that demanded immediate attention effectually to inter- fere with mere sentiment. The "belongings" must be arranged for the summer, besides the Professor was as eager as a boy for the sports of which the woods had 260 ONCE MORE AT SUNNY SLOPE already whispered to him. Dorothy, in a state of tre- mendous excitement, flitted in and out between the two homes* Nominally she was with the Stuarts, but acutally not a cranny of Bark Cottage but knew her presence. Among them all there were so many questions to be asked and answered. One of these Dorothy did no't suspect, but it had intruded itself into Mrs. William- son's mind during her entire journey northward. At times she had sat silent, her gaze apparently on the ever-deepening woods through which they were hasten- ing; but, instead of these, she had seen ever before her a low-lying little grave, long since hid in its wealth of Southern myrtle; and then a young girl another Dorothy would come into the picture, and in the mental kaleidoscope the two, baby and girl, would blend; and ever, at that juncture, the ugly question would rear its head, and she found herself nearing the meeting, with a dread of which she could not have spoken, even to the husband at her side. (So live we, most of us, the solitary life.) To one reared as she, it had seemed impossible that a young girl could be thrown so utterly upon her own resources as had the elder Dorothy, without a re- sultant loss. Indeed it has happened, in by far too many instances (as a sequence perhaps, though by no means a necessary one, to that modern "increased ac- tivity" for women, of which we boast), that a loud assertiveness is developed, which, alas! fatally obscures in its holder that gentleness of manners which, let us 26l DOROTHY trust, will ever remain the distinctive grace of woman- hood. It was this that Mrs. Williamson feared for Dorothy. Quickly, hungrily, her eyes took in the least of the unsuspecting girl's actions; but, before the day had passed, her face lasped into a sweet, brooding, mother- like content. The babe beneath the myrtle would not be shamed ; that older Dorothy, who had crept into and comforted the aching mother-heart, was worthy. Involuntarily she recalled Aunt Violet's comment of other years : "Dat chile is a bawn lady, sho' !" A "bawn" lady, with the added graces of self- reliance and the culture of the schools! 262 CHAPTER XXVII. ANOTHER GUEST THE "campers" were soon quite settled, and as they drank in the ozone of the woods, all agreed this an ideal spot for a summer's outing. The trail leading to Silver Lake soon became well traveled. The boats provided before the coming of the visitors by the thoughtfulness of MacByrne, had been moored to its sloping banks. There was seldom a day but that they were used by one or more members of the party, either in fishing or rowing; if the latter, with a little island in the lake as the usual objective point. This bit of land, fully a half mile in length, but narrower in places, was covered with a heavy undergrowth of saplings and bushes, these last supplying an abundance of wild berries. The entire island was a favorite nesting- place for wild fowl, and a rendezvous for the animals with which the surrounding wood abounded. The spot was rich in attractions for the Professor, for it afforded fine facilities for studying the habits of the creatures that frequented it, as well as the remarkable flora that covered it. Dorothy frequently rowed him back and forth from the mainland, and as their boat sped over the water their conversation often centered about Middletown and the many changes that had come to it since she 263 DOROTHY had ceased to be a part, and sometimes, as it appeared to her, the name of Robert Stirling crept into the narratives with a frequenc3 r that was remarkable. Once he told her, with considerable minuteness, of Barnolde's millpond adventure (the story of which had somehow leaked out, to the extent of a few friends). There was a chance word here and there, in the narative, that pointed to the identity of one of the actors in that remarkable scene; and although she tried to look unconcerned, her heart thrilled at the championship implied, and the Professor, scanning her closely, noted with secret satisfaction the blush that overspread her forehead when, after the story, her eyes met his. One eveging, after the party had been in the woods a few weeks, as Mrs. Stuart and Dorothy approached the cottage (they had returned from a day's outing a little in advance of the others), they were surprised to see a stranger outstretched in one of the hammocks, and evidently very much at home. By his side, as if on guard, lay a stocky bulldog, who proceeded at once to challenge their approach with an ominous growl. At the sound, there quickly emerged from the depths of the hammock a tall, well- built young man, whose proportions were accentuated by the blouse and knickerbockers, each of a dark-green plaid, which he wore. A very diminutive cap of the same material fitted very snugly to the back of his head, and lent an almost boyish appearance to the clearly cut, handsome features beneath. 264 ANOTHER GUEST He paused for a moment, at the approach of the ladies, to adjust a monocle which he wore, and then, with an air of glad expectancy, came forward to greet them; and in that instant Dorothy recognized Clay Worthington, comrade of a never-to-be-forgotten summer Clay, through with his college studies; through, too, so it seemed, with a jaunt on the Con- tinent, where they of the "Beeches" thought him to be. "Aw, Dorothy, my little comrade Dorothy Miss Dorothy perhaps I had better say, now that she has grown to be so chawming a young lady I am delighted to see you once more;" and an exceedingly well-shaped hand reached out and took hers. Dorothy's surprise was very evident, a surprise in which other emotions contended, for the unexpected appearance had forcibly recalled that last day upon "The Knobs" and all the sad after-happenings. How- ever, she quickly recovered herself, and, after a word of welcome, presented Mrs. Stuart, who had stood by, wondering not a little at the self assurance of the stranger. After this presentation, Clay began to explain his sudden appearance. "Got tired running around; blamed tiresome busi- ness, this going nowhere in particular. Tried to climb the Alps; fad, you know; everybody does it; beastly hard work ; does n't pay. Started out then to do the Old Masters. Between you and me, that 's about the worst fraud an honest youth like myself can attempt. But it 's the fashion, though half the folks have n't an idea what it 's all about. Well, I did my share of the 265 DOROTHY raving till I got to thinking what a joke the whole thing was. Met some fine fellows, though, while I was running around. Lord East-Crowen was one. Had some good shooting up at his Lodge. But one day I got to thinking about the 'Beeches.' Thought it would be such a fine scheme to drop in and surprise them all. No sooner said than done. Found every- body gone. 'Chesterfield' (gift of Lord East-Crowen fine dog, I tell you) would not make up with Aunt Violet, and, what is more to the point, she would n't make up with him (stop that, Chester!)" Chester was snuffing rather viciously at the hem of Dorothy's dress "so, as 'yellow jack' had the whole South in its grasp, I thought I would come up here. Beastly place, though !" At this he brushed away a woodland spider that seemed to have undertaken a critical study of the particular plaid of his knickerbockers. In the running fire of sentences, he had told the whole story of a year's wandering. About the time he had well finished, the other members of the party came up, and he was forced to begin over. "Beastly tiresome though," he grumbled. At the beginning of the second recital, Dorothy, who had taken to herself certain responsibilities, stole away to see that the cook had all in readiness for the evening meal. As the party gathered later at the table, the news, which Clay had brought of the unexampled progress of the scourge became the sole topic of conversation, saddening the hearts of all. At the recital the little group became silent, each lost in thoughts of one's own. 266 ANOTHER GUEST It was Clay who recalled them by addressing the Professor: "As I came North whom do you suppose I met? You would never guess. Well, that favorite farmer student of yours, he of the shocky hair Robert, you used to call him. Fine young fellow now ; shoulders as broad as those of Hercules, hair a little more civilized, but still on the brush-pile order. 'Doctor,' so he told me. Had just been graduated and if he was n't on his way to the South ! having already offered his services as physician, and, as though that were not enough, that^ little old mother of his was with him. My! but she is plucky! When I told her that I was sorry for the hardships surely awaiting her, she smiled and said, 'If physicians are needed, nurses surely are; as for the hardships, it is easier to go and know each day's happenings than to remain and wait for letters that might not come." "She was right," MacByrne interposed. "My opinion is," Clay continued, "she knows the danger, and went along so as to be near if 'Doctor Robert' gets the fever, as he surely will. All North- erners do. The most of them die. Pity! He really is a fine fellow." Dorothy felt a clutching at her heart. "Die? Was that to be the end?" "Did you tell him where you were going?" It was his sister who asked. "Yes; told him we were going to have a sort of family reunion up here in the wood, with Miss Dorothy as the magnet that draws us all." At this Clay made an extravagant gesture. In 267 DOROTHY attempting to lay his hand melodramatically over his heart, he located that organ quite on the wrong side much to the amusement of the company. "Think I had better get through with the young man, now that I am on the subject," Clay resumed. "He sent a lot of messages to my esteemed brother, the Herr Professor, and to our ecclestiastical friend. Got off a whole lot (I can't remember it all) about what each had been to him. The final parting made me feel, as Aunt Violet would say, as if I had seen a 'hant.' His train was just starting, and we were saying the 'goodbyes' when he leaned forward, turned me inside out with his big gray eyes, and then whis- pered, 'Be worthy.' I could not imagine what he meant till I recalled our conversation of the hour, which had emphasized the point, that life is at times a pretty hard proposition for some; has been for him, I am sure, while it has been mighty easy for me ; every- thing done for a fellow, you know." As Clay finished his long speech, the company arose from the table. Dorothy, unnoticed, stole out to be alone. None had suspected how the recital had stirred her. "O to be out, out under the sky, out alone with herself!" had been her heart-cry while Clay so lightly talked. The shadow of the woods called to her as she stood thinking. In a moment she had entered their depths. She wandered on till she came to a great tree, under which MacByrne had fastened one of the rustic seats he had delighted in fashioning. Into this she sank. As she did so, she covered her face with her hands. At last there was to be no conceal- 268 ANOTHER GUEST ment between herself and her heart! She knew that she loved this brave man who at the moment was facing death, and in this hour of self-introspection she acknowledged that this love was not a new thing, but that it had been born and had grown strong in those old happy days of which Clay's presence had been a sharp reminder. She believed, too and this without the evidence of a single spoken word that she was beloved ; and then, sick at heart, it swept over her that the wall that had risen years before to part them still existed: beyond a doubt Robert had mis- construed Clay's innocent presence in the woods. She understood, if Clay did not, the strange parting admonition. At the thought a wave of desolation, as if she were already at the bier of her dead, encom- passed her. Clay was right, she told herself: Robert would surely die ! Mechanically she clenched her hands. What should she do? She had ever been quick of impulse, and for a time it seemed she, too, must fly to the South, must beg the privilege of serving by his side. But no, that were unmaidenly; and then she bowed her head. She had remembered that her heart had gone out unasked. But was there nothing she could do? Nothing! absolutely nothing? The answer came as distinctly as the swaying of the boughs overhead. She might suffer but she must make no sign. But was there nothing? She thought long. Ah! after all, there yet remained something, a some- thing in which the Ryedales had never failed. She could be brave! And she would! No one should know of the travail of soul that had been hers. And, 269 DOROTHY further, not one of the little group in the cottages yonder should know a less happy hour because of her half-guilty secret. Presently she arose to go. As she did so she stood for a moment under the drooping branches. Her ear caught the slightest rustle overhead; and then a few faint trills of song, gradually growing louder; finally a melody of ravishing sweetness fell upon her listen- ing ear. A song-bird had perched upon the topmost bough overhead, and its vibrant body was swaying to the music of its vesper song. The girl stood as if entranced. Presently her heart took up, and responded to, the pean of praise being sung, and as she listened a measure of hope stole into her heart. "He may not die," she whispered to her- self, nor the estrangement last forever. Besides, there still remains "trust." Unconsciously she lifted her face upward, even beyond the singing bird. A moment later when she had emerged from the shadows of the woodland into the open, her step was light as usual, and not a shadow rested upon the sensitive, mobile face. It is well that mankind has a dual nature, which permits it, even when the heart is sad, to wear a mask of gayety; and it is further well that if the mask be persistently worn, the assumed feeling becomes to a degree real; because of this, all bearers of burdens do not become morbid. Were this not true, the world were indeed a sorry place. MacByrne, narrowly watching Dorothy (for Clay's presence had filled his heart with questioning) 270 ANOTHER GUEST as she returned, caught no hint of the heart-searching through which she had passed, and during the weeks of pleasure that followed, not a single member of the party contributed more to its enjoyment than she. There was scarcely a day but trips of one kind, and another, were planned. Upon these she and Clay fell into a sort of natural companionship, undisturbed by Chester, who quite forsook the Cottage, spending most of the time with the woodsmen in their new camp. Many of these jaunts were enlivened by spirited discussions between the two, upon whom it began to appear the years had made little difference as to their respective tenets. Clay's aping of English ways had been, in fact, unconscious ; still it was a source of disgust to his sister, and of jest to Dorothy, who frequently referred to him as a fine "old English copy." "As if I were a bit of vellum," Clay com- plained. Once, when rowing, there was a collision of some kind, and the monocle, which, despite the jests, he had continued to wear, "as a proof," so he said, "that he had a mind of his own," went to the bottom of the lake, as he supposed. "Let it alone," counseled Dorothy. "I have no doubt some smart little pickerel is already wearing it." A few days afterward, as the company were about sitting down to dine, they broke into peals of laughter. Clay, looking for the cause, saw that the baked trout was looking askance at the hungry crowd through his own monocle! For a full second he had half a mind to be offended. That he should be made a jest! He 271 DOROTHY that had ever been used to appreciation from woman- kind! The truth was that, in these days, some very serious thoughts were surging through this usually free-from-care brain. It was Frances Willard who observed that what the easy-going world needs is an "arrest of thought." Not one in the party suspected that such an experience had come to Clay. Yet it was true. His chance meeting with Robert Stirling had stirred him to the depths; for, looking into that strong, resolute face, he had caught a glimpse of a purpose so strong and indomitable that he in whom it dwelt was ready to live, and if necessary die, for the relief of the suffering. If thought be once arrested, there may be found on every hand much to deepen the chance impression ; and so the "Woods Preacher," who foregoing one civilization had wrought another, became a daily object lesson to the more and more aroused young man. Even Dorothy, slight girl that she was, he admitted to himself, had her life plans in which self- indulgence had no part. He alone, it seemed, was an idler. Was such idleness wrong? Never before had the question intruded itself, and in self-justification he went over the forces that had been potent in his life. "Robert was right," he reflected, when he had intimated at the time of their meeting that life had been made easy for him. In his childhood he had been loyally served; in his youth his studies and his schools had been selected for him; and now, in his early manhood, a fortune ample for his needs was at his disposal. 272 ANOTHER GUEST But now, in a 'day, that "future" of which every one, be he aught of a man, must sometimes dream seemed close at hand, and in it he saw that, if he remained worthy of the name he bore, he, too, must do his full share of the world's work. But how? Work, whether of brain or of the hand, is a habit, and habit can not be acquired in a day. Clearly, the im- pulse must come from without. Emerson has declared "the chief want in life to be a friend that shall make us do our best." Ah! this was the necessary "want" that now began to knock at the door of the young man's heart; and so it came about that he began to link with that misty "future," with which he was now ever busy, two faces one bright, earnest, itself an inspiration; the other, that proud, shadowy one that, in a long-ago summer, though but a shadow, had been yet forceful enough to leave mere "comradeship" where at least one saw sentiment. A "shadow!" yet not without a right to exist, for it reflected the face of a playmate in the old happy plantation days, when two families had lived in neighborly friendship, and two sweet, gracious Southern mothers had dreamed their innocent dream of the day when the playing children should link the families yet closer. As the days of the present summer went by, each filled to the last minute with pleasure alas for the mother dream! the beauti- ful patrician face crept farther and still farther into the background! One day Clay and Dorothy had been rowing drifting were better upon Silver Lake. The con- 18 273 DOROTHY versation, beginning with the present scourge in the Southland, had become general; touching the South 's political woes as well; and a discussion followed, of that new school of writers who were maintaining that out of the present unrest there was about to arise a new South greater than the old. Suddenly Dorothy exclaimed: "If I were of Southern birth, with the long line of statesmen back of me that have so honored the nation I would pray God, first, to help me realize that the old order of things was forever gone; and then I would gird myself, and do all that one individual might, to make the newer order of affairs so much better than the old that there need not be a sigh for the past." Then, realizing and ashamed of her enthusiasm, and fearful that she had spoken too plainly, she was silent. As in the old tale, at the weird notes of the blind harpist, the clan came together as one man to follow the fortunes of their Highland chief, so, at the im- passioned words, the blood of men who had borne no small part in the nation's history began to stir in the veins of their careless descendant. Presently he leaned over, and before his companion could divine his purpose he took her hand, and, more solemnly than she had ever heard him speak, he said: "Dorothy you are a prophetess. All that you have pictured I will try to do and be, only you must be by my side in the effort, my inspiration;" and then although in all the watery expanse there was none to hear save a screaming waterfowl that flew over their heads, save also a muskrat that at the moment 274 ANOTHER GUEST cautiously peeped from its cover in the near-by island he lowered his voice to a whisper: "You must be my wife. Come to me, Dorothy ; I need you so !" It is not ours to listen too closely to what followed, nor to note the dismay of Dorothy, who blamed her- self for the pain she must inflict, but finally even Clay saw that his suit was hopeless. In a silence painful to each, the two made their way back to the shore, where Princess was already snuffing the air, anxious for the homeward swing, the Professor and Mrs. Williamson being already well within the shadow of the woodland. As they stepped ashore, Clay whispered: "Believe me, I have not known you in vain. You have shown me life as it should be. I shall try to live worthy of our old plight of comradeship." Later, as the entire party drove up to Bark Cot- tage, MacByrne, who had remained at home came out to meet them. His face was drawn, and appeared haggard with anxiety. "The papers are in," was his first salutation; adding, "The situation at New Orleans is beyond belief." "You have had news of Robert?" It was the Professor who asked. "Yes; his mother, who has, it is said, nursed fear- lessly from the beginning, is in the list of dead." "And Robert?" the Professor insisted. "Is very ill. Read the article yourself. The tone is hopeless. Few, it seems, recover." At this a cry, in reality a groan, escaped from Dorothy. Looking at her, her friends saw that her 275 DOROTHY lips, though tightly drawn to repress emotion, were nearly as white as the face from which all color had fled. It was Clay who relieved the tension. "I have lingered too long in these beautiful woods," he said, "while those dear to me by every tie are dying. I must leave you all to-night. The mail-carrier is about to make his return trip. I will accompany him. Come, Dorothy," he added, almost gayly, "help me pack." As the two turned away together, Clay said softly : "Your secret is out, Dorothy; I suspected it long ago. He is worthier than I; and, Dorothy hear me! He will not die." 276 CHAPTER XXVIII. A FOREST FIRE IT was a saddened group that gathered at the breakfast-table the morning following Clay's depart- ure. The newspapers that had brought the story of the young physician's bravery, and of his illness as well, had been closely read, and all, not excepting the stranger Stuarts, sorrowed at the prospect of the untimely going out of such a life. So many of Mrs. Williamson's relatives were in the region over which the plague was sweeping that, like her brother, she felt she must get nearer, must come in closer touch with telegraphic instruments and the daily mail. "Should they break camp?" was the question each was at heart considering as, in unwonted silence, they came together. But this, all realized, had its sting, though it might bring the relief of action; for with their going, MacByrne, whose heart was torn with anxiety for further news from Robert, must return to his old solitary life; the removal of the camp made his con- tinued presence in the woods imperative. Still he would not utter a restraining word. There was yet another reason that urged their 277 DOROTHY going. The waning summer had been a very dry one. True, the spring had brought its freshets; but these had been largely caused by the melting of the snow. A few light showers had fallen in early June, but July had come and gone. Each day the burning heat had increased ; but, alas ! not a drop of the longed- for rain had fallen. Now for a week the August sun had beaten down relentlessly. The small streams of the woodland were long since dry. The lesser ones of the chain of small lakes were shrunk into mere pools. These had begun in the last few days to give out an odor of decaying fish. It was very quiet in the woods now. During the entire summer preparations had gone steadily forward for the removal of the camp. Only the week before the present one, Mr. Stuart had stood by, and seen the last "shanty" torn down, and then had watched the chapel and mess-house undergo the same process. Being "between seasons," the greater part of the usual army of woodsmen had gone elsewhere, only a few having been retained to assist in the removal of the camp. These had left for the new quarters. The forest was not wholly denuded. The axes of the woodsmen had left, here and there, a tall hem- lock or birch. A wooded hill lay back of Bark Cottage, in which only a few of the choicer trees had been cut, the rest having been left as protection for those who worked. Everywhere there was a growth of lesser trees and bushes. The slopes were covered with scarlet sumachs and heavy clumps of hazel- bushes. In the swamps the tamaracks were yet so 278 A FOREST FIRE dense they forbade entrance to any save the wild animals that clung to them as their covert. During the drouth these had seemed to lose all fear of man. Once in open daylight a porcupine hdd waddled out of the woods, and greedily thrust its nose into a pail of water that had chanced to stand upon the ground. "Poor creature!" said MacByrne, "it is dying for water." Mrs. Williamson would not have liked to confess how many times she had been awakened, and had shivered at the near-by howl of hungry wolves. Clearly it was time that they should be going ! The forenoon of the day following Clay's depart- ure was already well advanced. Dorothy and MacByrne, each too restless for a settled task, were busying themselves over some little matter in front of the Cottage. Each understanding the other's thoughts, they worked in silence, their only conversation being now and then a word concerning the prospect of rain ; for a peculiar-looking cloud had appeared on the dis- tant horizon, and within an hour a breeze had sprung up. The Williamsons had gone for a stroll in the woods. "Do you think it is going to rain?" Mrs. Stuart called from the hammock where she lay resting. Her husband was busy inside the cottage; the postman had brought him a heavy mail. "I am sure I can not tell," MacByrne replied. "I think I never saw a cloud so peculiar in appearance," he continued, scanning it closely. 279 DOROTHY "As it is the first we have had in weeks, perhaps it would be just as well not to be critical," Dorothy interposed. Suddenly Princess, in her not distant stall gave a loud and impatient neigh and began to pace back forth, as if insisting upon being allowed to join them. Used to her pretty, childish ways, Dorothy hastened and undid the fastenings that held her. She went straight to her master, and laying her head upon his arm, gave a prolonged neigh of unmistakable terror, which was caught up and echoed by the more distant work-horses, left for the convenience of the guests. "I have not seen so many birds during all the time we have been in the woods as have flown by this morning." It was Dorothy that made the observation, meanwhile stroking and trying to soothe Princess. "A little while ago," she continued, "several flocks of quail flew by, and a company of jays, that did not once stop to scold. I can not imagine what it all means. Look!" she called out, excitedly. Some red squirrels, perhaps a dozen or more, were scampering by, not appearing in the least to notice the presence of either man or girl. At this, MacByrne became fully aroused. All morning he had seen only a fever-stricken ward in a far-away hospital, in which lay a brave young man, his face already taking on the hue of death. All morning the body had chafed at its limitations. Why could it not fly, as the birds overhead were flying? But what was this Dorothy was saying? And what was the matter with Princess? His face began 280 A FOREST FIRE to blanch. He strode, almost ran, to the edge of the clearing. Once there, he anxiously scanned the sullen, overhanging cloud, which now seemed strangely marred with wisps of light. As he did so, he muttered to himself, "If a fire should break out, and it so dry!" He shuddered. "There are acres of fallen logs that would be little better than tinder." Then he stood, as if paralyzed, for in that instant a shower of leaves fell at his feet, and as in a daze he saw that some of them were charred! "There is no time to lose," he called out hoarsely; "the woods are on fire! Steady, my beautiful lady," this to Princess, who had followed him, and was shaking with terror. "You must help us!" At the fateful words, Mr. Stuart at once joined him. No need to waste time in further explanation; not one in all the terrified group knew so well as he the awful peril that threatened. And he knew, too, as did MacByrne, that their lives hung upon a single thread. If they would live, they must reach Silver Lake, and Silver Lake was a little less than ten miles away! And, alas! his own swift team that would have easily borne them to safety, were at the moment in their distant stalls, having carried Clay to the station but yesterday ! . In this hour of supreme need there was but one frail dependence, "Old Faithful," well fed and plethoric, kept only in deference to Mrs. Stuart's tastes, and brought to the wood for her sole con- venience. How they had laughed at her when she had insisted that he be brought! It flashed upon 28l DOROTHY her husband in these awful seconds, as he weighed their small chances of escape, that they would never laugh again; for Faithful could not possibly make the trip. Still they must at least make the attempt. All was now haste. In a twinkling Mrs. Stuart was being hurried into a cart. Suddenly MacByrne, who had just remembered, cried out: "The William- sons ! They are in the woods !" he groaned in anguish. "They will not escape!" At that instant they came into sight, walking hurriedly. They, too, had noticed and been alarmed at the weird sight of flying animals. It had been as if each denizen of the forest had scented an alarm, and was in consequence hurrying, still hurrying. As they approached, MacByrne shouted: "Hurry! for the love of life, hurry! The forest is on fire! Do not stop to save anything!" he called, frantically; for at his words Mrs. Williamson had darted into the Cottage. With a strong arm he caught her, and lifted her into the light buggy to which Princess had already been hitched. "Here, Dorothy," he continued, "you and Professor Williamson get in, or on. Some- how you must make it to Silver Lake." He paused an instant, then dashed into the Cottage. He was out in a moment, carrying a bundle of blankets and wraps. A part of these he tossed to Mr. Stuart, who, after a questioning look, took them very gravely. They were now ready to start. "But where will you put yourself?" They were asking it of MacByrne. "There are horses in the barn" he cheerily replied. 282 A FOREST FIRE Yes, there were two, each slow of foot, stolid, useful in drawing heavy loads, but useless if speed were required. Each friend understood, in yielding Princess he had yielded his chance of life! "Princess" (her master was close at her head), "Princess, do you understand? You must travel as you have never before traveled. Never has so much depended upon you. You will not fail?" No; Princess would not fail. She answered by a caress all her own; for a single instant the beautiful head cuddled, as a child's might have done, on the man's arm; then with a spring she broke into a succession of swift, steady strides. Princess understood ! How, we do not comprehend, but beyond all doubt she knew the danger, and knew, too, where safety lay. A light hand rested upon her rein, but it need not; she was swiftly covering the ground to Silver Lake. Behind her, no less alive to the situation, "Faith- ful" was doing his best. It was well; for by this time the second shower of leaves had fallen and again each leaf was charred and crisped. The haze that had been the first cause of alarm, growing blacker with the minutes, was now touched here and there with crimson, while a cloud of smoke, that had been borne rapidly from the west, hung like a pall over all Sunny Slope, as if prophetic of coming doom. As MacByrne turned to seek his own safety he remembered the cook, whom he had not seen since the alarm; but it was evident that individual had 283 DOROTHY already flown, for but a single animal remained, a.nd that the poorer of the two. As he mounted the cower- ing animal, a soft roar, not unlike the hum of bees, about a tree-trunk where they have concealed their booty, struck his ear, and then broke into sharp, ominous crashes. MacByrne urged the animal into a gallop. Instinc- tively he turned for a farewell glimpse of Bark Cottage, dear to him by a thousand associations. As he looked, a brand fell upon its dry, overhanging roof, and in the instant of his glance a tongue of fire crept in and out, among the heavy bark slabs. What of the fugitives? On, like the wings of a flying bird, sped Princess. With her, there had been no need to urge. The oncoming doom had whispered into her ears the terror of its story as dis- tinctly as it had to the three who, back of her, trembled in foreboding, helpless silence. Two, three, and five miles had been traveled, and Princess was surely tiring, for she was no longer young; but still with her head proudly arched, though with steam issuing from her nostrils and sweat dripping from her glossy sides, she made no pause. Another mile; the head began to droop, and the tongue to roll helplessly out. Still another, and the spirited animal was swaying, and, alas! the steady, all-enveloping avalanche of smoke, of burning twigs, and of shifting cinders was drawing nearer. The Pro- fessor and Dorothy, noting the animal's plight, each sprang to the ground, and swiftly ran by her side, and, although creeping tongues of flame glowed on 284 A FOREST FIRE every bush, Dorothy did not fail, as they pressed for- ward, to stroke the bowed head and to call out, "Steady, Princess, steady; you will make it yet." A turn of the road disclosed the gleaming water, yet a space distant. At this, as if impelled by a power outside of herself, Princess "steadied," and went yet on. But Dorothy noticed, with sinking heart, that, with the froth, blood was beginning to mingle. By every means within his power MacByrne urged on the terrified animal that bore him; for each suc- ceeding shower of cinders and each hot blast told that the fire was growing nearer. A few belated animals, still seeking safety, at times crossed his path. All at once a deer, wild-eyed and panting, darted in front of the horse, and then re-entered the woods, going, to MacByrne's horror, directly into the fire. "Poor creature!" he said to himself; "it is mad with fear; its instinct has deserted it." The superstition of the woodsmen crossed his mind, how, if an animal has this "fear," it may give it to another, even as a dog gives to a man the rabies. He had heard many weird instances told around the glowing fire of Bark Cottage. Were such super- stitious tales, after all, true? And was the terrified animal which he rode a present victim? It looked so; for after the passage of the deer it reared, then plunged madly into the burning wood. With difficulty Mac- Byrne reached the ground. For an instant he stood dazed and smoke-blinded; then it came over him that at last life for him was over, for death was surely at 285 DOROTHY hand; but what a miserable death for a brave man to die! Ah! if he only might reach the distant water! To try were better than inaction. With bowed head he started, and never before had runner a greater goal ! He had not gone far until he was conscious of a swaying object ahead. It proved to be the Stuarts, who, crouching hand in hand, were, with that calm- ness which God in His mercy gives to most of His creatures when life is ending, awaiting the swift on- coming death. It was a picture that might have enthralled an artist; for the man who so calmly sat, soothing his in- valid wife (had he been alone, he might have escaped), was one who, by his own indomitable will, coupled with untiring industry, had wrested great financial victory from early adversity. He was a king in his own business realm, and at this very hour held in his hands the financial destiny of scores; yet here he sat, entrapped in his own burning wood ! In an hour only a charred heap would mark where he had fallen, and soon the winds would catch up and scatter even that! As MacBryne came up he quickly grasped the situ- ation, and saw that "Faithful" had fallen to rise no more. In less time than it takes to tell the story he had disentangled the shafts from the fallen horse, had seized the protesting woman and gently forced her back into the seat, then grasping one of the shafts, he said to Mr. Stuart: "You take the other. All is by no means lost. The lake is not far distant. We must reach it!" In the meanwhile Princess, now swaying, now 286 A FOREST FIRE staggering, had at the last, utterly exhausted, reached the water's edge. As she did so, she fell, quite loosing herself from the cart. "Unfasten the boat, Dorothy," the Professor was saying, "and take Mrs. Williamson to the island. I will stop for a minute with Princess." As the two stepped into the boat, safety at last assured, each involuntarily lifted a heart of praise. Midway between the shore and the island Dor- othy's eye was caught by a crumpled bit of cambric and lace ; it was her handkerchief, which she had dropped only the evening before! As she took it in her hand, it seemed to her it must have been in another life, when she and Clay had idly paddled in these same waters. With those he loved on the way to safety, the Pro- fessor turned to Princess, who lay with half-closed, glassy eyes and slowly heaving sides. He hurriedly dipped water from the lake and poured it over her head. As he was thus busy, a question flashed into his mind. Where were the Stuarts? It was high time both they and MacByrne were arriving. He looked anxiously into the woods, and along the path by which he had just come; but no one was in sight. Instead he saw sumachs flaming as they had never flamed before. He saw the approach of a bright tongue as it crept, now along the withered grass, now stopping in a roadside bush, now eating its way up the trunk of a stately birch. For an instant he faltered and who would not? Then, with a glance at the island which Dorothy was 287 DOROTHY now approaching, and another at an empty boat that invitingly rocked at the water's edge, he turned, and, with a bound, again entered the burning forest. It has ever been easy for a brave man to die, but it has never been possible for such to remain in safety while others were yet in peril. But where were those he sought? Back yet in the smoke and heat, still running; but one at least ran as does one who sees the goal ahead, yet feels his limbs stagger beneath him, and knows he must drop by the wayside. "It is of no use; I can go no farther." At the words Mr. Stuart tottered, and seemed about to fall. "Pray, man, pray for strength. See! yonder, be- hind that turn, is the lake. We can, and must reach it!" Yes; it would indeed be hard to die with safety just in sight! Once more the two summoned all their waning strength, and now their path lay over cinders so hot they shrank in pain. It was indeed well that Professor Williamson had gone to the rescue, else those last few hundred yards had not been traversed ! At his approach (bringing news as he did of the safety of his wife and Dorothy) fresh courage was born, and with courage, strength; so, ever groping forward, no matter how dense the smoke, the fainting party at last reached the water's edge. Mr. Stuart and his wife had just pushed off in one of the boats; the Professor was awaiting MacByrne 288 A FOREST FIRE in another, when the latter bethought him of Princess. Unless she had swum to the island, which was un- likely, she must be yet on the shore. He called to her, and something like a moan smote his ear. It had come from Princess, whose rapidly dulling ear had caught the familiar call, and, with an obedience that would fain defy death, she was striving to arouse herself. It took but a moment although there were none to lose to fetch water, and as the Professor had begun to do, dash it over her; then MacByrne said, softly, "Come, Princess, we must be going." Often in the years gone by he had used the same words; she had never failed him then, nor did she now. As her master bent over her, calling to her, and helping her as best he could, she slowly arose. By this time the Professor had joined MacByrne, and together, as two women with tender mother hearts might have guided a sick child, so did these guide her down into the water. As the waves closed about her, with something like the old proud toss of the head she began to swim. The men were now in the boat; the Professor rowed, while MacByrne, his hand on the bridle, guided and with gentle word encouraged the swimmer. But, alas! her movements were slow, and her master, with an overwhelming sense of desolation, saw that a stream of blood was issuing from her nostrils. The island was soon reached, and as her feet touched the sandy edge Princess gave one last mute look of appeal to him she had served so faithfully, then sank at his feet. The shapely limbs had won their last victory! Mac- 19 289 DOROTHY Byrne knelt by her, and, though her eyes were clos- ing, she laid her head upon his arm with a last caress- ing touch. In one of the boats lay a shawl, a part of the wraps so hastily gathered. With the arm that was free he reached for this ; then spread it, not only over the dying animal's head, but his own as well, and the emotions that at the moment shook his overwrought frame were scarcely less violent than the tremors which, growing fainter and fainter, told of the passing of Princess. It was well that the flight had been so well timed. The fugitives had barely landed when a clump of tamaracks, quite at the water's edge, became a mass of flame ; and it was indeed well that so few of the taller trees had been left standing else the flames had over- leaped the space that separated the island from the shore. As it was, the licking tongues of flame ran along the water's edge, then crept back, baffled of further prey. The rescued party found they were by no means the only occupants of the island. It was evident that the morning flight of the animals that had so puzzled those that had observed it, had been to this same spot. Comrades, now, in a common affliction, they evinced no fear of these late comers. Deer looked at them with wistful eyes. Even a shaggy bear made friendly overtures to the Professor, to whom the whole weird scene seemed more like a printed page from his library than an actual experience. What should be done next? Clearly they could 290 A FOREST FIRE not remain long on the island; hunger would forbid that. The woods from which they had fled, even with the immediate dying out of the fire, would be for days a smoldering mass of coals, which each passing breeze would fan into flame. Safety lay along a single line. On the farther side of the island the lake extended a distance of a few miles; beyond that there was a nar- row passage-way by which the river was reached. Once on the river the new camp, shut off from the fire by the water, could be quickly reached. Before leaving, there was a duty that appealed to MacByrne. With the aid of a spade, which fortu- nately for his purpose had been left on the island (the Professor had made many a journey thither, attracted by the strange flowers and shrubs, he would fain clas- sify), he dug a grave for Princess. After he had smoothed the ground above her form, he went into the near-by thicket, and, selecting a slen- der, smooth white birch, he planted it near-by. The superstitious yet argue that its roots have caught something of the symmetry crumbling back to dust beneath ; for in all the Northern forests there is to-day no tree more beautiful, and none so shapely. The woodsmen who know the story, still point to it, and call it "The Princess." 291 CHAPTER XXIX. PLANS LATER the perils, the hunger, the cold, the drench- ing rain that followed the fire, through which, drip- ping and chilled, they at length made their way to the new camp all past a very thankful though worn group gathered for their last evening together. They were now in the Stuart home. On the mor- row the Williamsons were to start homeward; for neither the fire nor subsequent dangers had driven from the minds of either the anxiety each felt concern- ing the progress of the plague. They were about to separate for the night when Mr. Stuart bade them linger, as there was something he greatly desired to say, adding, "If that 'something' deals too largely in the personal, I must trust to your friendship for forgiveness." With wondering expectancy, each paused to listen. In a few sentences he told of his early meeting with MacByrne, and of how, in a certain conversation, it had been borne in on him that, notwithstanding all cavil, all indifference, all flippant criticisms, there was an actual reality in the life of Him whom men call "the Galilean," and further that He still lived, the most potent factor to-day in world affairs. "With this 292 PLANS conviction," Mr. Stuart added, "there was born a de- sire to follow that life." Then lowering his voice, and speaking softly, he said, "And that I have tried to do. Certain troublesome questions, however, grew out of that attempt. First, I have never been a man of sentiment, but of business. To illustrate what I mean, although I might know, for myself, that alle- giance and loyalty to my new Master now held sway in my life, I could not have uttered a rhapsodical word, or have explained though I would have acknowledged, this new allegiance to those of my world. In the midst of my heart-searchings it came to me that, in the Christian life, obligations vary with the character- istics of the individual, and, with the thought, my own duty became plain; as a business man I was to serve, and in a business way. Since that morning when I so reluctantly gave the "Woods Preacher" a half hour to state his fancied needs, I have been acquiring a constantly widening view of life, and I now see that among its responsibilities are two which seem para- mount; one of these being to bring the entire world to a personal knowledge of the Christ, and, as a se- quence, to make universal His civilization. The other lies closer at home. Some way although I confess I do not yet see how the world's business ought to be so adjusted that any man who works may, if he will (probably there will be to the end of time many who will not), make all out of himself that it is possible for him, with his own particular mental qualifications, to become. In the light of advancement already made, this need not be considered Utopian. In connection 293 DOROTHY with this last I became greatly interested in Mac- Byrne's efforts on behalf of the woodsmen. Indeed, his success was my arousement. It seemed beyond be- lief that men and conditions could be so changed; and I began to argue if this could occur with a single camp, such a result were worth striving for everywhere where men work together in large numbers. I know I am taking a good deal of your time," he added, apologetic- ally; "but I assure you I will never make so long a speech again, and I have nearly done. It was in reality to study the 'Woods Preacher,' his work, and, above all, his personality, that Mrs. Stuart and I entered upon the outing that came so near ending fatally." He paused as the harrowing remembrance swept over him, then continued : "There was a moment when I thought the end of life had come. It was then I heard the whispered word, 'Pray.' Prayer has in it the element of entreaty. I did not entreat the Lord, but I did remind Him that He knew the purpose for which I had come into the wood, and added, that if it was to His glory to save life, I knew He was abun- dantly able. Shortly after, Professor Williamson ap- peared, and then" he added these words with a smile "I made some promises, which I am now about to fulfill, and it was for this I asked you to linger while I tell you of certain tentative plans. "First," turning to MacByrne, "we must find some one who will be in a measure to the new camp what you have been to the old; for I shall greatly need you as an adviser in those broader plans of 'Gospel sending' (your remedy, by the way, for all of man- 294 PLANS kind's woes), and of 'condition-bettering,' of which I have spoken; for, although I know a new purpose, I trust I shall be none the less a man of business. So much for the future; but in the present an immediate duty confronts me as an employer of woodsmen. A better system of forestry guards must be instituted. They understand these matters better in older countries than do we, so, if it meets your approval, we that is, the firm shall want you to go to Germany, and per- haps Sweden, and carefully investigate their excellent systems. I will only add in this connection, that I hope, with Mrs. Stuart, to join you at some time and point upon which we may agree. "There is yet another matter that lies close to the heart of Mrs. Stuart and myself." He looked wist- fully at Dorothy. "You seem, Dorothy, so very like our own, that we covet for ourselves your sunshine. Will you not come to us in truth? We must be leav- ing these regions at once; MacByrne will also soon go. If you remain with the school, you will be as you have not been alone, and you do not realize the soli- tude that awaits you. As our ward, or daughter, as you may elect, there will be advantages that will be yours, to say nothing of the pleasures ordinarily dear to the girlish heart. Will you not gladden our hearts by coming with us?" Dorothy sat for a time in surprised silence; then she arose, and, crossing the room, knelt by the couch upon which Mrs. Stuart lay, and laid her head down close to that lady's own. "You are kind, O so kind!" she murmured; "and 295 DOROTHY do not, I beg you, think me lacking in appreciation; but I can not, O I can not !" She could not explain, even to herself, why she must give pain when she would have so gladly given pleasure. She did not know that a love of self-depend- ence was hers by birthright. Besides, she had caught the sweetness of the knowledge that in this spot so insignificant in its relationship to the rest of the world she was needed ; here she might be of use. And life holds no sweeter sensation ! "We shall still love you," Mr. Stuart made reply; "shall still keep an eye on you. It will take Mac- Byrne more than a year to complete his investigations. As you are soon to make the long-talked-of trip to Scotland, we will insist that you time your visit, so that we may spend a part of the next summer together across the sea." The following day, as the Williamsons were leav- ing, Mrs. Stuart placed in the Professor's hand an envelope, saying, as she did so, "I want to make some sort of a tangible thank-offering for our escape." The envelope was found to contain a check, and a little slip of "instructions," which asked that the in- closed be used in building a "Hall" that should be ample in size, and contain all that was necessary to a happy, healthful school life; the same to be used throughout the years as a home for the girls in attend- ance upon the Seminary. There was a single stipu- lation, all else being left to the judgment of Professor Williamson: "See that the grounds selected for the site are ample and well shaded." 296 PLANS In old tales of magic the magician is wont to rub a magical stone or ring, and the story-teller immedi- ately adds, "And lo! it was done." The same re- mark might now be made, and that with the greatest propriety; for with the magical gift of gold, strong walls of brick and stone began at once to arise. There had been no question as to the site, for what bit of ground so appropriate as the "woodland," still as shady, even under mid-summer sun, as in those other days, when a young girl, half child, half woman, had hastened through it from her own home to the one she called "the Beeches." The gift had been so generous that no delay was necessary, and in an incredibly short time its welcom- ing doors were opened. Later, with the flight of years, as groups of happy, free-from-care girls thronged its broad halls, often, even the most careless would pause at a certain landing, and, with an admiration that never tired, gaze at a certain bright face that, in a spirit of friendliness, seemed from its heavy frame to call out greetings. But all that was in the future. We must speedily come back to the present, and if to the present, to The Mills, where Dorothy was already quaffing her first draught of loneliness. The Stuarts were gone, and MacByrne had found it necessary to accompany them, and, as had been foreseen, she was quite alone. Loneliness is soon forgotten in an anxiety, and is easier borne if in its midst there is a cherished plan or hope. Dorothy carried each of these in her heart. 297 DOROTHY She was now in frequent correspondence with the aunts in Scotland, and Jean, the younger of the two, had written that when the heather should bloom again, they would except to see "Mary's little girl," and the "little girl" had promised, and found rare pleasure in the promise. "Remember, we are to meet you in Edinburgh, after your visit is over with your relatives, and then you are to join us in whatever particular journey we see fit to make," the Stuarts had written when they had learned of the "promise." "How glad I will be to see you, and how gladly I will join you!" Dorothy replied. Yet even this, delightful as it was to look forward to, was not sufficient to allay the anxiety with which, in the first weeks of her isolation, she awaited tidings from the stricken cities, from the cities, she told her- self; but in this her heart rebuked her. Still no mes- sage came to cheer; for while in the North heavy frosts were heralding the approach the winter, the papers still told of sickening heat in the South, and of a continued harvest of death. Finally the message for which she had waited came. The Williamsons, in writing her, inclosed a letter they had but that day received from Robert, who, accord- ing to Clay's prophecy had not died, though there had been weeks when no tidings came, and when those who loved him feared the worst. In an overcrowded hos- pital, from which the dead were borne out hourly, his splendid physique had fought for life, and won. With convalescence he had left the foul city, and the letter 298 PLANS was written from a mountain point, where he had gone to recuperate. In it he had briefly outlined his plans. "You know," he wrote, "how the study of medicine has al- ways appealed to me. During those dreadful days, when so many bent themselves to the task of beating back the dread disease, it came to me that life could know no higher ambition than to hunt to its last lair the causes of the disease with which we were measur- ing strength. My own life is a pitifully small offering to so great an object; but if I might, even after years of study, be able to add even a little to the sum total of knowledge upon the subject, it would be a rich reward. I think I can study better in Germany," he went on; "so I am planning to start very soon to Berlin." Dorothy laid down the letter. Surely there had never been a more impersonal one written. Not a word concerning one of the friends who he knew had summered together. He was evidently making his life plans, and in them "sentiment" had no part. Still she was not wholly sad. She looked out over the snow-covered hills, and was conscious of a strange thrill of hope that had been born with the reading. These snows must melt, summer must come, and "across the sea," to quote from Aunt Jean, "the heather would bloom," and happy thought she would be there to see. She carefully put aside the letter; then though why she could not have told she went singing about her task. 299 DOROTHY She had thought "sentiment" had no part in the life plans Robert had so prosaically outlined. In truth it had everything. Through all the years of study he had tenaciously clung to the slender thread upon which his pitifully small love-story had hung his last chance meeting with Dorothy. Many an hour of hard work had been sweetened by the determination he cherished to seek, at the close of his studies, the girl he had so long loved, and from her own lips learn his fate. But when at last he might in honor go, there had come a call to duty which he could not put aside and remain true. With the chance meeting with Clay, of which the reader already knows, the slender hope he had known vanished. For was he not almost hastening directly from the steamer, from which he had but em- barked, to his sweetheart's side? There was a touch of bitterness in the question that intruded itself: "Why should this favored young man have every- thing, even love, and he nothing?" It had been the emptiness of his own life, added to a sense of duty, that made him brave, even to reck- lessness, in the weeks that followed. But death, always perverse, had taken those who feared it, and he who might have welcomed it, came slowly back to health and strength. There came a day when he grimly ac- knowledged that he was to live, and as grimly resolved that the life thrust upon him should be a useful one; hence, after they were matured, his letter of plans to the Professor. It was not like him to hurry off to another continent without a word of farewell to friends. But his heart was very sore, and he dreaded 300 PLANS a sight of the happy, self-satisfied face of Clay Worth- ington. Just before he sailed, he was greatly cheered by a letter from MacByrne, who did not fail to express his satisfaction at the plans for further study. In the fewest, briefest words he told of the change in his own life. It was with the feeling that certainly the marvelous still held sway, that he read the closing words, "I am to go in the spring to Germany. Sup- pose we plan before another winter's snows for a trip together through the Schwartzwald?" Surely the world was a small place, when friends could so easily arrange a meeting on the farther side. Surely (though he had forgotten it) there were friends who were true; and, if friends, then life must be worth living. With this he observed that the sun was shining, that the skies were blue, and that birds were singing outside his window. He arose, and, as he threw his long arms over his head, he noted that they did not now drop, as they had dropped, helplessly at his side. "Yes, he was to live," he found himself saying. A shade of bitterness passed over his face. Live, with the zest of living gone. But what was he that he should repine; should, like a child, insist on mere happiness? If there was such a thing as fate it might rob him of much, but it should not take from him the joy of work, and of that which has ever been its reward Achieve- ment. 3 OI CHAPTER XXX. "OUAH FOLKS" ON a certain evening, following the summer spent in the woods, as the winter winds whistled among and shook the leaf-bare trees at the "Beeches," the Professor and his wife set for themselves a certain task, born of a suggestion of MacByrne's. Once during the past summer, as they rode together and talked of Robert's work in the fever-stricken city, MacByrne, after a silence, had said : "Some time, when you have leisure, I wish you would look through that old chest of drawers Robert left with you. I am sure you will find in it an old, yellow roll of papers. His mother began once show- ing them to me, and telling me of a strange family history; but we were interrupted. Robert himself came in. She put the papers aside at his approach, say- ing, 'He must be older.' With that, she closed the drawer. If, as I suspect, the roll contains something in regard to his ancestry, he ought by all means to know it." The Williamsons had been very busy upon their return, and the matter had wholly slipped from their mind. But the letter and news of Robert's sailing re- called it, and they took the first moment of leisure to make the search. The indicated roll was soon 302 "OUAH FOLKS" found, and as Mrs. Wiliamson to whom the search had strongly appealed smoothed out the yellow, wrinkled page, she gave a startled cry of surprise. Her wondering eyes had fallen upon a device at the left-hand corner of the page. It was an azure shield, divided into quarters, in one of which a pierced Saracen's head showed dimly; in another, a cross and a spear hinted at the cause of the other's discomfiture. The other two quarters seemed a mere jumble of aim- less lines. Underneath, in quaint old English, mini- ature letters spelled out the laconic sentence, "I wait." "Why, that is our very own family crest," she called out, "given, so I have been told, to an ancestor who fought with Richard in the Crusades. We keep it only as a souvenir. We have been for two gener- ations too good Americans to care for it; but how comes it here? No one would care to use it if it did not belong to them." She turned eagerly again to the yellow page, and the story she found written was indeed a strange one. Two brothers, it seemed, early in the century, had come from England and settled in Virginia. They had differed, as brothers had recently differed, upon that subject so fraught with sorrow from the beginning slavery. The one had taken it to his heart, and loved it; the other had hated it, and had sworn he would have nothing to do with it, and, the better to carry out this resolve, after a dispute, of which the writer evi- dently did not care to speak, had emigrated to the mountains of Kentucky, and in that act had died to his family. 303 DOROTHY That this man evidently the writer, and the sub- sequent father of a race of Kentucky mountaineers had been a near relative of the woman who read, was beyond doubt. The story coincided with family his- tory already known to her. In her childhood she had heard of this erratic kinsman, who, it was said, had forsworn their civilization. Perhaps he had not meant so fully to do so. Perhaps in the new life there had been hardships of which he had not thought; perhaps, too, there had been a poverty which his proud spirit would not acknowledge. Whatever the reason he had surely disappeared, and from the day of his departure his family had known him no more. But that until the day of his death he had cherished a family pride, the well-preserved heirloom and the written statement were proof. Mrs. Williamson recalled the fact that the little mother who, by an irony of fate, had so recently died in the Southland, in explanation of the possession of so beautiful an article, had used the words "my grand- father." So they had been close kinswomen; and the boy Robert, who had so appealed to her scholarly hus- band, as he had not to her, was also her own. "Had I only known," she moaned, "how different all would have been!" "Different perhaps," her husband replied, "but cer- tainly not better. As it is, Robert is doubly educated. He is not only book-taught, but he has besides gelf- reliance. Together these make a rare heritage." She looked for a moment into his face, then said slowly: "Perhaps you are right. I am coming to look 304 "OUAH FOLKS" at things differently ; but think of the poor little mother and of her toil !" "Yes; there is where the pathos lies, unless it is hidden here," and he touched the yellow old page that at last had given up its secret. "Aunt Violet must know this," Mrs. Williamson said at length. "She really knows more of the family history than I ; for her mother was brought by my grandmother into the Worthington family at her mar- riage. She cared for her, and for my mother, as Violet has always cared for me. Depend upon it, she will have heard of this erratic Robert." So saying, she went at once to Violet's own quar- ters, where she found that individual warming her rheumatic limbs in her own particular corner of the wide-mouthed chimney. "Come," she said, "I have something strange to tell you, and then to show you ;" with this she led her to the chest, and as she again opened its drawers she rehearsed once more the story she had just learned. "What 's dat you 's tellin' me?" Her eyes began to bulge with horror, and she made a quick movement from the chest. "You heerd from Ole Marsa Robert? Him that was druv plum' away? That cayn't be, Mis' Millicent. He 's been daid dis many a yeah. Mebbe it is true, though," she falteringly admitted, " 'cause dey uset to say his sperrit come regular to de Tost,' whah it all happened." "Now, Violet, I can not imagine what you mean by the Post. I have told you many times that there are no 'sperrits' that we need fear; but what I want 20 DOROTHY is to tell you, that I am sure that this story that has been hidden here is a true one. You must know some- thing of this man's going. Try to remember. Did you ever hear your mother speak of this uncle of my father's who disappeared ? I heard something about it when I was a child. It seems like a dream to me." Violet hesitated, and well she might, for the story of "Ole Marsa Robert" had been a favorite one around many a cabin hearth; but it was one, each sable story teller had known, could not be mentioned "befoh' their bettahs." Finally she began: "Mis' Millicent, I doan' 'spect I was bawn when dis ting you 's askin' about happened. But o' nights, when de wind would holler and screech around de cabins, somebody would most like stop and say, kin' o' low, 'Dat 's Marsa Robert's sperrit' and den, while us chillun's would scrouch around de fire too skeered to whimper, dey would tell how it come to happen. "You see my mammy had come ovah to youh folks' place with- her Mis' Clahibel, to take keer of her. Marsa Robert, and Marsa George, dey lived together. De ole Missus had died den; and Mis' Jane, she was de young missus dat Mis' Clahibel w r as visitin'. And Mammy she expected Mis' Clahibel was a-goin' to marry Marsa Robert. He was de older, and he was mighty fine, an an " again Violet hesitated "he was always a-wantin' to set his people free; but Marsa George would n't 'low it. "Marsa Robert was mighty good to his people. In partickler he never 'lowed any of 'era whipped, and 306 "OUAH FOLKS" Marsa George had to do as he said. But one day Marsa Robert and Mis' Clahibel was out riding, and some way Marsa George was in a turrible tantrum; 'pears like dey could n't please him no how ; and Marsa Robert's own 'boy' Sam, dey called him got sassy, and Marsa George, he up and sent him to de 'Post,' and writ a letter for de ooerseer to lay it on good and plenty; and he did; and while de 'boy' was a-moanin' (dey always said he was mighty nigh killed), Marsa Robert and Mis' Clahibel come a-ridin' up as big an' as happy as you please. Marsa Robert, all at once, he heard de noise, and dey say as how he went tearin' down de gravel walk, and left Mis' Clahibel to get off best way she could. "I doan' know all dat happened in dem few min- utes; but Marsa George, he come out and den dere was words, and finally Robert he struck George with his riding whip, cut his face awful; den dah was a fight, and Mis' Clahibel she run in between 'em, and den somehow Marsa Robert he left. Dey said he nevah come back, but Mammy she knowed bettah, for one night he come, and give her a lettah, and said, 'You take it to Mis' Clahibel, and I will wait heah;' and Mammy did, and Mis' Clahibel she read it, and tore it in two and said, 'Xell him I am going to marry his brother George,' and sho' enuff, she did; and honey, yo' knows yo' grandmother's name was Clah- ibel." Aunt Violet had been far away in the past. Sud- denly she came to the present. "Mis' Millicent, you doan' know what will hap- 307 DOROTHY pen. If I was you I wouldn't touch de olc chest any moah. It ain't no kind o' good luck. Marsa Robert dey all said was a mighty good man; but it 'pears to me, when any one has been daid as long as he has, dey ought to let othah folks alone, and not come spookin' around." "Violet" the master was speaking almost sternly "I will not have you afraid of this harmless bit of wood. We have told you the story it has hidden, that you might know that the other Robert who brought it to us, whom you know and I think love, is a de- scendant of the man of whom you have told us, and so one of our very own folks." "What 's dat you say? Ouah ohn folks? Ouah ohn folks?" She arose, stood for a moment in evident amazement, in which fear held a large place. "Come, Auntie," her mistress added, "look in these drawers, and see for yourself there is nothing that can harm." "No, chile, I doan' tech dead men's things, and you 'd bettah not." With that she hobbled off mut- tering as she went. "Ouah folks ! humph ! There 's a heap of strange things a-happenin'. Please Gawd! I wish I was back in old Virginny." The two, who stood watching her, smiled as she disappeared through the doorway; then each turned to the chest. "What stories it could tell!" remarked the Professor, as he gently touched its smooth surface. "I am wondering, if this Robert so suddenly left his home, how this came into his possession." "We will never know," replied the Professor; 308 "OUAH FOLKS" "but I have a theory that will do as well as another. It looks like a woman's belonging. Perhaps the self- exiled man's mother brought it with her from her English home; perhaps the 'boy' who was whipped " "Small cause for so much trouble," interrupted his wife, and then smiled, half in defiance, as she caught his reproving eye. "Brought it to him, let us say by night, with other articles necessary for his immediate comfort." "Let us hope he had the grace to serve him faith- fully until his death," Mrs. Millicent yet added. "Ah! you are incorrigible, I fear." They were carefully putting away the yellow roll, when the Professor spoke yet once more. "So it was not altogether principle that sent your long-ago relative into exile, but, the rather, principle set on fire, made effective by love. Ah! how often that has happened in the history of the world! Love and Principle; they have made and unmade nations." With the words his hand strayed lovingly over the black silken hair of the erstwhile proud daughter of the South. At the touch she turned and looked into his eyes. There must have been that in the look that greatly touched him, for he said, still with his arm about her: "Ah! how I pity that Robert! He lost not only his patrimony, his place in the world, but 'Clahibei: " Robert Stirling, with the ocean between himself and his native land, might well have re-echoed Aunt Violet's plaint, "Dere 's mighty strange things a-hap- 309 DOROTHY penin'," when he read the strange story which the Pro- fessor lost no time in writing him. As a lad he had known scarcely nothing of his family history. (His mother had been strangely reti- cent. Could she have guessed the relationship?) He dimly remembered that in the mountain home there had been some books and a few portraits, that, now that he recalled them, hinted of better days. As he mused on the strange story brought to light, he was conscious of two distinct sensations one of fresh sorrow for the loyal mother that, in poverty and hardships, he well remembered, had brought him up. (He had no remembrance of his father; he had been told that he died when he was a mere babe.) The other was of joy that they that is, his mother and himself had lived their life at Middletown, without suspecting the relationship. Had it been otherwise they might have been of- fered charity, might have been offered entrance into a family, that at heart felt scorn. He flushed at the thought, and then a sweet joy swept over him, they had been spared that humiliation. "It were better, a thousand times better," he told himself, "that matters were as they were." It needed no tie of blood to increase the love, the respect, even reverence, he felt for Professor Williamson as for his dainty kinswoman. He had ever been vaguely uneasy in her presence. He believed now, that, though a boy, he had unconsciously resented the fact that she should be so well cared for while his own mother was bent 310 "OUAH FOLKS" with toil; that her hands should be so beautiful, and the fingers of the other gnarled and work-worn. As for Clay, he smiled grimly at certain mem- ories. Was it true, then, that history had a habit of repeating itself? The elder Robert had yielded home, possessions, love, all. Must he, the younger, re-enact the whole bitter drama? With him there had been neither home nor possessions to yield; but there had been that other, that strangely sweet dream, that had at once swayed and tormented his life, that had been yielded. Should the analogy go further! "No!" he shut his lips firmly. He need not, he would not die to the world! Men had lived and wrought, without home, without love ; so could he, so would he! And with that, he turned resolutely towards the bare table before which he sat. His stu- dent lamp stood near-by. He trimmed it afresh, then opened a book. Henceforth he was to know but a single object. CHAPTER XXXI. FINALLY "And love can never lose its own." WHITTIER. Two MEN, long parted had at last met, and after the meeting heart was speaking to heart. There had been, on the part of one, hours of hur- ried travel; of the other, restless waiting, impatient anxiety, and while he listened he had caught the sound of a footstep on the stair outside; and then had felt a handclasp so warm, so true, that at the touch the years rolled back as with a flood. How much these years had brought ! To the elder of the two, trial, victory; to him who had been a boy, manhood, and, as it is ever, manhood's crosses; yet to him, as to the other victory! Ah! how much there was to tell, and to be told! The room in which they had met was very small, but it was as immaculately clean as its daily bath of soap and water, administered at the hands of a faith- ful "madchen," could make it. The four posts of the bed the principal article of furniture in the room reached almost to the ceiling. Piled upon this was a series of feather-beds, supposed, from a local stand- point, to represent the acme of nocturnal comfort. A table, a shelf of books, and two chairs completed the 312 FINALLY furnishings. Through the narrow panes of glass in the single small window one could look down upon a busy street, through which, from early dawn until late at night, a never-ending procession of people journeyed. By one of the curious coincidences with which life abounds, the "Woods Preacher" and Robert Stirling had met in a little room in the students' quarters in Berlin. Though the street scenes below were strange, at least to the elder, they passed without notice; so is it always when friends long parted meet. The older man was very gray; otherwise the touch of time had been gentle. Alertness characterized each motion, while his strong, self-possessed face was as eager as that of the younger man with whom he talked. "Now, you must tell me everything," Robert had said, when the "madchen," who had brought in the inevitable rolls and coffee, had retired. "But where shall I begin?" MacByrne asked in reply; then, after a moment's thought, added, "Perhaps it would be as w r ell first to make plainer than was pos- sible in a letter, by what rare chance I am here." In a few sentences he told of his last summer's guests, of the weeks spent together, of the forest fire, and of Mr. Stuart's generous plans. All this was, no doubt, of great interest to him who listened, but there was yet a hungry, unsatisfied look in that young man's eyes. "Perhaps," the older man continued, "you would like to know of Middletown, and of the 'Beeches,' youh folks' now, as Aunt Violet would say; for you must know I have seen them all in person. I hardly 313 DOROTHY think, though, from the standpoint of personal vanity, the visit paid. Middletown is so changed there is hardly a vestige of the dear old village left. It is full of 'new' people, who looked me over as if speculating on my possible possession of a pocket-book, and of its probable condition. One dapper little chap that had recently come from somewhere seized on me, as a prospective buyer of a corner lot! The sarcasm of it! Clearly I had no business there. Even Long David" ''Tell me about Dave." Robert was smiling at the vision, the name had conjured up. With an access of simulated dignity, MacByrne made answer: "You will have to drop that familiar form of address; the gentleman in question is now 'The Honorable David Johnson.' I found even him too busy for much of a talk, though he did grip my hand till it hurt for days. He was in the midst of the campaign that I have since seen, by the papers, gave him the honor he sought. However, I had the privilege of a drive over 'The Knobs' with him one half-day; said he had a little 'business' on hands. During that drive he relaxed and seemed more like the 'David' we once knew, and I could easily imagine I saw him holding forth as of old on one of Uncle John's nail-kegs. Suddenly, in the midst of a pretty good history of Middletown's new growth, he broke off, and said, 'Bless me ! there 's a man I Ve got to see;' and, throwing the 'lines' to me, he was off across the newly plowed .field. I watched with a good deal of interest the little comedy about to be enacted. First, 3H FINALLY from the very apparent gestures, I knew David was making certain oracular remarks about the weather and the crop prospects; from another act, I gathered he was expressing his satisfaction at the 'lay of the land.' He then dropped a few suggestions as to how to plow, in order most effectually to kill the weeds, and illustrated his theory by turning a furrow, a full half-length of the field. Then he patted on the head the freckled, sunburnt lad that stood looking on, drink- ing in each separate item of the welcome interruption. I was sure he was saying, 'Likely chap that, I reckon you 're 'lowin' to send him in, and let them professors dress him down. Better do it.' By this time he was ready for his own business, and grew suddenly confi- dential. I finally saw the farmer nod approval, and from the 'returns,' I have n't a bit of doubt he ratified that approval on election-day. David looked sort o' sheepish when he came back; but I pretended to have been deeply interested in the hills beyond." "But I should think the State was in a bad way when such as he come to the front," Robert objected. "Why, no! David is as good as any, and you have been studying and learning some things during the years, have n't you ? Well, so has he. There has been a great widening of vision on the part of many in Middletown. This broader outlook had its birth in the Seminary, which has taught many more than have been enrolled, and have been fed by the changes the village has seen. When we knew him, David had not come into his own that is all." At this Robert was silent. He was secretly won- 3*5 DOROTHY dering if the years would bring him the faith, the con- fidence in humanity that the man by his side knew, and had known for so many years. "What about his wife?" Robert at length aroused himself to ask. Again MacByrne laughed his hearty, gladsome laugh. He knew of what Robert was thinking. "Well, I tell you, honestly at first, I did not at all recognize in the well-dressed woman that sat at the head of the table, and, with an 'I have always done it' air, rang for the maid, and ordered the 'courses.' Though it must be that the other, she of the touseled gowns and sharp voice, had died, and David had al- lowed himself to be 'comforted.' But, bless you, she was the same woman we knew, and among the startling changes that have come to her is actual pride in her husband. "One thing that comforted me," MacByrne con- tinued, "there was but little, if any, change distinguish- able either at the 'Beeches' or with Cousin Sarah. Some folks, you know, don't need no change; spoil them if they did. Cousin Sarah is the same active, useful woman as of yore. I noticed, though, that now- adays she wears a black silk gown to Church instead of the bombazine of precious memories. When I told her I was to see you, her eyes filled with tears. If you ever go back, Robert, Cousin Sarah has a welcome ready for you. "I found the 'Beeches' in a high state of excitement, especially Aunt Violet. She was sitting in state in the kitchen directing, in no very gentle tones, an army of 316 FINALLY servants, or, to be exact, three or four of her own race. She was in her happiest mood, for there was 'big goings-on* in progress. For Marsa Clay you re- member Clay Mrs. Williamson's brother?" the elder man shot a quick, penetrating glance at the younger. Robert, try hard as he might to appear uncon- cerned, felt his throat tightening as he nodded an affirmative. "Well, Clay was about to bring home his bride." At the announcement Robert arose, and, uncon- scious of the eyes that watched, began a series of nerv- ous strides up and down the room. Had he not expected this? Had he not* known that it must come? Why, then, should a chill settle at his heart? But this would never do. After an effort at composure he sat down, and in as calm a voice as he could summon, he said, "I would have thought you would have staid until she came." "They appeared to think it ill of me that I did not; but, in truth, I never succeeded in getting close to that young man, and so had no desire; but it did my heart good to witness the joy of Aunt Violet. She could not say enough in praise of the expected bride. 'One of ouah very best families,' she assured me over and over. 'Ole neighbors, the Aliens was. Why, her mothah was just like a sistah to de Missus. Why, I done held that sweet baby in my arms many a time, and now Massa Clay has done hunted her up, and is a-fetchin' her to us. 'Liza! look there! doan' be drop- pin' dat cake-dough you 's a-mixin'. You doan' need to 317 DOROTHY be listenin' when yoah bettahs is a-talkinV Then she added fervently, 'Bless Gawd! de wah, it spiled a lot, but it could n' spile folks' " But Robert had little interest in Violet's happiness. His head was spinning. "Clay married," he was say- ing under his breath; "and the bride not Dorothy!" Finally his lips framed a single question, and that question a single word, "Dorothy?" "Is at present at her mother's old home in Scot- land. I have never known anything more pathetic in life than that girl's heart-hunger for her own people. This visit is the result of years of planning and wait- ing." At last Robert broke the silence that had fallen upon the two. His voice sounded far away and strangely constrained. "Forgive me if I seem inhos- pitable; but I start for Scotland to-night, I will not endure this another hour without action. You do not know how I have loved her, how I have suffered. I thought they that is, she and Clay were lovers. I MUST know." And at the words he turned to busy himself with preparations for a hasty journey. MacByrne laid his kindly hand upon the young man's shoulders, and, with that rare smile that had comforted many a heartsick woodsman, he said: "Go; let nothing hinder. I have long suspected what you have just told me." With that he walked to the window. Before him was the gray German sky. Below, in the crowded streets, busy, happy groups touched elbows; but he saw none of these. Rather it was a far-away scene 318 FINALLY that held his vision. An expanse of water; and then, beyond, plains and forests; and then a single hillock, over which grass had grown for many a year. As the vision continued, he saw her who, in his youth, he had seen buried beneath that same sod. "There are souls," he said softly to himself, "that even death hath not power to separate; for ' Life is ever Lord of death, And Love shall never lose its own.' May God speed the boy's errand!" he added, rever- ently. The stuffy compartment cars had never seemed so close to Robert as upon the journey he had so sud- denly undertaken. To add to his discomfort, memory began to assert itself. For the hundredth .time he found himself going over the links of that chain which had, as he thought, so certainly bound Clay and Dorothy together. There were two pivotal points about which the whole matter revolved. Either, de- spite the evidences of his senses, the whole had been a mere chimera of the brain, or, at the last, Clay always whimsical, had forsaken her. With this, which he found impossible to dislodge, came another. Though she had loved Clay, might she not in her disappoint- ment turn to him; for has not a new love been en- kindled more than once upon the ashes of an old one? Alight not his own great, abounding love, surviving despite the lack of anything on which to feed, be all- sufficient? DOROTHY The thought stifled him. He walked the narrow length of the car. He looked out upon the peaceful fields through which he journeyed, but all the while his heart made emphatic answer, No! He knew, he wanted nothing else, could take nothing else, than that love which a woman gives but once in her life, and, if given, is forever after immortal. So fearing, doubting, wondering, at each stage of the irksome journey, if this were not, after all, a fool's errand; if it were not far better that he return to the books he had quitted so suddenly; yet ever despite his fears borne forward by a force ouside himself. The visit of the young girl (Dorothy Ryedale, as the villagers at once rightfully called her) from the "States" had been the wonder, not only of the village of Helbiethj but of the country-side as well. So many had gone to far-away America, but none had ever re- turned. Old neighbors came to visit, moved not a little by curiosity, but, once in the cottage, were rich in reminiscences of her father and mother. To all of these the young stranger listened eagerly, hungrily. The aunts, she found, lived in a quaint, little, low-roofed cottage, with outspreading eaves. Under these the swallows had built their nests for years, and now flew in and out with a busy air of proprietorship. The grass plat in front was scrupu- lously free from weeds and rows of flowers (as prim as the elder Aunt Elspeth) reached quite to the door. These aunts, the visitor soon learned, were persons of no small consequence. They had grown up and 320 FINALLY grown old in the manse; for their father and the gentle-faced one's father had been for nearly half a century the beloved minister of the village. Since his death and it was told Dorothy that sorrow for the death of his beloved daughter had hastened it a younger minister had taken his place. This had happened years before; yet each sister still felt that a great responsibility was theirs to see that the affairs of the kirk were properly cared for. Dorothy had not been long in the village until she found that her Aunt Elspeth, in particular, had never been one to shirk any responsibility that might come her way; indeed, it was broadly hinted that it was her habit to sally forth in search of such ; and occasion- ally, like other exceedingly earnest people, had been known to appropriate some that might rightfully belong elsewhere. Once certain friends from her father's village came to meet her, and, while Elspeth was busy with the rites of hospitality, they told her under their breath how the young Mary had stood in awe of this older sister (sister and mother in one, for the mother had died early) , and of how, when the tall, handsome young Highlander had come to woo, Elspeth forbade her to receive him, but that, through it all, Jean had secretly helped ; and how at last the persistent wooer had gained the father's consent. Elspeth had not been present at the marriage, which had taken place in the kirk, nor did she say farewell when the two turned their faces westward. But if this were true and it was she had been 21 321 DOROTHY quick to take "Mary's little girl" to her heart (Jean had loved her, even before she came), and in return the "little girl's" heart went out to each. It became her delight, in the days that followed, to wander about the little kirk, and among the grassy old graves in its shadow. She tried to imagine her mother's face at the little dormer window of the manse, which Jean told her had lighted her mother's room. But as the days lengthened into weeks her old restlessness returned, and the insistent question, "What of the future?" intruded itself. One day, unusually perplexed, she sat down in the little parlor to think it all out. For the first time she was realizing how large a part, in her past life, plans for this visit had held. But a future stretched out before her for which she had not a single plan. She could not be idle. She had chosen independence. She must abide by her choice. A letter received from Clay before she sailed told of his approaching marriage. As she read it she could scarcely have defined her feelings. She was glad; of that she was sure; and yet the memory of his ardent wooing of but a year ago, came to her. Were men, after all, intrinsically fickle, .or was love a mere matter of the story-books? She half believed it; for Clay had written in one breath of the wonderful help she had been to him, of how he owed to her every high aim he now knew, and then in rhapsodical strains, of his dainty bride-to-be. 322 FINALLY So thinking, planning, seeking to project herself into the future, she heard a step at the doorway. "Aunt Jean," she said to herself, "is bringing another visitor." Mechanically she arose to greet a possible neigh- bor, and, instead, a tall, broad-shouldered man seemed somehow suddenly to fill the little room. There was a moment of tumultuous heart-beat, and then she found herself looking into a pair of earnest, compelling eyes, eyes that had followed her throughout the years, and now seemed in their first glance to be laying bare the very secrets of her soul. For Robert was at last in the presence of Dorothy ! Dorothy to whom time had added new graces, and had been busy in enhancing old ones. A new Dorothy; and yet, as hand touched hand, and eyes looked into eyes the same Dorothy, his heart told him, he had loved, he verily believed, since that now distant day when she had first crossed his path. It is hard for the lips, when the heart announces a crisis, to utter the mere commonplaces. So it was not strange that the greetings between the two were constrained, formal. With Robert, the words he meant to say were left unsaid, and he blindly stumbled with those of which he had not thought. The greetings over, there was no lack of topics for conversation such as Mac- Byrne's presence in Berlin, the friends at the "Beeches;" but neither pair of lips mentioned that of which each thought, Clay's marriage. It was further fortunate, as the minutes became 323 DOROTHY more fraught with embarrassment, that Aunt Elspeth should come in to greet the stranger, and that, when she learned he was from the "States," she should be quick to offer him the hospitality of the little home. While each of the aunts was busy setting out the china, and giving the silver an extra polish, Dorothy, to relieve the situation, offered to show him the pictur- esque kirk, and with it the old manse home. Once out in the open, her self-possession returned, and she was her old enchanting self, ready with story and legend to beguile each step. Not so Robert. With him, love and pride were fighting their final battle, and ever the question rang in his ears, Should he turn and cry out, "Dorothy, Dorothy! I have always loved you. Whatever happens, I must forever love you." Then should he entreat her to come to him, though perchance her heart was not hers to give? No! alas! he could not! Now that he saw her, felt again the charm of her presence, his heart hungered afresh for her love. It was indeed a distrait man that mechanically gave his attention to the objects pointed out, and later attempted to enjoy the hospitality that awaited their return. During the absence of the two the village doctor, an old friend of the family, had dropped in to talk over once more that strange thing, the coming of "Mary's little girl." Elspeth had urged him to remain and meet the stranger. "A doctor like your- self," Elspeth told him; and when he further learned that he was but recently from the scenes of that plague 324 FINALLY before which the profession had stood appalled, even in remoter parts of the world, he readily consented. During the progress of the meal, Robert aroused himself to answer the many questions asked, and to live over once more the harrowing scenes through which he had passed; but when, from a chance word, the eager questioner learned that the young physician's own mother had fallen a victim to the same, he tact- fully and sympathetically led the conversation from the painful subject. The doctor and the aunts lingered about the table, as friends will, until Dorothy finally excused herself, and passed into the little parlor. It began to appear that the doctor would be compelled to bide yet longer, for Elspeth's soul was troubled over certain threatened innovations in the kirk, and she was bent upon sound- ing the doctor as to his views. Finally Robert, too, arose, saying he would join Dorothy. She was standing at the little window, and slowly turned at his entrance, summoning meanwhile a smile to her lips and a careless word as well, one that would serve not to betray her heart. She had been asking herself in the moments she had been alone if a certain figure of speech were not a false one; for hearts, she was realizing, did not "break," as in popular parlance, but certainly they might be crushed. Her own was so heavy that it seemed, surely, the weight of the mountain yonder was resting upon it. She had read Robert's secret. She knew his love, and, alas! his questionings; and yet though they should go out from 325 DOROTHY this last meeting (as they probably would) to separate ways in life, yet she could not utter the explanatory word. "You will want to climb our mountain," she began to say, when just then Aunt Jean entered. "The doctor was going," she said, "but before he went he would see the little picture of the mother he remem- bered so well" a picture that Dorothy had kept through the years, and one which had journeyed back to Scotland with her. The little box (we have seen it before), in which it lay with other keepsakes, rested on the low mantel. Perhaps that which now happened was only the result of Jean's awkwardness, or again, perhaps fate, kinder in the end than is usually supposed, thought best to take the initiative in straightening out a matter that had too long gone awry. At any rate, Jean stumbled, and the box fell to the floor, and its contents lay at Robert's feet. Stooping to replace these, his wondering eye fell upon a still crumpled bit of silk, the very same (he saw at a glance, and with a thrill that well-nigh over- mastered him) that the visiting governor had placed in his hands so long ago. There was its quaintly lettered motto "Success," appealing to him as if, although despised and forgotten, it had been through the years, nevertheless, his talisman. Dorothy, with flaming face, saw what had hap- pened, and sprang forward to recover it. Too late! It was already in Robert's hand, and had whispered 326 FINALLY to him the precious secret the maiden had guarded so well. In an instant, quite to the bewilderment of Jean, he had drawn Dorothy to himself, and in incohorent words that burned with the repression of the years, he had begun to pour out the story of his great love; how, from the first day of meeting, his soul had seemed to cleave unto, to demand hers; how he had wrought, ever as though her eyes were upon him; and how, through each plan of his life, her face had always beckoned to still higher achievement; but how, alas! he had thought her love was irretrievably another's, and yet how his had persisted against his will. Such scenes are confessedly awkward to those who unfortunately must witness them. Even the tender- hearted Jean stole softly away, and so must we; but as we go a single low response reaches us. It is: "O, Robert, so big, so noble, and and yet so very blind!" There followed a blissful week for the lovers, in which Heaven deigned to come down and lend its halo to earth, and the little village, the tiny lake near by, and the mountains that close at hand towered above all, each basked in the brightness that enveloped them. Henceforth, although their feet might tread distant lands, and eyes behold far different scenes, these must remain forever transfigured. So, has it been alway. 327 DOROTHY Once they had climbed the mountains, and had sat down to rest on a crag that overlooked the village. Robert who, for the first time in his life of striving, was realizing the sweets of idling, lay stretched out on the ground beside Dorothy. Suddenly he drew from his breast, the bit of silk that had brought them together. He spread it out lovingly before him, smoothing out its creases. Then he shifted himself until he lay looking quite into Dorothy's eyes. "Tell me," he said at length, "how it all came about. I am ashamed to ask (the asking implies no doubt), but the wonder of it fills my soul; for I remember that it was on the day the governor gave me this that I thought I thought I had lost you." "You do not deserve to be told," Dorothy made response, "you have been so very sure through the years, of your powers of penetration; yet if you wish it, I will." In a few words she told the entire story of the old, innocent plight of comradeship, whose seal Robert had witnessed; and then she told him of how her own heart sore she had seen him angrily toss the talisman aside, and had recovered it. Robert was silent at the recital. He was feeling keenly the lashes of chagrin and humiliation, that his own hot temper and heart had led him astray. Finally he spoke: "Dorothy, it seems to me that, through the years, I have been, to put it mildly, one veritable fool." 328 FINALLY There was the faintest quiver of the sweet, mobile mouth, as if a shadow of a smile were passing, a sparkle of the eye, and then a demure and meek voice made answer, "It ill becometh me to dispute my liege, my lord." The eyes met, the shadow became a smile, and in it the past was forgotten. "Dorothy, do you know I have just begun to appreciate that family motto of which I have so recently learned ; but 'I wait' no longer. You must return to Germany with me." Robert, man that he was, saw no reason why this could not be so; but he soon encountered one he was forced to recognize. "Is it not an important event," Dorothy reminded him, "when I surrender that which I have so loved, my individuality, and merge it into yours, and is not such an event worthy of suitable preparations?" So, although he was very loath, Robert was forced to betake himself alone to the "student room" he had so suddenly quitted. Once there, he alternately plunged into his studies with such zeal that even the exacting Professors eyed him with interest, or, flinging his books aside, he tramped the streets until the ever-watchful police privately marked him as worth watching. But Dorothy had no desire to prolong the separa- tion, and at last the day drew near when he was free to return to Scotland. This time he did not journey alone. It had been an added joy to the two in their 329 DOROTHY happiness that MacByrne's presence in Berlin would make it possible that he be present to utter the words that would make them of "one flesh." Besides this one true friend, who readily adjusted his work to the happy duty that awaited him, there were the Stuarts, who joined them at Edinburgh. The little cottage of the aunts was, in these days of preparation, in a high state of excitement, so much so that it had quite forsaken the usual calm of its daily ordering. Elspeth hovered near, now swayed by a strong pride that her home was the center of so much interest (for the village knew the story of the lovers, and, laying all other matters aside, was giving itself wholly to the strange wedding that was to be celebrated in their own little kirk). But, alas for Elspeth! sorrow mingled with her pride for "Mary's little girl" had come, only so soon to leave. What bitterness of heart, what reproaches of con- science, this stern, silent woman had known through the years, we may not know. But we do know that, when Dorothy had first crossed the threshold of her door, she had reverently bowed her head, and had cried out that "God was very good;" and now in these last hurried days, no task seemed too hard to under- take. Thus do some souls penance. It had been planned that the two should walk together to the kirk; for Jean's herb and flower-filled garden ran quite up to its shadowy rear, and through the garden a path of clean, white gravel, that the sea had kissed, led directly to the door, and Jean had 330 FINALLY seen to it that flower-filled beds along its border were like unto patches of the blue above their heads, so heavily laden with bloom were the bluebells that "Mary" had always loved. Promptly as the hour struck, Robert entered the little room where waited his bride. We do not know what was said, as they two were alone, in those last moments. But as they stepped out through the little, low door into the open, there was a look upon the face of each that might have thrilled an angel. It was if two souls that, in the beginning, had started in search, each of the other, had at last met. And though, they had traveled long and wearily, now leaving the path, now journeying in barren wildernesses, yet, in the glad finding, each dream of life was having its richest fulfillment, each perplexing question its answer. Dorothy had never looked more beautiful. Her wealth of dark-brown hair was brushed back from, and lay loosely above, the exquisitely molded and mobile face which in the present moment, true to its old tell-tale qualities, now whispered its story of happy content, and, as of old, of a strong purpose a pur- pose to be, to the man by her side, as nearly as lay within her power, all of which he dreamed, all of which he hoped. She was simply gowned in white, and wore but a single ornament. Mrs. Stuart had placed about the shapely white throat, as she was leaving her, a necklace of beautiful pearls. A single ornament, did we say? There was yet another, for Jean, at the last, had, amid her tears, twisted into the lace at the front of the gown a single spray of heather. 331 DOROTHY As she did so she had whispered amid her tears, "You will not forget your mother's home, dearest." No, it would not be like Dorothy to forget. The pair stood in the little kirk where she of the sweet face and he of the rarely brave heart had stood so many years before. It was a simple ceremony that made the twain one. The kirk had not seen a simpler ; but it was all-sufficient, for in it MacByrne had com- mitted the two to the keeping of the God he knew and served; and there we leave them, confident that life holds for each usefulness, and, if usefulness, happiness. Postscript: Aunt Violet had just been told of the marriage that had taken place so far away. She had also heard discussed, in the same breath, the probable future home of the couple; for the Professor had learned that the college which had known Robert as a student had made him an offer that would afford him practical work, and at the same time facilities for the "original research" he so coveted. So, in all pro- bability, the two would shortly return to the home- land. 332 FINALLY Violet sat in silence. Involuntarily her eyes sought the near-by woodland. We are inclined to think that they were "holden" to the beautiful building that now graced its central knoll; instead she must have seen only a certain lithesome figure that, in other years, had been wont to disappear within the shadows; for she turned to the one who waited by her side, and said, " 'Pears like, Mis' Millicent, she always was right from the very first just like ouah own folks. She is now sho' enuff." 333