SPHINX'S - 
 HILDREN ETC.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 AT LOS ANGELES

 
 By the Same Atithor. 
 
 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 Twelve short stories (400 pages) of the hill-country 
 life of New England, the quaint dialect and sentiment 
 of the unchanged Yankee stock, the pathos and power 
 of surviving Puritan society. I vol., I2mo, $1.50. 
 
 " Masterpieces it would be hard to match in any litera 
 ture." Ne-ui York Express, 
 
 "A pleasanter variety of good reading has seldom been 
 enclosed by one pair of covers." Cincinnati Gazette. 
 
 " Truly a work of rare literary excellence. It offers, even 
 to novel readers, a larger return of interest than most novels 
 do." JV. Y. Evening Post. 
 
 " Delectable descriptions of quaint, old-fashioned gardens, 
 pretty girls, odd old maids, and odder old men. . . . Her 
 new book, ' Somebody's Neighbors,' is full of bits that one 
 reads over and over again, enjoying their flavor anew each 
 time." Hoston Transcript. 
 
 *** For sale by all booksellers. Sent, postpaid, 
 tipon receipt of price. Catalogues of our books mailed 
 free. 
 
 TICKNOR & CO., BOSTON.
 
 THE 
 
 SPHINX'S CHILDREN 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER PEOPLE'S 
 
 BY 
 
 ROSE TERRY COOKE 
 
 Atithor of " Somebody's Neighbors" etc. 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 TICKNOR AND COMPANY 
 i 886
 
 Copyright, 1886 
 BY TICKNOR AND COMPANY 
 
 All rights reserved 
 
 PRESS OF 
 ROCKWELL AND CHURCHILL 
 
 BOSTON
 
 S 7S~ 
 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 2 
 
 jg The pieces contained in this volume are reprinted 
 
 chiefly from the "Atlantic Monthly" "Harper's 
 Magazine" and the " Galaxy" although a por 
 tion of them have appeared in other periodicals.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN 11 
 
 THE DEACON'S WEEK . . . . . 25 
 
 A BLACK SILK 37 
 
 JERICHO JIM . 59 
 
 LOST ON A RAILWAY ..... 79 
 
 DOCTOR PARKER'S PATTY 108 
 
 DOOM AND DAN 136 
 
 SOME ACCOUNT OF THOMAS TUCKER. . . 167 
 
 THE FORGER'S BRIDE . . . . 204 
 
 Too LATE 229 
 
 MY THANKSGIVING . . . . . .257 
 
 How SHE FOUND OUT . . . . .290 
 
 ANN POTTER'S LESSON 317 
 
 ACELDAMA SPARKS ; OR, OLD AND NEW . . 341 
 
 SALLATHIEL BUMP'S STOCKING .... 393 
 
 SALLY PARSONS'S DUTY 410 
 
 A HARD LESSON 432 
 
 'LIAB'S FIRST CHRISTMAS . 459
 
 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN
 
 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 " Que la volonte soil le destin ! " 
 
 LONG had she sat, crouched upon her breast, 
 crouched, but not for slumber or for spring. No 
 slumber gloomed darkly in those broad, sad eyes ; no 
 dream indefinably softened the lips, whose patient 
 outline breathed only wakefulness and expectation, 
 a long-deferred, yet constant expectation, a hope 
 that would have been despair, save that it was just 
 within hope's limits, a monotonous, reiterate, inde 
 structible chord in the creature's mystic existence, 
 that, once struck by some mighty, shrouded Hand of 
 Power, still reverberated, and trailed its still renewing 
 echoes through every fibre of its secret habitation. 
 Nor yet for spring ; a couchant leopard has posed 
 itself with horrid intent ; murder glitters in its fixed 
 golden eye, quivers in the tense loins, creeps in the 
 tawny glitter of the skin, clutches the keen claws, 
 that recoil, and grasp, and recoil again from the velvet 
 ball of that heavy foot ; murder grins in the withdrawn 
 lip, the white, red-set teeth, the slavering crunch of 
 the jaw : but nothing of all these fired the quiet and 
 the silence of the crouching Sphinx ; nerve and muscle 
 in tranquil strength lay relaxed, though not uncon 
 scious. Year after year the yellow Desert robed itself 
 in burning mists, splendid and deadly ; year after year
 
 12 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 the hot shr,oom licked up its sands, and, whirling them 
 madly over the dead plain, dashed them against the 
 silent Sphinx, and grain by grain heaped her slow- 
 growing grave ; the Nile spread its waters across the 
 green valley, and lapped its brink with a watery thirst 
 for land, and then receded to its channel, and poured 
 its ancient flood still downward to the sea ; worshipped, 
 or desecrated ; threaded by black Nubian boatmen, who 
 mocked its sacred name with such savage mirth as 
 satyrs might have spirted from their hairy lips ; navi 
 gated by keen-eyed Arabs, lithe and dark and treach 
 erous as the river beneath them ; Coptic shepherds, 
 lingering on the brink, drank the sweet waters, and 
 led their flocks to drink at the shallows, when the 
 shepherd's star cleft that deepest sky with its crest, 
 and warned the simple people of their hour; yet for 
 ever stood the Sphinx, passionately patient, looking 
 for sunrise, over desert, vale, and river, beyond 
 man, to her hour. And the hour came. 
 
 Once to all things comes their hour. The black 
 column of basalt quivers to its heart with one keen 
 lightning thrill that vindicates its kin to the electric 
 flash without ; the granite cliff loses one atom from its 
 bald front, and every other atom quails before the 
 dumb shiver of gravitation and shifts its place ; the 
 breathing, breathless marble, which a sculptor has 
 rescued from its primeval sleep, and, repeating after 
 God, though with stammering and insufficient lips, the 
 great drama of Paradise, makes a man out of dust, 
 once, once, in the deadness of its beauty, that marble 
 thrills with magnetic life, drinks its maker's soul, re 
 peats the Paradisiac amen, and owns that it is good. 
 Yea, greater miracle of transcendental truth, once,
 
 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 13 
 
 perhaps twice, the sodden, valueless heart of that 
 old man, whose gold has sucked out all that made him 
 a man, beats with a pulse of generous honor ; even in 
 the dust of stocks and the ashes of speculation, amid 
 the howling curses of the poor and the bitter weeping 
 of his own flesh, once he hears the Voice of God, and 
 all eternity cleaves the earth at his feet with a glare of 
 truth. Once in her loathsome life, that woman, brazen 
 with sin and shame, flaunting on the pavement, the 
 scorn and jest of decency and indecency, the fearful 
 index of corrupt society, even she has her hour of 
 softness, when the tiny grass that creeps out from the 
 stones greenly into a spring sunshine, and as with a 
 divine whisper recalls to her the time before she fell, 
 the unburdened heart, the pure childish pleasures, the 
 kind look of her dead mother's eye, the clasp of that 
 sister's arm who passed her but yesterday pallid with 
 disgust and ashamed to own their sacred birth-tie : then 
 the tide rolls back ; the hour is come ! She, too, called 
 a woman, who leads society, and triumphs over caste 
 and custom with metallic ring and force, she who 
 forgets the decencies of age in her shameless attire, 
 and supplies its defects with subterfuges, falser in heart 
 even than in aspect, she, about whom cluster men 
 old and young, applauding with brays of laughter and 
 coarser jeers the rancor of her wit, as it drops it's 
 laughing venom or its sneering sophisms of worldly 
 wisdom, even she, when the lights are fled, when the 
 music has ceased from its own desecration, when the 
 frenzy of wine and laughter mock her in their dead 
 dregs, when the men who flattered and the women who 
 envied are all gone, she recalls one calm eye in the 
 crowd, that stung her with its pure, contemptuous pit}-,
 
 14 THE SPHINXES CHILDREN. 
 
 a look not to be shut out with draperies as the stars 
 are ; and even through her soul, harder than the soul 
 of that unowned sister walking the midnight street be 
 neath the window, since it has ceased to know the stab 
 of sin or the choking agony of shame, even through 
 that world-trodden heart flashes one conscious pang, 
 one glimpse of a possible heaven and an inevitable hell, 
 one naked and open vision of herself. 
 
 Long had the Sphinx waited. Year after year the 
 flocking pigeons flitted and wheeled through the sweet 
 skies of spring, built their nesls and reared their 
 young ; tiny lizards, the new birth of the season, 
 coiled and glittered on the hot sands like wandering 
 jewels ; every creature, dying out of conscious life, 
 left its perpetuated self behind it, and repeated its 
 own youth in its young, according to its kind : but the 
 Sphinx lived alone. Nor all-unconscious of her soli 
 tude : for he who formed that massive shape, chiselled 
 those calm, expectant lips, and wide eyes pensive as 
 setting moons, he had not failed to do what all true 
 artists do in virtue of their truth, he had shared his 
 own life with his own creation, and it was his lonely 
 yearning that stirred her pulseless heart. Little did 
 he think, toiling at that stupendous figure, ages gone by, 
 that he transfused into the stone at which he labored, 
 like a patient ant at some stupendous burden, no little 
 share of that creative yearning that inspired him to his 
 task ; as little as you think, dear poet, whether poet, 
 painter, or sculptor, for all are one, and one is all, 
 that in those dreams which you write, as unconscious of 
 your power as the transcribing stylus of its office, 3*our 
 own heart pulsates for a listening world, and the very 
 linking of words that so respire their own music makes
 
 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 15 
 
 those words self-sentient of their breaking, thrilling 
 melody, and wrings or exalts them, idea-garments as 
 they are, with the restless heaving of the thought that 
 wears them. 
 
 Or 3 r ou, whose sun-steeped brush brings to life on 
 canvas the golden trances of August noons, the high, 
 still splendor of its mountain-tops, which the sun 
 caresses with fiery languor, the unrippled slumber of 
 its warm streams, the broad glory of its woods and 
 meadows fused with light and heat into the resplendent 
 haze that earth exhales in her day of prime, till he 
 who sees the picture hears the cricket's chirping in 
 its moveless grasses and scents the rich, aromatic 
 breath of its summer passion and its rapturous noon, 
 do you dream, when at last the perfect work repeats 
 your thought, and you rest in the tropic atmosphere 
 you have created, that in very truth the picture itself 
 is full of inward heat and breathless languor? For 
 you have poured out the colors that light makes out of 
 heat, and in them the still inevitable light shall ever 
 stir the recreating heat that clothes itself in color, and 
 bring your thought, no more a dead abstraction, but a 
 living power, into the very substance whereby you 
 have expressed it. And even so far as you were 
 creative, so shall your work be informed by you, and 
 not mere dead pigment and dried oil and dull canvas 
 be your autograph, but the vivid and inspiring blazon 
 of an inspired idea shall glow life-like on some friendly 
 wall, and in its turn inspire some other soul, whose 
 light within needs but the breath from without to burst 
 upward in clear flame. 
 
 Or you, who unveil from its marble tomb that figure 
 of a chained and stainless woman, whose atmosphere
 
 16 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 is as a nun's veil, whose sad divinity is a crown, do 
 you dare imagine that the holy despair you have 
 imaged, the pause of a saint's resignation and a martyr's 
 courage, is but the outline and the faultless contour of 
 a stone? Come back, Pygmalion, from your mythic 
 sleep ! return, Art's divinest mystery, germ of all its 
 power, from the deep dust of ages ! and teach these 
 modern men that his story, whose passion fired a statue's 
 breast, was but an immortal fable, a similitude of the 
 truth you feel, but do not see, that even as our 
 Creator shared his life with his creatures, so do you 
 pour, in far less measure, but obedient to that prece 
 dent which is law, your own life and the magnetic in 
 stincts of that life, into what you create ! 
 
 Keep your hearts pure and your hands clean, there 
 fore ; for these things that you sell for dead shall one 
 day livingly confront you, and tell their own story of 
 your life and your nature with terrible honesty to men 
 and angels. 
 
 But whoever, in those mystic ages that have ceased 
 to be historic and have become mythic, whoever made 
 the Sphinx, whether it were some Titaness seques 
 tered from all her kind by genie-spells, forced to live 
 amid these desert solitudes fed from the abundant 
 hands of Nature, and taught by dreams inspired and 
 twilight visions, 
 
 " A daughter of the gods, divinely tall 
 And most divinely fair," 
 
 her only image of human beauty the reflex of her 
 white, symmetric limbs, her wide, dark eyes, her full 
 lips and soft Egyptian features, wherewith the river 
 greeted her from its blue placidity ; her only sense
 
 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 17 
 
 of love the unspoken yearning within, when the soft, 
 tumultuous stress of the west wind kissed her, who 
 should have been clasped in tender arms and caressed 
 by loving lips ; whose dumb, creative instincts, be 
 coming genius instead of maternity, struggled out 
 ward from their home in heart and brain to culminate 
 in this world's wonder, and so build a monument 
 namelessly splendid to the grand nature that found 
 its bread of life was a stone and perished ; or whether 
 this creature were the fashioning of some demigod, 
 "for there were giants in those days," who, in the 
 fulness of his strength, despairing of a mortal mate, 
 wandered away from men and wrought his patience 
 and his longing into the rock, as lesser men have 
 carved their memorials on hard Fate, and then 
 died between its paws, sated with labor and glad to 
 sleep ; or whether, indeed, the captive spirits, sealed 
 in Caucasus with the seal of Solomon, did penance 
 for their rebellion in mortal work on mere dull matter, 
 and with anguished essence toiled for ages to mimic 
 in her own clay the dumb pathos of waiting Earth ; 
 whichever of these dreams be nearest truth, one 
 thing is true, that the maker of the Sphinx infused 
 into his work, in as much greater measure as his 
 nature was greater than that of other men, that yearn 
 ing of pathetic solitude that most wrings a woman's 
 heart ; and the outward semblance, working in, wrought 
 upon the heavy stone with incessant and accumulative 
 power, till through that sluggish sandstone crept a 
 confused thrill of consciousness, and the great creature 
 felt the loneliness that she looked. Far away below 
 her the Nile valley teemed with life ; the antelopes 
 coursed beside their young to feed on the green past-
 
 18 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 ure fresh from its long overflow ; red foxes sported 
 with their cubs on the tawny sand ; the birds taught 
 their infant offspring their own sweet arts of flight and 
 song on every bough ; and even the ostrich, lonely 
 Desert-runner, heaped her treasure of white eggs in 
 the sand, or guided her callow young far from the 
 sight and fear of man ; but the Sphinx sat alone. 
 
 Mightier and mightier grew the yearning within her, 
 as the full moon floated upward from the east and cast 
 her dewy dreams over land and sea. The hour was 
 come ; the whole impulse and persistence of her nature 
 went out in vivid life, and, filling the very stones which 
 the winds had gathered and piled against her breast, 
 cleft them with its sentient spell, clothed them with 
 lean flesh and wiry sinews, shaped them after the 
 fashion of the Desert men, and sent them out alive 
 with intellect and will, but with hearts of flint, into the 
 wide world, the Sphinx's children ! 
 
 With a sigh that shook the shores of Egypt and 
 smote the Sicilian midnight with sickening vibrations 
 of earthquake, the Sphinx beheld this culmination of 
 her great desire ; in the very hour of fruition hope 
 fled ; and as this grim certainty sped away from before 
 her, taking with it all her borrowed life, she dropped 
 that majestic head lower upon her bosom, uplifted it 
 again for one last look at her offspring, and so 
 stiffened, once more a stone. 
 
 Age after age roiled by ; storm and tempest hurled 
 their thunders at her head ; wave after wave of bright, 
 insidious sand curled about her feet and heaped its 
 sliding grains against her side ; men came and went in 
 fleeting generations, and seasons fled like hours through 
 the whirling wheel of Time ; but the Sphinx longed and
 
 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 19 
 
 Buffered no more. Her hour had come and gone ; her 
 dull instinct had burnt out, her comely outline began 
 to disintegrate, her face grew blank and stony, her 
 features crumbled away, altars and inscriptions defaced 
 her breast and hieroglyphed her ponderous sides, men 
 worshipped and wondered there, and travellers from 
 lands beyond the sun pitched their tents before her face 
 and defiled her feet with barbaric orgies ; but she knew 
 it no more, her children were gone out into the world. 
 And the world had need of them. Itrank and miasmatic 
 civilization, its hot-beds of sin and misery its civil 
 corruptions and its social lies, its reeling, rotten 
 principalities, its sickly atmosphere of effeminate 
 luxury, wherein neither justice nor judgment lived, and 
 the solitary virtues left mere effete shadows of phi 
 lanthropy and cowardly impulses called love and mercy, 
 needed a new race, stony and strong, unshrinking 
 in conquest and reformation, full of zeal, and incapable 
 of pity, to rend away the fogs that smothered truth 
 and decency, to disperse the low-lying clouds of weak 
 passion and maudlin luxury, to blow a reveille clear 
 and keen as the trumpet of the north-west wind, when 
 it sweeps down from its mountain-tops in stern exulta 
 tion, and shouts its Puritanic battle-psalm across the 
 reeking, steaming meadows of sultry August, fever- 
 smitten and pestilent. 
 
 Such were the Sphinx's children : had they but died 
 out with their need ! Here and there a monk, fresh 
 from his Desert-Laura, hurtles through the eclipse-light 
 of history like the stone from a catapult, rules a 
 church with iron rods, organizes, denounces, intrigues, 
 executes, keeps an unarmed soldiery to do his behests, 
 and hurls ecclesiastic thunders at kings and emperors
 
 20 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 with the grand audacity of a commission presumedly 
 divine, while Greeks cringe, and Jews blaspheme, and 
 heathen flee into, or away from, conversion ; and the 
 church itself canonizes this spiritual father, this Sphinx- 
 son of an instinct and a stone ! 
 
 Or an Emperor exalted himself above the legions and 
 the populace of Rome, banqueted his enemies and be 
 headed them at table, drank in the sight of blood and 
 the sound of human shrieks as if they were his natural 
 light and air, tormented God's creatures and cursed his 
 kind, kindled a fire among the miserable myriads of his 
 own city, and, exulting in a safe height, mixed the 
 leaping, frantic discords of his own music with the 
 horrid sounds of the hell's tragedy below him ; seething 
 in crime, steeped in murder, black with blasphemy, 
 the horror and the hate of men, death gaped for his 
 coming, and he went ! Men revile him through all 
 posterior ages ; women shudder at the legend of his 
 deeds ; but the Sphinx stands unconscious in the 
 Desert, she knew not her child ! 
 
 Or a Reformer springs up. High above his birth 
 place the snowy Alps paint themselves against the 
 sky, an aerial dream of beauty, softened by the tender 
 hues of dawn aud sunset, serenely fair through the 
 rift of the tempest ; even their white death takes a 
 nameless grace from distance and atmosphere, cloth 
 ing itself in beauty as a spirit in clay, and tempting 
 wanderers to their graves : but no such beauty clothes 
 the man whose daily vision beholds them ; hard, clam 
 orous, disputatious, with one hand he rends the rotten 
 splendors of Rome from its tottering image, and with 
 the other plunges baby-souls to inevitable damnation ; 
 strong and fiercely rigid, full of burning and slaughter
 
 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 21 
 
 for the idolatries and harlotries of Popery, fired with 
 lurid zeal, and bestriding one stringent idea, he rides 
 on over dead and living, preaches predestination and 
 hell as if the Gospel dwelt only upon destiny and 
 despair, casts no tender look at the loving piety that 
 underlay shrines and woman-worship and bead-count 
 ing wherever a true heart sought its God through 
 the sole formulas it knew, but spurs forward to the 
 end, a mighty power to destroy, to do away with old 
 corruptions and break down idols on their altars, 
 saint and iconoclast ! Did the heart of stone within 
 him know its ancestry, track its hard, loveless de 
 scent from the Sphinx's children? 
 
 Then a Queen ; a solitary woman, proud of her 
 solitude, isolated in her regnant splendor, a dead 
 planet like the moon, sung and pictured and adored, 
 but keeping on her majestic path in awful beauty, 
 deaf to human entreaty, cold to human love ; a great 
 statesman in a queen's robes ; a keen, subtle politician, 
 coifed and farthingaled ; a revengeful sovereign ; a 
 deadly enemy ; a woman who forgave nothing to 
 a woman, and retaliated everything upon a man ; 
 she who brought unshrinkingly to death a sister 
 queen discrowned and captive, a sister whose 
 grace and loveliness and kindly aspect might have 
 moved the lions of the arena to fawn upon her, but 
 nowise disarmed the tigress who lapped her blood ; 
 she who banished and slew the man she would not 
 stoop to love, because he dared to love another ; and 
 when death stared her in the face, and open-eyed 
 judgment shook her soul, rose from that death-pallet 
 to grapple and abuse a false woman, penitent for and 
 confessing her falseness ; a virgin monarch, pitiless,
 
 22 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 relentless, cruel as jealousy ; an anomalous woman, 
 were she not a stone-born child of the Sphinx ! 
 
 Or a great General, before whose iron will horse 
 and horseman quailed and fled, like dry stubble before 
 flame; who wielded the sword of Gideon, and cutoff 
 the armies of his kindred people and his anointed 
 king as a mower fells the glittering grass on a summer 
 dawn, heedless that he, too, shall be cut down from 
 his flourishing. On his track fire and blood spread 
 their banners, and the raven scented his trophies afar 
 off ; age and }'outh alike were crushed under the tread 
 of his war-horse ; honor, and valor, and life's best prime, 
 opposed him as summer opposes the Arctic hail-fury, 
 and lay beaten into mire at his feet. Hated, feared, 
 followed to the death ; victorious or vanquished, the 
 same strong, imperturbable, sullen nature ; persistent 
 rather than patient in effort, vigorously direct in action ; 
 a minister of unconscious good, of half-conscious evil ; 
 stern and gloomy to the sacrilegious climax of his well- 
 battled life, even in the regicidal act going as one 
 driven to his deeds by Fate that forgot God ; was he 
 to be wondered at, whose life, in ages far gone, began 
 among the stony Sphinx children? 
 
 Nor alone in these great landmarks of their dwelling 
 have the Sphinx's children haunted Earth. Poets have 
 sung them under myriad names ; History has chroni 
 cled them in groups ; Painting and Sculpture have 
 handed down their aspect to a gazing world. From 
 them sprung the Eumenides, pursuers and destroyers 
 of men. They wore the garb of Roman legionaries, 
 when Ramah wept for her children dashed against the 
 walls of the Holy City, and not one stone stood upon 
 another in Zioii. They crowded the offices of the In 
 quisition, and tested the endurance of its victims, with
 
 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 23 
 
 steady finger on the flickering pulse, and calm eye on 
 the death-sweating brow and bitten lip. They put on 
 the Druid's robe and wreath, and held the human sacri 
 fice closer to its altar. In the Asiatic jungle, lurking 
 behind the palm-trunk, they waited, lithe and swarthy 
 Thugs, treacherously to slay whatever victim passed 
 by alone ; or in the fair Pacific Islands kept horrid 
 jubilee above their feasts of human flesh, and streaked 
 themselves with kindred blood in their carousals. Hol 
 land tells its fearful story of their Spanish rule. 
 Russian serfs record their despotism, cowering at the 
 memory of the knout. France cringes yet at the names 
 of the black few who guided her roaring Revolution as 
 one might guide the ravages of a tiger with curb of 
 adamant and rein of linked steel. 
 
 Africa stretches out her hands to testify of their 
 presence. Too well those golden shores recall the 
 wail of women and the yelling curses of men, driven, 
 beast-fashion, to their pen, and floated from home to 
 hell, or happier fate! dragged up, in terror of 
 pursuit, and thrown overboard, a brief agony for a long 
 one. They know them, too, whose continual cry of 
 separation, starvation, insult, agony, and death rises 
 from the heart of freedom like the steam of a great 
 pestilence. Pity them, hearts of flesh ! pit}' also the 
 captors, the Sphinx children, the flint-hearts! pity 
 those who cannot feel, far be} 7 ond those who can, 
 though it be but to suffer ! 
 
 New England knew them, in band and steeple-hat, 
 hanging and pressing to death helpless women, be 
 witched with witchcraft. Acadia knew them, when its 
 depopulated shores lay barren before the sun, and its 
 homes sent up no smoke to heaven. 
 
 Greece quivers at the phantasm of their Turkish
 
 24 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 turbans and gleaming sabres, their skill at massacre 
 and their fiendish tortures ; Italy, fair and sad, 
 " woman country," droops shuddering at sight of their 
 Austrian uniforms ; and the Brahmin sees them in 
 scarlet, blood-dyed, hurling from the cannon's mouth 
 helpless captives, killing, not converting. 
 
 Wherever, all the wide world over, a nation shrinks 
 from its oppressors, or a slave from its master, 
 wherever a child flees from the face of a parent who 
 knows neither justice nor mercy, or a wife goes mad 
 under the secret tyranny of her inevitable fate, 
 wherever pity and mercy and love veil their faces and 
 wring their hands outside the threshold, there abide 
 the Sphinx's children. 
 
 For this she longed and hoped and waited in the 
 desert ! for this she envied the red fox and the ostrich ! 
 for this her dumb lips parted, in their struggle after 
 speech, to ask of earth and air some solace to her soli 
 tude ! for this, for these, she poured out her dim life 
 in one strong, wilful aspiration ! 
 
 Happy Sphinx, to be left even of that dull existence ! 
 blessedly unconscious of that granted desire ! moulder 
 ing away in the curling sand-hills, the prey of hostile 
 elements, the mysterious symbol of a secret yearning 
 and a vain desire ! Not for thee the bitterness of suc 
 cess ! not for thee the conscious agony of penitence, 
 the falling temple of the will crushing its idolater ! No 
 wild voices in the wind reproach the wilder pulses of a 
 slow-breaking heart ; no keen words of taunt sting thee 
 into madness ; Memory hurls at thee no flying javelins ; 
 broken-winged Hope flutters about thee no more ! 
 Thy day is over, thine hour is past ! 
 
 " Wherefore I praised the dead which are already 
 dead, more than the living which are yet alive ! "
 
 THE DEACON'S WEEK. 25 
 
 THE DEACON'S WEEK. 
 
 THE communion service of January was just over in 
 the church at Sugar Hollow ; and people were waiting 
 for Mr. Parkes to give out the hymn ; but he did not 
 give it out, he laid his book down on the table, and 
 looked about on his church. 
 
 He was a man of simplicity and sincerity, fully in 
 earnest to do his Lord's work, and do it with all his 
 might ; but he did sometimes feel discouraged. His 
 congregation was a mixture of farmers and mechanics, 
 for Sugar Hollow was cut in two by Sugar Brook, a 
 brawling, noisy stream that turned the wheel of many 
 a mill and manufactory ; yet on the hills around it there 
 was still a scattered population, eating their bread in 
 the full perception of the primeval curse. So he had 
 to contend with the keen brain and sceptical comment 
 of the men who piqued themselves on power to hammer 
 at theological problems as well as hot iron, with the 
 jealousy and repulsion and bitter feeling that has bred 
 the communistic hordes abroad and at home ; while 
 perhaps he had a still harder task to awaken the 
 sluggish souls of those who used their days to struggle 
 with barren hill-side and rocky pasture for mere food 
 and clothing, and their nights to sleep the dull sleep of 
 plrysical fatigue and mental vacuit}'. 
 
 It seemed sometimes to Mr. Parkes that nothing but
 
 26 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 the trump of Gabriel could arouse his people from their 
 sins and make them believe on the Lord and follow his 
 footsteps. To-day no a long time before to-day 
 he had mused and prayed till an idea took shape in his 
 thought, and now he was to put it in practice ; yet he 
 felt peculiarly responsible and solemnized as he looked 
 about him and foreboded the success of his experiment. 
 Then there flashed across him, as words of Scripture 
 will come back to the habitual Bible-reader, the noble 
 utterance of Gamaliel concerning Peter and his brethren 
 when they stood before the council: " If this counsel 
 or this work be of men, it will come to naught : but if 
 it be of God ye cannot overthrow it." So with a sense 
 of strength the minister spoke. 
 
 " My dear friends," he said, " you all know, though 
 I did not give any notice to that effect, that this week 
 is the Week of Prayer. I have a mind to ask you to 
 make it for this once a week of practice instead. I 
 think we may discover some things, some of the things 
 of God, in this manner, that a succession of prayer- 
 meetings would not perhaps so thoroughly reveal to us. 
 Now when I say this I don't mean to have you go 
 home and vaguely endeavor to walk straight in the old 
 way ; I want you to take ' topics,' as they are called, 
 for the prayer-meetings. For instance, Monday is 
 prayer for the temperance work. Try all that day to be 
 temperate in speech, in act, in indulgence of any kind 
 that is hurtful to you. The next day is for Sunday- 
 schools ; go and visit your scholars, such of you as are 
 teachers, and try to feel that they have living souls to 
 save. "Wednesday is a day for fellowship meeting ; we 
 are cordially invited to attend a union-meeting of this 
 sort at Bantam. Few of us can go twenty-five miles
 
 THE DEACON'S WEEK. 27 
 
 to be with our brethren there ; let us spend that day in 
 cultivating our brethren here ; let us go and see those 
 who have been cold to us for some reason, heal up our 
 breaches of friendship, confess our shortcomings one 
 to another, and act as if, in our Master's words, ' all 
 ye are brethren.' 
 
 " Thursday is the day to pray for the family rela 
 tion ; let us each try to be to our families on that day 
 in our measure what the Lord is to his family, the 
 church, remembering the words, ' Fathers, provoke 
 not your children to anger ; ' ' Husbands, love your 
 wives, and be not bitter against them.' These are 
 texts rarely commented upon, I have noticed, in our 
 conference meetings ; we are more apt to speak of 
 the obedience due from children, and the submission 
 and meekness our wives owe us, forgetting that duties 
 are always reciprocal. 
 
 "Friday, the church is to be pra}*ed for. Let us 
 then, each for himself, try to act that day just as we 
 think Christ, our great Exemplar, would have acted in 
 our places. Let us try to prove to ourselves and the 
 world about us that we have not taken upon us his 
 name lightly or in vain. Saturday is prayer-day for 
 the heathen and foreign missions. Brethren, you know 
 and I know that there are heathen at our doors here ; 
 let every one of you who will, take that day to preach 
 the gospel to some one who does not hear it anj'where 
 else. Perhaps you will find work that ye knew not of 
 lying in your midst. And let us all, on Saturday 
 evening, meet here again, and choose some one brother 
 to relate his experience of the week. You who are 
 willing to try this method please to rise." 
 
 Everybody rose except old Amos Tucker, who never
 
 28 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 stirred, though his wife pulled at him and whispered 
 to him imploringly. He only shook his grizzled head 
 and sat immovable. 
 
 " Let us sing the doxology," said Mr. Parkes ; and 
 it was sung with full fervor. The new idea had roused 
 the church full}* ; it was something fixed and positive 
 to do ; it was the lever-point Archimedes longed for, 
 and each felt ready and strong to move a world. 
 
 Saturday night the church assembled again. The 
 cheerful eagerness was gone from their faces ; they 
 looked downcast, troubled, weary, as the pastor ex 
 pected. When the box for ballots was passed about, 
 each one tore a bit of paper from the sheet placed in 
 the hymn-books for that purpose, and wrote on it a 
 name. The pastor said, after he had counted them : 
 
 " Deacon Emmons, the lot has fallen on .you." 
 
 " I'm sorry for't," said the deacon, rising up and 
 taking off his overcoat. "I haiut got the best of 
 records, Mr. Parkes, now I tell ye." 
 
 " That isn't what we want," said Mr. Parkes. " We 
 want to know the whole experience of some one among 
 us, and we know you will not tell us either more or less 
 than what you did experience." 
 
 Deacon Emmons was a short, thick-set man, with a 
 shrewd, kindly face and gra} T hair, who kept the village 
 store, and had a well-earned reputation for honesty. 
 
 " Well, brethren," he said, "I dono why I shouldn't 
 tell it. I am pretty well ashamed of myself, no doubt, 
 but I ought to be, and maybe I shall profit by what 
 I've found out these six days back. I'll tell you just 
 as it come. Monday, I looked about me to begin with. 
 I "am amazin' fond of coffee, and it aint good for me 
 the doctor says it aint ; but, dear me, it does set a
 
 THE DEACON'S WEEK. 29 
 
 man up good, cold mornings, to have a cup of hot, 
 sweet, tasty drink, and I haven't had the grit to 
 refuse. I knew it made me what folks call nervous, and 
 I call cross, before night come ; and I knew it fetched 
 on spells of low spirits, when our folks couldn't get a 
 word out of me, not a good one, any way ; so I 
 thought I'd try on that to begin with. I tell you it 
 come hard ! I hankered after that drink of coffee 
 dreadful ! Seemed as though I couldn't eat my break 
 fast without it. I feel to pity a man that loves liquor 
 more'n I ever did in my life before ; but I feel sure 
 they can stop if they try, for I've stopped, and I'm 
 a-goin' to stay stopped. 
 
 " Well, come to dinner, there was another fight. I 
 do set by pie the most of anything ; I was fetched up 
 on pie, as you may say. Our folks always had it 
 three times a da}', and the doctor, he's been talkin' and 
 talkin' to me about eatin' pie. I have the dyspepsy 
 like everything, and it makes me useless by spells, and 
 on reliable as a weathercock. An' Doctor Drake he 
 says there won't nothing help me but to diet. I was 
 readin' the Bible that morning, while I sat waiting for 
 breakfast, for 'twas Monday, and wife was kind of set 
 back with washin' and all, and I come aerost that part 
 where it says that the bodies of Christians are temples 
 of the Holy Ghost. Well, thinks I, we'd ought to 
 take care of 'em if they be, and see that they're kep' 
 clean and pleasant, like the church ; and nobody can 
 be clean nor pleasant that has dyspepsy. But, come 
 to pie, I felt as though I couldn't ! and, lo ye, I didn't ! 
 I eet a piece right against my conscience ; facin' what 
 I knew I ought to do, I went and done what I ought 
 not to. I tell ye my conscience made music of me
 
 30 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 consider'ble, and I said then I wouldn't never sneer at 
 a drinkin' man no more when he slipped up. I'd feel 
 for him and help him, for I see just how it was. So 
 that day's practice giv' out, but it learnt me a good deal 
 more'n I knew before. 
 
 " I started out next day to look up my Bible-class. 
 They haven't really tended up to Sunday-school as they 
 ought to, along back ; but I was busy, here and there, 
 and there didn't seem to be a real chance to get to it. 
 Well, 'twould take the evenin' to tell it all ; but I found 
 one real sick, been abed for three weeks, and was so 
 glad to see me that I felt fair ashamed. Seemed as 
 though I heerd the Lord for the first time say in', ' In 
 asmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these, ye 
 did it not to me.' Then another man's old mother says 
 to me before he come in from the shed, says she, 'He's 
 been a-sayin' that if folks practised what they preached 
 you'd ha' come round to look him up afore now, but he 
 reckoned you kinder looked down on mill-hands. I'm 
 awful glad you come.' Brethring, so was I! I tell you 
 that day's work done me good. I got a poor opinion 
 of Josiah Emmons, now I tell ye ; but I learned more 
 about the Lord's wisdom than a month o' Sundays ever 
 showed me." 
 
 A smile he could not repress passed overMr.Parkes's 
 earnest face. The deacon had forgotten all external 
 issues in coming so close to the heart of things ; but 
 the smile passed as he said : 
 
 " Brother Emmons, do you remember what the 
 Master said, ' If any man will do His will, he shall 
 know of the doctrine, whether it be of God, or whether 
 I speak of myself ' ?" 
 
 " "Well, it's so," answered the deacon, " it's so right
 
 THE DEACON'S WEEK. 31 
 
 along. Why, I never thought so much of my Bible- 
 class, nor took no sech int'rest in 'em as I do to-day, 
 not since I begun to teach. I b'lieve they'll come more 
 reg'lar now, too. 
 
 " Now come fellowship-day. I thought that would 
 be all plain sailin' ; seemed as though I'd got warmed 
 up till I felt pleasant towardst everybody ; so I went 
 around seein' folks that was neighbors, and 'twas easy ; 
 but when I come home at noon spell, Philury says, says 
 she, " Square Tucker's black bull is into th' orchard 
 a-tearin' round, and he's knocked two lengths o' fence 
 down flat ! ' Well, the old Adam riz up then, you'd 
 better b'lieve. That black bull has been a-breakin' 
 into my lots ever sence we got in th' aftermath, and it's 
 Square Tucker's fence, and he won't make it bull- 
 strong, as he'd onghter, and that orchard was a young 
 one jest comin' to bear, and all the new wood crisp as 
 cracklin's with frost. You'd better b'lieve I didn't 
 have much feller-feelin' with Amos Tucker. I jest put 
 over to his house and spoke up pretty free to him, 
 when he looked up and says, says he, ' Fellowship- 
 meetin' day, aint it, deacon ? ' I'd ruther he'd ha' 
 slapped m}- face. I felt as though I should like to slip 
 behind the door. I see pretty distinct what sort of 
 life I'd been livin' all the years I'd been a professor, 
 when I couldn't hold on to my tongue and temper one 
 day!" 
 
 " Breth-e-rcn," interrupted a slow, harsh voice, 
 somewhat broken with emotion, "I'll tell the rest on't. 
 Josiah Emmons come around like a man an' a Chris 
 tian right there. He asked me for to forgive him, and 
 not to think 'twas the fault of his religion, because 'twas 
 hisn and nothin' else. I think more of him today than
 
 32 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 I ever done before. I was one that wouldn't say I'd 
 practise with the rest of ye. I thought 'twas ever- 
 lastin' nonsense. I'd ruther go to forty-nine prayer- 
 meetin's than work at bein' good a week. I b'lieve my 
 hope has been one of them that perish ; it haint worked, 
 and I leave it behind to-day. I mean to begin honest, 
 and it was seein' one honest Christian man fetched me 
 round to't." 
 
 Amos Tucker sat down and buried his grizzled head 
 in his rough hands. 
 
 "Bless the Lord!" said the quavering tones of a 
 still older man from a far corner of the house, and 
 many a glistening eye gave silent response. 
 
 " Go on, Brother Emmons," said the minister. 
 
 "Well, when next day come, I got up to make the 
 fire, and my boy Joe had forgot the kindlin's. I'd 
 opened my mouth to give him Jesse, when it come 
 over me suddin that this was the day of prayer for the 
 family relation. I thought I wouldn't say nothin'. I jest 
 fetched in the kindlin's myself, and when the fire burnt 
 up good I called wife. 
 
 " ' Dear me ! ' says she. ' I've got such a headache, 
 'Siah, but I'll come in a minnit.' I didn't mind that, 
 for women are always havin' aches, and I was jest 
 a-goin' to say so, when I remembered the tex' about 
 not bein' bitter against 'em, so I says, ' Philury, you 
 lay abed. I expect Emmy and me can get the vittles 
 to-day.' I declare, she turned over and give me sech 
 a look ; why, it struck right in ! There was nry wife, 
 that had worked for an' waited on me twenty-odd year, 
 'most scart because I spoke kind of feelin' to her. I 
 went out and fetched in the pail o' water she'd always 
 drawed herself, and then I milked the cow. "When I
 
 THE DEACON'S WEEK. 33 
 
 come in Philury was up fryin' the potatoes, and the 
 tears a-shiniu' on her white face. She didn't say 
 nothin', she's kinder still ; but she hadn't no need to. 
 I felt a leetle meaner'n I did the day before. But 
 'twant nothin' to my condition when I was goin', 
 towards night, down the sullar stairs for some apples, 
 so's the children could have a roast, and I heered Joe, 
 up in the kitchen, say to Emmy, ' I do b'lieve, Em, pa's 
 goin' to die.' ' Why, Josiar Emmons, how you talk ! 
 ' Well, I do ; he's so everlastin' pleasant an' good- 
 natered I can't but think he's struck with death.' 
 
 " I tell ye, brethren, I set right down on them sullar 
 stairs and cried. I did, reely. Seemed as though the Lord 
 had turned and looked at me jest as he did at Peter. 
 Why, there was my own children never see me act real 
 fatherly and pretty in all their lives. I'd growled and 
 scolded and prayed at 'em, and tried to fetch 'em up, 
 jest as the twig is bent the tree's inclined, ye know, 
 but I hadn't never thought that thej-'d got right and 
 reason to expect I'd do my part as well as they theirn. 
 Seemed as though I was findin' out more about Josiah 
 Emmons's shortcomin's than was real agreeable. 
 
 " Come around Friday I got back to the store. I'd 
 kind o' left it to the boys the early part of the week, 
 and things was a little cuterin', bat I did have sense 
 not to tear round and use sharp words so much as 
 common. I began to think 'twas gettin' easy to 
 practise after five days, when in come Judge Herrick's 
 wife after some curt' in calico. I had a handsome 
 piece, all done off with roses and things, but there was 
 a fault in the weavin', every now and then a thin 
 streak. She didn't notice it, but she was pleased with 
 the figures on't, and said she'd take the whole piece.
 
 34 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 Well, just as I was wrappin' of it up, what Mr. Parkes 
 here said about try in' to act jest as the Lord would in 
 our place come acrost me. Why, I turned as red as 
 a beet, I know I did. It made me all of a tremble 
 There was I, a door-keeper in the tents of my God, as 
 David says, really cheatin', and cheatin' a woman. I 
 tell ye, brethren, I was all of a sweat. ' Mis' Herrick,' 
 says I, ' I don't b'lieve you've looked real close at this 
 goods ; 'taint thorough wove,' says I. So she didn't 
 take it ; but what fetched me was to think how many 
 times I'd done sech mean, onreliable little things to 
 turn a penny, and all the time sayin' and prayin' that I 
 wanted to be like Christ. I kep' a-trippiu' of myself 
 up all day jest in the ordinary business, and I was a 
 peg lower down when night come than I was a Thurs 
 day. I'd ruther, as far as the hard work is concerned, 
 lay a mile of four-foot stone wall than undertake to do 
 a man's livin' Christian duty for twelve workin' hours ; 
 and the heft of that is, it's because I aint used to it, 
 and I ought to be. 
 
 " So this mornin' come around, and I felt a mite 
 more cherk. 'Twas missionary mornin', and seemed 
 as if 'twas a sight easier to preach than to practise. I 
 thought I'd begin to old Mis' Vedder's. So I put a 
 Testament in my pocket and knocked to her door. 
 Says I, ' Good-mornin', ma'am', and then I stopped. 
 Words seemed to hang, somehow. I didn't want to 
 pop right out that I'd come over to try'n convert her 
 folks. I hemmed and swallered a little, and fin'lly I 
 said, says I, ' We don't see you to meetin' very frequent, 
 Mis' Vedder.' 
 
 "'No, you don't!' ses'she, as quick as a wink. 
 ' I stay to home and mind my business.'
 
 THE DEACON'S WEEK. 35 
 
 " ' "Well, we should like to hev y on come along with 
 us and do ye good,' says I, sort of conciliatin'. 
 
 " ' Look a here, deacon ! ' she snapped ; ' I've lived 
 alongside of you fifteen year, and you knowed I never 
 went to meetin' ; weaint a pious lot, and you knowed it ; 
 we're poorer'n death and uglier'n sin. Jim he drinks and 
 swears, and Malviny dono her letters. She knows a heap 
 she hadn't ought to, besides. Now what are you a-comin' 
 here to-day for, I'd like to know, and talkin' so glib 
 about meetin'? Go to meetin' ! I'll go or come jest as 
 I darn please, for all you. Now get out o' this ! ' 
 Why, she come at me with a broomstick. There 
 wasn't no need on't ; what she said was enough. I 
 hadn't never asked her nor hern to so much as 
 think of goodness before. Then I went to another 
 place jest like that, I won't call no more names, and 
 sure enough there was ten children in rags, the hull of 
 'em, and the man half drunk. He giv' it to me, too ; 
 and I don't wonder. I'd never lifted a hand to serve 
 nor save 'em before in all these j'ears. I'd said con- 
 sider'ble about the heathen in foreign parts, and give 
 some little for to convert 'em, and I had looked right 
 over the heads of them that was next door. Seemed 
 as if I could hear Him say, ' These ought ye to have 
 done, and not have left the other undone.' I couldn't 
 face another soul to-day, brethren. I come home, and 
 here I be. I've been searched through and through 
 and found wantin'. God be merciful to me a sinner ! " 
 
 He dropped into his seat, and bowed his head ; and 
 many another bent, also. It was plain that the dea 
 con's experience was not the only one among the 
 brethren. Mr. Pay son rose, and prayed as he had 
 never prayed before ; the week of practice had fired
 
 36 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 his heart, too. And it began a memorable year for the 
 church in Sugar Hollow ; not a year of excitement or 
 enthusiasm, but one when they heard their Lord 
 saying, as to Israel of old, "Go forward;" and they 
 obeyed his voice. The Sunday school flourished, the 
 church services were fully attended, every good thing 
 was helped on its way, and peace reigned in their 
 homes and hearts ; imperfect, perhaps, as new growths 
 are, but still an offshoot of the peace past under 
 standing. 
 
 And another year they will keep another week of 
 practice, by common consent.
 
 A BLACK SILK. 37 
 
 A BLACK SILK. 
 
 " FETCH him right iii here, pa. Poor little feller ! I 
 hope he'll come to ! " 
 
 The man who had just fished this little pickle of a 
 boy out of the brook obeyed the kind voice, and lugged 
 his dripping burden into the small brown house, laid 
 him on the floor, and hurried away after the doctor, 
 while Aunt Nancy Peck stripped off the wet clothes, 
 rubbed the cold bod}', and tried all her homely, old- 
 fashioned ways of restoration. 
 
 Boys are hard to kill : before the doctor got there 
 Leslie Varick opened his eyes, and laughed in Aunt 
 Nancy's face, and the dear, kindly old face smiled back 
 on the naughty bo}'. Leslie had been sent to spend the 
 summer in Barrett, while his father and mother were 
 abroad, and being a "human boy," as Mr. Chadband 
 says, he got into every variety of mischief known to 
 that species, his latest exploit being a headlong tum 
 ble into the mill-pond, from which Ozias Peck drew him 
 as soon as he rose to the surface, and disposed of him 
 as recorded. But when Master Leslie began to stir in 
 the warm nest of blankets, he also began to howl. If 
 he had only been half drowned, my story would have 
 had the fate of Franklin's instructive rhyme that 
 begins, 
 
 " For want of a nail the shoe was lost."
 
 38 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 But the nail was not wanting ; in going down he struck 
 sharply on a rock, and broke his leg, so that Aunt 
 Nancy's blankets and his tired little body had long 
 acquaintance. However, at last he got well, and in 
 the late autumn went home, and told his mother how 
 good Aunt Nancy had been to him : to be sure, his 
 board had been duly paid for the six weeks he spent 
 with the good woman ; but Mrs. Varick felt as mothers 
 do feel, even about the naughtiest boys, that she still 
 owed her a debt of gratitude, and Leslie had a scrap of 
 heart under all his mischief, enough to grow a good- 
 sized organ by and by, when he should find out that 
 animals have nerves, and other bo} T s tastes and feelings 
 not unlike his own. He had hardly done capering 
 around the open trunks that held so man}' pretty foreign 
 things, so many for him, when suddenly he threw 
 himself on the floor, and, putting his curly head on his 
 mother's lap, began : 
 
 "Mammy, haven't you got something in all this 
 truck I can give old Aunty Peck? She was tremen 
 dously good to me when I cracked my shin-bone down 
 there in Barrett." 
 
 Mrs. Varick laughed. u Lello ! what a slangy 
 boy ! But no matter ; if you want to give Mrs. Peck 
 something, choose for yourself. I meant to send her a 
 nice gift at Christmas, but it would be better for you 
 to do it." 
 
 " Oh, I've got it ! Send her those red things } r ou got 
 to wear on your neck and ears. Oh, jolly ! wouldn't 
 she just take the shine out of Barrett folks on Sun 
 day ! " 
 
 " My pink corals? Well done, Lello ! How do you 
 think those exquisitely cut cameos would look on a
 
 A SLACK SILK. 39 
 
 black alpaca gown? Why, child, they are set in pearls, 
 and cut by the best artist in Italy ; the set cost five 
 hundred dollars. Try again, sir." 
 
 "O mammy, what do you s'pose a man knows 
 about women's finer}* ? " 
 
 " A man ! I like that," laughed his mother. " But 
 try once more, dear, and if you choose wrong this time 
 I will choose for you." 
 
 Leslie put his head on one side like a bird eying a 
 beetle, thrust his hands in his pockets, and whistled 
 "Captain Jinks" like a cheerful robin, as he peered 
 into the trunks. At last he dived into the bottom of 
 the largest. 
 
 " Here's the very thing! this dull old shawl. It 
 does look rather dirty, but she could wash it, and it's 
 sort of soft and warm." 
 
 Mrs. Varick fell back in her chair, and lifted up her 
 hands and eyes. " Leslie, my camel's-hair shawl that 
 your father would buy me, though I protested ! The 
 handsomest shawl in Paris, and the dearest ! " 
 
 " It looks dirty, an}-way," stoutly protested Leslie. 
 " I don't care if it cost fifty thousand dollars, mammy, 
 it isn't clean." 
 
 " You goosey boy, that's the way they all are." 
 
 " Well, I know Aunty Peck wouldn't wear it, any 
 way, till 'twas washed : she can't abide dirt. I guess 
 3*ou'll have to pick out her present. I seem to miss it 
 every time." 
 
 " Don't you think, Lello, a nice black silk dress 
 would be a good thing ? " 
 
 " Like enough," muttered Leslie, disgusted at such 
 a sombre, commonplace thing for a Christmas present. 
 A crimson satin would have met with his own appro-
 
 40 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 bation ; but he dared not suggest it after his two 
 failures. 
 
 So Mrs. Yarick bought twenty-five yards of excellent 
 silk, heavy fringe to trim it, a set of expensive buttons, 
 and all needful linings and thread, having never in her 
 life seen Aunt Nancy or her surroundings, but from 
 Lello's enthusiasm about the house, the barn, the 
 savory and abundant food, and the large garden, sup 
 posing Ozias was a well-to-do farmer, instead of a poor 
 blacksmith, whose daily fare was made dainty to Leslie 
 by the keen air of Barrett and the uncompromising 
 appetite of a boy. Mrs. Yarick herself would have 
 starved on the rye bread, baked beans, Indian pudding, 
 fried pork, and succotash that were so delicious to her 
 son, and been utterly incredulous of possible comfort 
 in that small brown house, with its stuffy best bedroom 
 opening out of the kitchen, just as the small parlor 
 did : for they lived in the kitchen, and slept in the 
 half-story above it in summer, or in the tiny bedroom 
 at one end in winter. 
 
 However, the dress was bought, and packed, and 
 sent at Christmas, with a scrubby little letter from 
 Leslie, expressing his gratitude, and wishing Aunty 
 Peck a merry Christmas ; and this was the end of it 
 to the Yaricks. But it was only the beginning of 
 things to Aunt Nancy. 
 
 When the package arrived she was as pleased as a 
 woman can be. "Why, 'Zias Peck!" she exclaimed, 
 as the glistening length of silk unrolled before her, 
 and the rich fringe and bright buttons inside the dress 
 lay open to her delighted gaze, " this beats all natur'. 
 I never did ! What upon airth shall I do with it ? It's 
 heaps too good for an old creatur' like me."
 
 A BLACK SILK. 41 
 
 "'Taint nuther," sturdily retorted Ozias. "I've 
 allers lotted on buyin' of ye a silk gownd some day, 
 Nancy, but somehow things have went ag'inst me mor 
 tally. There aint no woman in Barrett deserves it no 
 more'n you do ; 'nd I'm thankful to Providence for 
 doin' of it, so be's I couldn't nryself." 
 
 Aunt Nancy's brown eyes shone with tears. It was 
 not often Ozias allowed himself the luxury of praising 
 his wife ; few men do ; but it is a precious cordial to 
 the female mind, if they only knew it. 
 
 " Well, well, pa, I don't say but what I'm glad on't, 
 though I hed ruther 'twould ha' ben a suit of Sabba'- 
 day clothes for you. My alpacky is good 'nough." 
 
 " Sho, mother, you go 'long and ew your gownd, 
 an' put it on, 'nd go to meetin' in't. Sabba'-day 
 clothes do wimmin-folks a heap more good 'n men- 
 folks." 
 
 Aunt Nancy laughed ; the amiable satire amused her. 
 So she folded up her dress, and the next week took it 
 to Miss Salter to cut and baste, intending to sew it 
 herself. But as the lengths of silk lay across Miss 
 Salter's table, in sailed Mrs. Gross, whose husband 
 kept the Barrett " store." 
 
 " Whose dress is that? " she asked, curtly. 
 
 "Why, it's Aunt Nancy Peck's ; aint it a most an 
 elegant silk?" purred Miss Salter. 
 
 " I want to know ! What's happened to them Pecks ? 
 I thought he was shif'less as a Canady thistle. How 
 come she by that dress? It's cur'us how sech folks is 
 always owin' and always havin'." 
 
 "Why, she says 'twas sent to her in a present by 
 that youngster 't 'Zias fished out o' the pond last 
 summer."
 
 42 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 " My sakes ! I don't believe it. Boys aint so 
 skerce that folks pay that way for haulin' of 'em out 
 o' water. I don't believe but what she's laid by quite 
 a spell to buy it herself." 
 
 Mrs. Gross flounced out of the room, and took a 
 straight course for the store. 
 
 " Well, Hiram Gross," she began, sitting down on a 
 big cheese-box in the back room, where she found her 
 husband, a meek, slow man, with a rather delayed 
 utterance, " here I have been a-slavin' and a-savin' 
 for 3'ou this seventeen year, and I haven't never had 
 but one silk gownd to my back, 'nd here's 'Zias Peck's 
 wife has got a satin-finished black silk a-cuttin' to 
 Sabry Salter's, fit for the Judge's wife, trimmin's to 
 match. Don't he owe ye a bill right along?" 
 
 " Well," said the easy man, looking gently over his 
 spectacles, " I don't know but what he d oos, a leetle. 
 'Z ias means well he means real well ; b ut he 
 aint forehanded, 'nd I don' know 's I feel to blame 
 him. He was b orn tired, I expect he ! he ! he ! " 
 
 " Now I want to see them books o' } r ourn, Hi Gross. 
 Ef he owes ye thirty dollars, jest you set a lawyer onto 
 him, an' git the money, an' buy me a silk gownd ; she'd 
 oughter hev paid ye the money b'fore she buyed sech 
 finery as that, and me goin' everywhere in nothing but 
 a cashmere." 
 
 " No, Sary, 'twouldn't be no use for ye to see them 
 books n ow ; they aint footed up." Here the easy 
 man closed his lips with a set firmness that Mrs. Gross 
 knew well ; it was his one mode of resistance to her 
 marital authority. He could not scold or domineer, 
 but he could shut his mouth ; and he, too, thought 
 silence was golden.
 
 A SLACK SILK. 43 
 
 But she would not be baffled. The clerks of the 
 store boarded with Mr. Gross, and the youngest, a tall, 
 growing boy, always hungry, she had made her 
 obedient servant by the simple method of feeding him 
 well when he made himself useful to her, and withhold 
 ing rations whenever he recalcitrated ; she worked 
 upon this principle now, and discovered through him 
 that Ozias was in debt thirty-six dollars to her hus 
 band. 
 
 So, taking the matter into her own hands, she stepped 
 into the little shanty one bitter cold morning, when 
 Ozias sat crouched over the fire waiting for a job, and 
 told the poor man, in very short and sharp terms, that 
 Mr. Gross wanted him to pay up his bill ; he couldn't 
 afford to be out of the money so long. 
 
 Ozias was a simple creature, and the proprieties of 
 business were quite unknown to him ; he did not know 
 why Mrs. Gross had not as good a right to dun him as 
 her husband, and his face fell. 
 
 " I'm dre'dful sorry, Mrs. Gross," he said, plain 
 tively. " I don't see no wa} r to raise the money 
 dyrect. I thought 'twas kind of 'greed on to take a 
 share on't out in shoein' the horse, 'nd there's a little 
 on my side to the good. I do mean to pay Mister 
 Gross as quick as ever I get the means ; but times is 
 hard and business is dreadful slack. And " 
 
 " Folks that can buy their wives black- silk gowns 
 had ought to pay their store-bills," snapped the 
 woman, fixing her cold gray eyes on him. 
 
 Ozias was struck dumb. The silk dress, that he took 
 such pride in, was, so to speak, crumpled up and 
 thrown in his face ; and Mrs. Gross left him staring at 
 her, his mouth open, and his jaw dropped.
 
 44 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 " O Lordy ! " he ejaculated as she disappeared, 
 dropping down on the nail-keg that was his wonted 
 seat. " What upon airth ! She doos beat all ! Well, 
 I won't say nothin' to mother. They can't 'tach her 
 gownd noway, if they do the furnitoor, and I'm glad 
 on't." 
 
 Just here a pair of horses appeared at the door, and 
 with a heavy sigh Ozias went to his work. 
 
 While this happened Aunt Nancy was sitting by the 
 window, stitching away at her new gown, and in sailed 
 Miss Beers, collector for the church contributions. 
 Now, Aunt Nancy had always given of her poverty to 
 various causes presented in the routine, as a matter of 
 duty. But this year her winter bonnet was a hopeless 
 case ; she could not press it or retrim it any longer ; 
 the felt was broken and rusty, the ribbon frayed, the 
 binding all worn out, and to be decently comparable 
 with her silk dress a new one had to be a little finer ; so 
 all her store of money, painfully gathered from the sale 
 of berries, home-knit socks, eggs, and chickens, had 
 been exhausted by the new felt bonnet with satin rib 
 bons, and the warm gloves, that were a real necessity. 
 
 "I'm awful sorry," she said, in a half- frightened 
 way, as Miss Sernantha Beers showed her forbidding 
 countenance, and took the proffered chair. " I did 
 expect to have somethin' as usual to contriboot, but I 
 haint. Things is so this year that I can't do jest what 
 I hev done." 
 
 " H'm ! " sniffed Miss Beers, setting her pale lips 
 more closely, and staring at the silk dress. "Them 
 that cares for the poor, perishiu' frame to sech an extent 
 as that they can't give no help to the lost souls a-cryin' 
 out for sucker in the ends of the airth will find them-
 
 A BLACK SILK. 45 
 
 selves a-cryin' in vain mabbe when these mortal gods " 
 (she meant gauds) " and vanities is clean vanished 
 away into emptiness and " 
 
 " I'm real sorry," interrupted Aunt Nancy, a little 
 scared by this commination, " but so it is ; and ef I 
 haint got it I can't give it." 
 
 " I should think if you had sold your goods and gi'n 
 the money to them that needs salvation a sight more'n 
 you need a silk gownd, 'twould be a lot better for your 
 immortal soul," Miss Semantha answered, pursing up 
 her mouth and rolling up her eyes. 
 
 " Why, mercj' sakes ! Miss S'manthy, the dress 
 was gi'n to me. I couldn't give 't away, nor sell it, ye 
 know. That boy o' Varick's that come so near gittiu' 
 drownded was here quite a spell with a broke leg, and 
 I missed him up, for his folks was to Eurup ; so when 
 it come Christmas-time, why, he went and sent me this 
 in a present, trimmin's and all. I was real beat when 
 I got it. Course ye know I couldn't never hev afforded 
 no sech gownd ; but I don't deny but what I feel con- 
 sider'ble set up." 
 
 " Yes, I dessay ye do," sighed Miss Beers, whose 
 green eyes looked longingly at the heavy silk. " Seems 
 as though 'twould ha' ben more accordin' to your 
 necessities, though, ef they'd hev paid his board right 
 out and out." 
 
 "Why, land, they did, five dollars a week. The 
 gownd Leslie sent me for a present. He's kind of 
 free-hearted, and he and me got to thinkiu' a sight of 
 each other whilst he laid here on the comp'n}' bed." 
 
 " Well, I must say it's siug'lar. I should ha' 
 thought they'd ha' thought five dollars a week was 
 enough. Sence you say so, of course it's so, but
 
 46 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 seems as though 'twas scatter-in' their means to do sech 
 things." 
 
 Mrs. Peck felt this remark to be unanswerable, and 
 Miss Semantha got up to go away, convinced in her 
 own mind that the money for Leslie's board had been 
 laid out on the dress, and Aunt Nancy's conscience 
 twisted to make it appear the boy's present. She made 
 much capital of the whole affair at the next sewing 
 society ; and, by some of the inscrutable means that 
 spread gossip like spores of disease, her tale got to the 
 ears of Stephen Spencer, the richest man in Barrett, 
 and the holder of a mortgage on Ozias Peck's little 
 homestead. 
 
 Five years ago Chester Peck, Ozias's only child, had 
 been seized with a wild desire to go to California. 
 Barrett was a dull place, its only life the great cotton- 
 mill that Mr. Spencer owned, and Chester had no lik 
 ing for mill work, nor could he buy a farm, or even 
 rent one. He was a bright, energetic young fellow, 
 and Ozias had sense enough, slow as he was, to see 
 that his son ought to go somewhere else to find success, 
 or even occupation ; so he mortgaged his house for 
 three hundred dollars, and sent his boy off on his trav 
 els. He had gone at once to San Francisco, and after 
 a while got a place as clerk in a hotel ; but after two 
 years' absence his letters suddenly ceased, and his 
 father and mother had gradually come to believe him 
 dead. But the mortgage did not die, and year after 
 year it taxed Ozias to the utmost to pay its interest ; 
 but for this the bill at the store never would have run 
 on so long, and this year the mortgage would have been 
 foreclosed but for the lucky accident that laid up Leslie 
 Varick in their house six weeks, and brought them in
 
 A BLACK SILK. 47 
 
 thirty dollars. Now, Stephen Spencer was a man who 
 had made money by the most grinding economy and all 
 kinds of petty shifts and stratagems ; he held as an 
 article of faith that no poor man ought to spend any 
 money at all except for the bare necessities of life : 
 pork, and potatoes, and cabbage were nourishing food, 
 and calico and osnaburg cheap ; finery was a sin, and 
 palatable food a crime, in his eyes ; money was the sole 
 good of life. Yet he took none of the ordinary pleasure 
 people take in the results of wealth ; his own dress was 
 shabby, his method of life squalid, his workmen were 
 pinched of their wages and crowded in their work. 
 "Steve" Spencer was a by-word in all the country 
 round for meanness and greed. 
 
 Such a man was not likely to lose any money for 
 want of watching his investments. When he heard 
 that Ozias Peck's wife had a new black silk dress, and 
 when he saw it on a bright March Sunday, shining and 
 rustling up the meeting-house aisle on her well-rounded 
 person, for she laid aside her shabby shawl in the 
 porch, and gave it to Ozias to carry in for her, he 
 jumped at once to the conclusion that this unlucky 
 couple had been beset by that sudden craze which 
 sometimes attacks poor people, and impels them to 
 launch out into some expenditure, extravagant and 
 quite unwarranted, but indulged in from an impulse of 
 despair, such as makes a slave strike his master, or a 
 prisoner kill his jailer ; for what slavery or what im 
 prisonment is worse than the heavy shackles of poverty, 
 the despair of debt, the grind of a life that is endless 
 labor, the pleasureless existence, " the haunting, inde 
 finable dread, of a moneyless man?" 
 
 A fear of this sort smote the sense of Stephen
 
 48 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 Spencer as he looked at Aunt Nancy shining up the 
 aisle to her seat by the pulpit ; for Ozias was deaf, and 
 had to be near the minister to enjoy his sermon. It 
 seemed to him that he was about to lose the interest 
 on his mortgage ; but the word carried its own remedy. 
 He could he would foreclose at once ; such ex 
 travagance was no longer to be condoned ; his own 
 daughter, a meek and much-oppressed girl, never had 
 a silk dress in her life ; there she sat now, in a cheap 
 alpaca and an old straw hat trimmed with worn velvet, 
 looking for all the world like a lily-of-the-valley under 
 dry leaves, so pure and pale was her delicate counte 
 nance, so slight her shape, so shrinking her girlish 
 attitudes. That the dress could have been a present 
 to Aunt Nancy never entered his head ; in all his long, 
 poor life he had never given anybody so much as a 
 common pin, and to give away a silk dress would have 
 stamped the giver in his eyes as a dangerous lunatic ; 
 he comforted himself with reflecting that he could 
 threaten Ozias at least, for he did not pay very 
 punctually the ten per cent, interest, and the last in 
 stalment was due this two weeks : he would foreclose 
 as soon as the law allowed, surely. And secure in that 
 resolve he went to sleep in the corner of his slip, and 
 made a day of rest out of the Sunday that was never 
 anything else but rest to him. Ozias sat with his head 
 sunk on his breast : a dreadful shadow of debt hung 
 over him ; the sanctuary was not a place of refuge 
 from such troubles ; he could not help seeing Mrs. 
 Gross's cold, clear eyes fixed on Aunt Nancy as she 
 rustled up the aisle in her innocent complacency, and 
 he thought her husband eyed him askance, as who 
 should say, "To-day thee, to-morrow me;" and in
 
 A 'SLACK SILK. 49 
 
 his mental distress he heaved sighs so deep, though 
 unconscious, that dear Aunt Nancy, devoutly drinking 
 in Parson Fry's sermon, could not but hope her hus 
 band was under conviction, and felt more than ever 
 ashamed that her contributions to the missionary-box 
 had fallen short. If only Ozias could be converted, 
 she thought, she would deny herself everything in 
 future to make proper thank-offerings ; and as she sat 
 musing on this great mercy the silk gown went out of 
 her simple, pious mind, and did her as little good as 
 the old alpaca that had been her ordinary Sunday garb 
 so long. 
 
 But every woman belonging to the sewing-circle had 
 an eye to that transgression in silk, and many a head 
 was shaken over Aunty Peck's fall from grace in the 
 line of apparel, while Miss Beers passed her by on the 
 other side, as the congregation at last emerged from 
 the building, with a look of scornful pity that made 
 Aunt Nancy feel like a sinner of the deepest dye, 
 though her own conscience withheld its blame ; but we 
 are so apt to think more of other people's opinion of 
 us than our own. 
 
 Monday was a black day to Ozias. He had hardly 
 got to work before Stephen Spencer appeared at the 
 shop door and demanded his due. 
 
 " You had ought to have been on time, 'Zias Peck. 
 Every six months punctooal is the way. Th' int'rest 
 money was due Friday last, and I haint seen hide nor 
 hair on't." 
 
 "O Lordy ! " squeaked Ozias, with the pitiful tone 
 of a mouse in a trap. " Don't ye, now don't ye, 
 Square Spencer. Times is so everlastin' bad, and 
 business hez fell off. I'd ha' did it ef I'd ha' had it to
 
 50 THE SPHIXX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 hev done ; but it does seem as though folks let their 
 bosses go on the huff ruther'n hev 'em shod, and they'll 
 rig a rail betwixt the exes afore they'll come here an' 
 get me to tinker of 'em up. It's so, now I tell ye, 
 Square." 
 
 " That's talk," said the Squire, fixing his hard, bold 
 eyes on Ozias with the look of a born tyrant. " Biz- 
 ness is bizness ; folks thet borrer must pay. Ef you 
 can buy your wife a silk gownd to go to meetin' in, 
 you can pay me fifteen dollars, sure as shootin', and 
 3 r ou've got to." 
 
 " Darn that gownd ! " burst from Ozias's despairing 
 lips. " No, don't nuther. The gownd's hern, and 
 she sets by it like everything, I tell ye. 'Twas a 
 present. I didn't buy it no more'n you did. I wisht I 
 could, but I couldn't." 
 
 " Don't tell me no sech yarn as that, 'Zias Peck. 
 Folks don't send silk gownds to old women round the 
 country, no more'n they rain out o' the sky. I tell ye 
 ag'in I've got to hev that int'rest money before Sat'day 
 night, or I'll foreclose that moggidge as sure as I stan' 
 here, you jest depend on't ; " and with these words 
 the usurer walked off, confident and self-satisfied, and 
 poor Ozias sank on to his nail-keg, and dropped his 
 face in his hands. 
 
 What could he do ? There was nothing for it but to 
 sell the heifer, a creature of their own raising, whose 
 mother was already fatting for the butcher. This must 
 be done, and then he could pay Squire Spencer and 
 part of the store-bill ; but it was like selling a child. 
 The pretty heifer was Aunt Nancy's pet, and whenever 
 Ozias came to drive her home from pasture she came 
 up to him and pushed her fine muzzle into his hand,
 
 A BLACK SILK. 51 
 
 hoping for an apple, a crust of bread, a lump of salt, 
 or a crisp turnip, and if she failed to find such a tidbit, 
 turned her soft purple eyes on him with a bland re 
 proach that went to his heart. 
 
 And to sell Betty meant to be stinted in milk, pinched 
 in butter, deprived of snowy Dutch cheese in hot sum 
 mer days, and ripe home-made cheeses the year round ; 
 it meant to take away two-thirds of what simple luxu 
 ries they had ; but it was better, after all, than to lose 
 the house. The poor man had not the courage to tell 
 his wife at once. He went over to the tavern where 
 Selah Hills lived, to see what he could get for his 
 heifer ; and finding that worthy ready to pay him 
 thirty dollars in cash, agreed to receive the price, and 
 deliver the animal the next week. He put off the evil 
 day of telling Aunt Nancy as long as he could, though 
 he had to tell Squire Spencer that by the next Thursday 
 he would pay up his debt, information not altogether 
 pleasant to Stephen, who wanted to end the matter, 
 and secure himself from final loss as soon as possible. 
 Of his bill at the store he heard nothing more. Mrs. 
 Gross went out of town suddenly to see her sick 
 mother, and nothing was farther from her husband's 
 thought than to harass an honest, hard-working man 
 like Ozias Peck ; but, as the days went on, Ozias be 
 thought himself that the bill might come in any moment, 
 and his wife be disturbed by it; so he wrote a note 
 to Mr. Gross, assuring him that part of it would be 
 paid the next week, on Thursday ; but as the good 
 man had gone to fetch his wife home the labored epis 
 tle, so pathetic in its thumbed, misspelled condition 
 and plaintive humility, had to wait for his return. 
 
 In the meanwhile Ozias went about his work under
 
 52 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 a heavy cloud ; he was silent at meals, groaned and 
 sighed in his sleep, seemed to take no interest in the 
 weekly paper, and mightily strengthened his wife's 
 hope that he was struggling with a sense of his sinful 
 condition, and on the high-road to a new life of faith 
 and duty. She watched him in respectful silence, 
 hoping for some word of confidence or emotion, till 
 human nature could endure it no longer, and she burst 
 out one night as he sat by the fire, with his head in his 
 hands : 
 
 " Say, 'Zias, be ye under conviction? " 
 
 "Lordy!" exclaimed the astonished man, looking 
 up at her. " Under conviction ! If I be, I guess it's 
 conviction of other folks's sins. I'm pestered with 
 them a heap more'n I be with my own, now I tell ye." 
 
 "Oh, dear!" said Aunt Nancy, piteously, wiping 
 her spectacles on her checked apron ; " I was in hopes 
 you'd seed your errors, and ben a-repentin' of 'em. Ye 
 know, 'Zias, you've set under the droppin's of the 
 sanctooary a consider'ble long time, and I'm dreadful 
 afeard you're getting hardened." 
 
 " I wish to gracious I was ; I wish I was a stun wall ; 
 but I aint!" exclaimed the poor man, getting up 
 hastily and going out of the door. He could not bear 
 another word, for, though he had put the greatest 
 restraint on himself to keep the impending trouble 
 from his wife, it irritated him extremely not to have 
 her sympathize with what she did not know anything 
 about. Such is man ! 
 
 Aunt Nancy sighed ; she, too, had her troubles. 
 Parson Fry had been to see her the day before, and 
 though he did not say anything definitely about that 
 root of evil, the silk gown, he delivered such a homily
 
 A SLACK SILK. 53 
 
 on the virtues of self-denial, economy, cheerful giving, 
 and humility, together with a discourse on the duties 
 we owe to the heathen in particular, that the poor 
 woman knew that he had heard all about her short 
 comings, and observed the sable splendor of her attire 
 in meeting. What she did not suspect, however, was 
 that Mrs. Fry, a little, meek, excellent woman, being 
 exasperated by the minister's insistence that she should 
 accompany him to the next meeting of the Association 
 in Hartford, had, after putting forth sundry small 
 reasons, to have them demolished each in turn by her 
 husband's logic, turned upon him as the worm will 
 turn, and snapped : 
 
 " I haven't got a decent dress to wear, Mr. Fn*. If 
 I was 'Zias Peck's wife, I suppose I should have a good 
 black silk ; he don't have to buy every book that's 
 printed ; " and so, having freed her mind, Mrs. Fry 
 burst into tears, and went out, slamming the door 
 behind her. 
 
 Semantha Beers had already urged the parson to 
 admonish Aunt Nancy for not doing her duty ; but, 
 being a man much absorbed in study, he had forgotten 
 all about the matter till his wife's sudden and surprising 
 outburst recalled it. He saw his duty in a much 
 stronger light then, and performed it with singular 
 unction ; and Mrs. Peck, awed by his dignity of 
 person and position, received his exhortation without 
 a word, and even went down on her knees, and was 
 prayed at full fifteen minutes without any other re 
 monstrance than a few slow tears. She had kept her 
 troubles to herself as silently as her husband kept his 
 up to this hour, and with the same tender motive. 
 " Bear ye one another's burdens." Perhaps this com-
 
 54 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 mand is as stringent as that to contribute to missions ; 
 I cannot at this moment place the latter to compare 
 them. 
 
 At last it was Tuesday, and 'Zias went early to the 
 barn to drive his heifer to pasture for the last time ; 
 to-day he must tell his wife, and his heart ached as he 
 thought of it. But as he drew near the barn an omi 
 nous cough smote on his ear ; he hurried in, and there 
 stood Betty, her hair rough and staring, her eyes dull 
 but wild, her breath like the labored puff of rusted bel 
 lows, her mouth dripping, and her legs trembling ; he 
 could not but see that the dreaded "cattle-ail" had 
 attacked her, and he remembered now how slowly she 
 had dragged herself from the lot the night before, 
 though he had laid it then to the sultry heat of the 
 April weather, coming, as now and then a day of April 
 will come, with all the blaze of July, when the drifts 
 are scarce gone from the hills. 
 
 Nothing need be said now about selling the poor 
 creature ; remedies must be found and applied ; and 
 all da}- both Ozias and Nancy worked over the suffer 
 ing animal, sat up with her all night, and were found 
 beside her in the morning, when Selah came over with 
 his money, Aunt Nancy, with the deer-like head in 
 her lap, crying like a child, as the beautiful purple 
 eyes, fast glazing in death, rolled up at her implor 
 ingly, and Ozias, leaning against the manger, sniffing 
 fiercely. 
 
 "Well, I declare!" exclaimed Selah, sticking his 
 old white hat in at the door; "good as dead, aint 
 she? What'll ye take for hide an' horns, 'Zias?" 
 
 Aunt Nancy looked up, enraged ; but a hand was 
 laid on Seluh's shoulder, and a kindly countenance
 
 A SLACK SILK. 55 
 
 peeped over it, while a slow voice said, " Well ! well ! 
 poor c ritter ! Got the p pleur}' newmoaney, haint 
 she? Why, 'Zias, I am r eal sorry." 
 
 " So be I," said Ozias, firmly, setting his battered 
 hat straight ou his head, winking both eyes hard, and 
 uttering a loud " H-m ! " to clear his throat; for he 
 saw Stephen Spencer behind the other men, peering in 
 with bold, hard eyes, as if he, too, had scented the prey 
 afar off, and pounced down lest it should escape him, 
 though 'Zias had specially appointed to-morrow for his 
 payment. " But sorry won't help none : the caow's 
 a-dyin'. I'd calc'lated to sell her to Sely here, and pay 
 up that int'rest on the moggidge, and a piece o' that 
 bill o' yourn, Gross ; but 'twaut so to be. I haint 
 got the money, and I can't git it, and you can't hev it ; 
 that's the hull on't." 
 
 " But, 'Z ias," put in the shopkeeper's kindly, 
 stumbling voice, " I've been to P lymouth, 'nd I 
 haint but jest g ot your letter you writ. Why, I 
 hadn't n o idee of pressin' of ye to settle. Th' aint 
 a mite o' hurry. I d on' know what p ossessed ye, 
 'Zias. I haint never dunned ye for't, now, hev I?" 
 
 " Your wife come an' said you'd got to hev it right 
 off, and she knowed jest how 'twas, and I expected 
 you'd sent her, and I meant to ha' paid ye some on't 
 ef" 
 
 'Zias's voice stopped here ; a stifled sob choked him ; 
 he could only hold out his rough, trembling hand 
 toward the dying cow with a gesture of rude dignity 
 and eloquence. 
 
 " Well," put in Stephen Spencer, "I come to dun 
 ye, and I'm stayin' to dun ye. Either I'll foreclose 
 that 'ere moggidge, or I'll put a 'tachment on to your
 
 56 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 goods 'nd chattels. I guess that 'ere silk gownd '11 
 sell for my claim ef it won't for Gross's." 
 
 Aunt Nancy threw her apron over her head in sheer 
 despair ; the heifer gave a low groan, shivered all over, 
 and was still, but Nancy did not see nor Ozias hear. 
 Trouble maddened him ; he held out his clenched fist 
 at the usurer. 
 
 " Do it if ye dare ! That there gownd is my wife's 
 own. She came by it in a way you won't never come 
 by a half cent, by bein' kind an' good to a feller- 
 creatur, in trouble. I'll chuck ye inter the mill-pond, 
 and never look for ye no more, ef you touch a button 
 on't, or so much as take it off'n the peg. Four-close 
 your old moggidge, five-close it ef you want to ; we can 
 go to the taown-house to-morrer without howlin', an I 
 shan't care a darn, ef Nancy's along ; but you shan't lay 
 a finger on her nor hern." 
 
 " No more he shall, father," said a strong young 
 voice behind the group of men. 
 
 Aunt Nancy dropped the heifer's head, and sprang 
 up with a loud cry, to be hugged by her boy, come 
 home from California in the nick of time. 
 
 It all sounds very like a novel ; but, after all, where 
 do people who write novels get their situations but out 
 of real life? Sam had been prospecting in the interior 
 of California since he left San Francisco, where the 
 climate did not agree with him, and had met with won 
 derful success, not in mining, but by hard, steady work 
 on a ranch. Now he had a stock-farm of his own, and 
 was raising fruit besides. He had made some money, 
 and had a fair prospect of future wealth ; but getting no 
 answer to his letters home, and being desirous to pay 
 his debt to his father, having also a stronger reason
 
 A SLACK SILK. 57 
 
 which was a secret between him and one other person 
 for returning to Barrett, he had come in the very nick 
 of time. In twenty-four hours the mortgage was can 
 celled, the store-bill paid, and five hundred dollars 
 lodged in a Hartford savings-bank to his father's 
 credit. Aunt Nancy wiped away the few tears she had 
 to shed over poor Betty, with a glow at her heart she 
 felt almost ashamed of, seeing her pet lay stark and 
 stiff already under the sod. Ozias returned to his 
 shell, and Selah Hills, who was a carpenter as well as 
 tavern-keeper, the latter occupation being almost nom 
 inal, had already raised the frame of a new barn on 
 'Zias's lot to accommodate a beautiful full-blood 
 Alderney cow which Sam Peck had bought in Hart 
 ford, and thought worthy of a better lodging than the 
 tumble-down structure which had scarce sheltered 
 Betty, when Barrett was electrified by the announce 
 ment that Nelly Spencer, the sweet, pale, gentle girl, 
 over whom her father tyrannized always, was married 
 to Sam Peck, and on her way to California. 
 
 It was quite true : Sam and Nelly had been little 
 lovers at school, and never grown out of loving. Part of 
 her pallor and meekness was owing to Sam's missing 
 letters ; she, too, thought him dead, for they had ex 
 changed stringent promises, and she knew that nothing 
 less than death could so silence him. She forgot that 
 the mail service in those far-away regions might be 
 quite as effectual to that end. 
 
 She and Sam both knew it was of no use to ask her 
 father's consent, so she put on her old shawl and worn- 
 out bonnet one morning and walked over to Parson 
 Fry's study. Ozias was there in his Sunday clothes, 
 and Aunt Nancy in the fateful black silk ; and when
 
 58 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 the brief ceremony was over, and the happy pair 
 packed into the stage to meet a New York train at the 
 nearest station, Aunt Nancy stopped on her way 
 home at Seraantha Beers's house, and gave her five 
 dollars for foreign missions. After that she wore her 
 black silk gown in peace till it wore out.
 
 JERICHO JIM. 51) 
 
 JERICHO JIM. 
 
 " SAY now, marm ! Lemrae in. I aint half so 
 smart's I look to be. I kin do more'n four things to 
 help ye, and I'm kinder onlucky jess now. Mother's 
 dead, ye sec, 'nd " 
 
 Here the simple creature blubbered honestly, and 
 drew his ragged sleeve across his eyes. Mrs. Ellery 
 relented. "Well, who be ye, anyhow? Where d'ye 
 come from ? " 
 
 " ' Ho, Jemimy ! Where d'ye come from ? 
 Flat fish 'n flounders ! where d'ye come from ? ' 
 
 I'm Jericho Jim ; come from Jericho straight, a Tuesday 
 mornin'. No place for Jim there. Dad broke his neck 
 last winter ; drunk as David, 'nd slipped up, 'nd the 
 sled fixed him out a-goin' over him ; mother she cried 
 some, but he was dead, anyhow ; " and, with a sort of 
 furtive grin on his thin, sallow face, and a spark in the 
 hitherto vacant gray eye, Jericho Jim sent his stick 
 spinning in air and caught it again dexterously. 
 
 "Where be ye a-goiu' to?" inquired the old lady 
 again, resting on her broom-handle, and looking over 
 her spectacles at the queer creature before her. 
 
 " I'm goin' here, marm. They said suthin' 'bout the 
 poor-house, down to Jericho ; so I quit. Poor-houses 
 aiut clean ; " and he gave a sidelong glance into the
 
 60 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 kitchen, neat as a lady's parlor, not passing over the 
 clean calico go\vn and stainless cap of good Mrs. 
 Ellery. 
 
 "That's so; they're dirty holes. "Well, you come in 
 and set down. I'll give ye some vittles, and ye can 
 stay till husband comes home ; he'll see to ye." 
 
 So Jericho Jim was set down to an abundant supper 
 of beans, biscuit, pie, and gingerbread, and plenty of 
 hot tea, and proved beyond a doubt that he was 
 hungry. 
 
 "When Deacon Ellery came home he growled a little 
 at the new inmate of his family, more because it was 
 his way to growl than because he meant it ; for his 
 keen eye for business discerned in Jim an inexpensive 
 helper, whom his increasing years and rheumatism made 
 welcome if not needful. Somebody was once over 
 heard by this worthy man to ask : " Wh} T does Deacon 
 Ellery allers go grumblin' round like an old gobbler?" 
 and the deacon saw fit to answer for himself, to the 
 great confusion of the inquirer, who had not seen him 
 coming: "Why, ye see. I have ter ; so's to everage 
 things. "Wife's orful smoothly ; comf 'table as a pnnkin 
 in a corn lot ; allers a-smilin' and chirpiu' ; 'ud it 
 stands to reason all m'lasses aint good for this world ; 
 's got to be some grind, so I do the grindin'." With 
 which exposition of his unconscious heathenism the 
 deacon gave a grunt and walked away. He was better 
 than his words, however, for his heart was warm and 
 his head clear ; and poor Jericho Jim soon found that 
 his new home was a haven of rest for his weary body, 
 and did his very best to reward the sheltering goodness 
 that fed and clothed him, and beamed on him like sun 
 shine in kind looks and words.
 
 JERICHO JIM. 61 
 
 "I declare for't," grumbled Deacon Ellery, "it 
 beats all to see that are feller work ; I dono whether 
 he's a fool or not. See him a-pitchin' into the wood 
 pile, mother? Well, ye'd sa} r there warnt no better 
 feller to pile wood betwixt here'n Danbury ; but yester 
 day, when he was a-sawin', all of a sudden he stopped 
 short 'nd jumped the fence 'nd lay down in the sunshine 
 'nd kicked his heels. ' Jim,' says I, ' what be ye stop- 
 pin' for?' 'So's to grow,' ses he, cooler" n a cucumber. 
 ' Grow? ' says I. ' Yes,' ses he. ' It's a reel growin' 
 day ; the' aint a heap sech days ; sun a-shinin', birds a- 
 singin', wind a-blowin' real soft : mostly we're friz to 
 death in this world ; kinder stunted, deacon ; I want 
 to grow whilst I can ; there's more'n forty days in the 
 wilderness to work, ye know.' Well, if I didn't let 
 him be ! 'Taint no use a-talkin' to him when he gets 
 a curus notion like that holt on him." 
 
 " There's somethin' to most o' his notions, that's a 
 fact," replied the old lady. " I kinder wonder whether 
 or no he aint got the right on't, Mr. Ellery. Mebbe ef 
 we'd took more sunshine into us along back, you an' 
 me wouldn't ha' been so dreadful rheumaticky." 
 
 "He's a queer genius, anyhow, "muttered the deacon, 
 walking off ; but it was to be observed after this that 
 the old man sat in the south door-way more than he 
 ever had done ; and that his wife let in all the sunshine 
 into her bedroom and kitchen that the small, green- 
 paned windows allowed. If they were too old to be 
 cured of rheumatism, at least the rooms grew cheery 
 and the air sweet, and spectacles did them more good 
 than usual. 
 
 They would neither have read or remembered a 
 hygienic treatise on the benefits of sun and air, but
 
 62 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 they had sense enough to accept the homely wisdom of 
 Jericho Jim, and brains enough not to let carpets stand 
 between them and comfort. 
 
 Before many months Jim became a sort of neighbor 
 hood courier ; he peddled milk for the deacon, and dis 
 pensed with his quarts and pints all the news of the vil 
 lage. Many a good woman waited eagerly for his com 
 ing, and ran out with her apron over her head, not 
 merely for the pitcher of fresh, sweet, rich fluid, but to 
 hear about " Mis'" Allen's sick baby, or Jones's grand 
 mother who broke her leg last week, or Sary Penny's 
 company from York ; and it was strange enough to see 
 how quaintly and deftly Jim fitted his story to the 
 hearer. With the curious instinct that sometimes 
 dwells in the souls of those we conceitedly call half 
 witted, he seemed to comprehend the characters he met, 
 to understand their wants and their ways ; and many 
 was the word in season carelessly dropped from his lips 
 that did a blessed errand, all the more because it was 
 uttered by " the foolishness of man." 
 
 "Did ye stop to Harris's to-day?" inquired the dea 
 con, as Jim rode up to the gate one frosty morning, 
 with clattering empty cans. 
 
 " Well, I expect I did." 
 
 " Lef the quart, I s'pose, 'nd didn't git nothin' 
 for't?" 
 
 " No, sir! I give 'era somethin' to boot. Ole Harris 
 came to the door for't ; she's done up. Doctor's gig 
 was a-stannin' there, an' he was clus up to the winder 
 a-mixin' a mess, 'nd ole Harris sez : ' Be yo;i Ellery's 
 fool ? ' ' Yes, I be, you bet,' sez I, pooty cherk. Then 
 he larfed rough as bark. ' Give us a quart,' sez he ; 
 ' I haint got no change to-day.' ' Well,' sez I, ' it aint
 
 JERICHO JIM. 63 
 
 no matter 's long 's ye're to hum ; deacon 's willin' to 
 trust folks t' stay to hum.' He looked orful beat 'nd 
 mad, 'nd I see the doctor larfin' ; but he took the milk, 
 'nd I whipped up, I tell ye." 
 
 Jericho Jim never knew that Tim Harris stayed at 
 home through his wife's long illness, simply to be sure, 
 since he had no money to buy it with, that the delicate 
 baby, sole survivor of six, should have its regular 
 food ; for, drunkard and idler as he was, he had a 
 passionate, reasonless fondness for his children ; and 
 when one after another they died he sought fresh con 
 solation at the whiskey-shop. But this one lived, 
 thanks to its sudden weaning from its heart-broken, 
 worn-out mother, whose bitter troubles and meagre 
 food had poisoned even the draught of life for her 
 babies, and sent them to untimely graves. While she 
 lay helpless and raving with fever for nine long weeks, 
 Tim stayed at home, nursed her as well as he could, 
 tended and fed the baby, who learned to cry for him, 
 instead of crying at the sight of him as all the others 
 had, and getting fat and rosy on the 3 T ellow milk that 
 Jim brought daily in a little pail from the deacon's 
 Alderney, wound itself round the father's heart, kept 
 him with bands stronger than iron from his evil haunts, 
 taught him to live without his stimulant, at least for 
 so long, and established a hold on him never lost. It 
 was little Rosy Harris who in after years coaxed her 
 father into good habits, and made her mother's last 
 days bright and calm ; but it was Jericho Jim who be 
 gan the good work with his unauthorized statement of 
 the deacon's willingness to trust a man who " stayed 
 to hum." 
 
 Curious enough, too, were Jim's peace-making pro-
 
 64 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 pensities. These clouded or straying minds sometimes 
 take a certain elfish delight in mischief, but his desire 
 and delight was peace. Miss Nancy Vance was a thin 
 and somewhat bitter old maid, yet gifted with a good 
 deal of sense, and tolerably reasonable ; about half a 
 mile from her little brown house, where she lived with 
 a bedridden mother, and did tailoring, lived the 
 Widow Pyne, a noisy, good-natured, high-tempered 
 woman ; quick to resent or to fancy an injury, but 
 equally quick to forgive. Between her and Miss Nancy 
 raged a feud of such strength and bitterness as is only 
 to be found in a little country village between people 
 whose minds are narrowed by their limited horizon and 
 slight experience. They were both church-members, 
 but they would neither look at each other across the 
 meeting-house, nor recognize each other in the porch. 
 Miss Nancy always called Mrs. Pyne " that pesky 
 widow," and was styled in return, with more vigor than 
 reticence, " that darned old maid." 
 
 Jericho Jim was aware of this, and many a time 
 shrunk as if from a pin-prick or a blow when one be 
 gan to vituperate the other, and openly evaded the 
 subject. 
 
 " I s'pose old Nance Vance takes half a pint o' milk 
 on ye, don't she?" inquired Mrs. Pyne, with a 
 sniff. 
 
 " Land o' glory ! what splendid red apples them 
 be ! " ejaculated Jim, his ears shut to the question, 
 but his eyes very wide open to an Astrachan apple- 
 tree in the corner of the yard. 
 
 Now this apple-tree was Widow Pyne's glory ; no 
 body in Sawyer had such a tree ; and she petted it like 
 a baby, dug about it with her own hands, manured it
 
 JERICHO JIM. 65 
 
 every fall, and gave it copious libations of dish-water 
 all through the summer. No tent worms ever found 
 lodgment in its thrifty branches ; and in May it was 
 always pink with blossoms, for a tree so coddled had 
 no "off year," but bloomed and bore in every return 
 ing season. 
 
 It was " a sight to behold," as its gratified owner 
 remarked, and Jim's admiration was so fervent Mrs. 
 Pyne could not do less than reward him with a pocket 
 full of the glowing fruit. Jim was duly gratified, and 
 jogged on his way revolving a scheme in his simple 
 mind which fructified, literally, as he found himself at 
 Miss Vance's door. Miss Nancy came out for her 
 pint of milk looking unusually benign ; some of the 
 small items that make up lonely women's lives had been 
 gracious that morning : perhaps her bread had risen 
 just right, or her hens had done their duty in the 
 matter of eggs ; but, however that might be, she had a 
 kindly word for Jim, and he poured her full pint with 
 a beaming grin. "Stop a minuit, won't ye?" he 
 called after her. " Won't ye jest set down that are 
 milk, 'nd hold up your apern ; here's some o' Miss 
 Pyne's amazin' apples." 
 
 " Widder Pyne's apples ! " ejaculated the amazed 
 spinster, as she received the crimson spheres into her 
 check apron. 
 
 "Yes, them's the fellers ; she sent 'em along o' me. 
 Good-day ! " With which ambiguous statement Jim 
 whipped up the old horse and went along before Miss 
 Nancy had time to think. 
 
 " Well, here's nigh onto a merracle ! " she exclaimed 
 to herself . " Widder Pyne's apples! I've heerd she 
 sot by 'em dreadfully, 'nd now she's been 'nd sent 'em
 
 66 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 to me. "Well ! well ! well ! I'd oughter be ashamed o' 
 myself, that's a fact ; 'tis shameful for church-members 
 to keep up a querrel the way we've did ; but she's got 
 the start o' me, that's a fact. I must kinder show my 
 feelin's now, surely." 
 
 So the next day Jim was invited to stop on the way 
 back, and carry Widow Pyne a basket of fresh eggs, 
 for eggs were Miss Nancy's specialty. Imagine Jim's 
 secret joy and Mrs. Pyne's noisy surprise. 
 
 "Sent me them eggs? Land o' Goshen ! she aint 
 weak in her mind, is she, Jim? Must be a leetle 
 touched ; or else I be : I guess she's a good cretur, 
 after all. I dono what on airth hes ailed us two to be 
 allers a-fightin', and now she's begun it I guess I kin 
 be as neighborly as other folks. Don't ye go by here 
 to-morrow without gettin' a pocketful o' apples for 
 Nancy Vance, Jim. Let's see. I'll put 'em in the 
 basket." But the second supply of apples never 
 reached Miss Nancy. Jim had a queer sense of justice, 
 and a squirrel's love for nuts and fruit. He had done 
 a good work with the other apples, and lost them, as 
 far as his own delectation was concerned ; these others 
 he would keep for his own eating ; and his very simple- 
 ness made up for wisdom, for a second supply of fruit 
 would certainly have led to awkward explanations ; 
 while, as it was, when the two ladies met on the church 
 steps next Sunday, smiling and beaming to make their 
 mutual acknowledgments, there were no questions to 
 ask or answer, and the}' parted in friendliest fashion, 
 to remain firm allies thereafter. 
 
 Not far from the Ellery farm there lived a bad-tem 
 pered, cross-grained old fellow, John Dekin by name, 
 who had driven his boys away from home long ago
 
 JERICHO JIM. 67 
 
 by dint of being everything a father ought not to be ; 
 and whose wife stayed with him simply because she 
 was his wife : a fact which is of some virtue to a 
 good woman. Now this man was a great stickler for 
 his rights : he had a right to do as he liked in his 
 own house, no doubt ; and the neighbors agreed that 
 they had an equal right to keep away from it ! All 
 but good Mrs. Ellery, whose great, kind heart could 
 not see a woman suffer as she knew Mrs Dekin must, 
 and not try to alleviate her sufferings. She would go 
 there persistently, though she trembled before the big 
 dog, and quivered at the sound of his master's voice ; 
 for it was one of John Dekin's u rights" to keep the 
 fiercest dog and the Grossest bull anywhere about 
 Sawyer. Jericho Jim volunteered to go with Mrs. 
 Ellery when she paid her visits to the Dekin farm, 
 and as there never was a dog who could withstand 
 Jim's way with the brute creation, he and Tige soon 
 became the best of friends. 
 
 " Hullo ! " said the farmer one day, as he came sud 
 denly round the corner of the house, and found Jim, 
 who had just escorted Mrs. Ellery to the door, sitting 
 on the step and fondling the great bull-dog, who, with 
 watery eyes and slobbering jaws, rested his muzzle on 
 Jim's knee, and looked up into the thin, kind face 
 above him. " Hullo, you feller ! look out for that crit 
 ter ; he'll be into ye 'nd chaw ye up 'fore ye can wink." 
 
 " I guess not," said Jim, with one of his half silly, 
 gentle smiles. " He knows real well I don't want to 
 hurt him none ; so he don' keer to hurt me ; no more 
 he will, will ye, Tige?" 
 
 The dog's stump of a tail wagged affectionate 
 answers.
 
 G8 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 "Well, mebbe it'll do with dogs; you seem to 
 kinder get round that one ; but it aint folkses ways," 
 growled the farmer. 
 
 "Aint it?" said Jim, looking up innocently. 
 " Why, I thought folks knew more'n dogs ! " 
 
 There was no answer to this. John Dekin walked 
 away ; and there ran through his mind, oddly enough, 
 a scrap of a text he had heard somewhere ; perhaps his 
 mother read it to him ; may be he had heard it at meet 
 ing, though he generally went to sleep there, "Is 
 thy servant a dog, that he should do this thing ? " It 
 clung to him with that curious persistence peculiar to 
 texts, which defies philosophical explanation, and more 
 than once thereafter modified some currish act, or 
 silenced some growl, before he fully recognized the in 
 visible restraint upon him. Not long after, that vio 
 lent bull of Mr. Dekin's broke into Deacon Ellery's lot 
 of winter wheat, just about two inches high, and made 
 a general mess of the whole field, already soaked by a 
 wet autumn. Jim discovered the creature in full tide 
 of devastation, browsing on the tallest spires, and 
 trampling down the rest into undistinguishable mud. 
 He sat down a moment and considered ; then filled his 
 pockets with potatoes, left in the next lot after digging, 
 as too small to save, and carefully tossed one over the 
 fence just before the old bull's nose ; the bait was too 
 tempting, the creature nipped it up at once, another 
 fell about a foot in front of him, then another still 
 further off, and following the fence, which tended 
 toward the barn-yard, Master Taurus, before he really 
 understood the snare, was beguiled into his own 
 quarters, and the gate shut fast behind him. Then Jim 
 hunted up the farmer.
 
 JERICHO JIM. 69 
 
 " Say, Mr. Dekin ; hed you jest as lives keep that 
 are splendid ole bull o' yourn in the barn a spell, till I 
 git our folkses fence sot up ? " 
 
 " Why, what harm's he ben a-doin'? Haint I a right 
 to keep a bull in my own lot, I want to know ? " 
 
 " Sartinly, sartinly ! but ye see the poor cretur 
 wanted a fresh bite, an' he kinder pushed down the 
 fence like, an' got into some winter wheat ; so I 
 guessed I'd git him out ou't fust " 
 
 " How in thunder did ye get him out? That's the 
 pint." 
 
 " Well, I coaxed him aleetle ; sorter tolled him along 
 with a mess o' raw potatoes t'other side the stun wall. 
 I sec he hankered after fresh victuals, so to speak ; 'nd 
 I dono's I blame him." 
 
 John Dekiu could not help a laugh ; but Jim went 
 on quietly : 
 
 "So ef you'd jest as lives keep him in a spell, I'll 
 hurry up an' fix the fence, 'nd then he can go out to 
 pastur' ag'in, leastwa}*s while there is pastur' ; 'twoiit 
 last no great now, that's a fact." 
 
 Now the fence between the lots was Dekin's, as he 
 very well knew, and he could have been made to pay 
 well for the damage his beast had done ; but he also 
 knew Deacon Ellery was laid up with an attack of 
 rheumatism, and Jim had all the work to do ; if the 
 fence was once up it would be hard work to make the 
 bull's owner pay for it, so he grimly assented. 
 
 "Yes, I'll keep him tethered; but you hurry up 
 with your old fence." 
 
 Jim went to work directly ; hauled the rails, dug the 
 post-holes, and hired a few hours' help to set them ; 
 before the next night that winter wheat was safely
 
 70 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 railed in, and Deacon Ellery, feeling a little better, had 
 his factotum into the bedroom to hear an account of 
 the day's proceedings, which Jim composedly gave him. 
 
 "Why, you darned fool! " exclaimed the old man, 
 cross with pain, and testy naturally, "you've been a 
 building John Dekin's fence to keep his own bull out 
 o' my lot ! What upon the globe did ye do that for ? " 
 
 " Well, ye see, mister," said Jim, assuming a com 
 fortable sort of attitude, as who should say, " Come 
 now, let us reason together," " I did kinder mistrust 
 from the looks o' things twas his'n ; but thinks me, he 
 aint the kind to up and do right off; he don't care 
 much ef his bull does eat up your wheat ; I expect he's 
 one o' them that didn't hev a good mother. My ! ef 
 he'd ha' had my mother he'd known better, ef he had 
 ha' been a fool. But, you see, folks is folksy ; they 
 aint as they had ought ter be, and you can't fix 'em no 
 way, reely. I calc'lated that if you waited for him the 
 grain 'd be clean lost ; ef ye took the law on him, why, 
 that would be time an' money spent, and the wheat had 
 oughter be a-growin' ; 'twouldn't never grow without 
 fencin', for that bull's dreadful obstropolous ; and we 
 hed them old rails hand}-. Anyway it's fixed now ; 'nd 
 ef ye want to jaw him, or set Squire Jinks onter him, 
 why, there's time enough while the wheat's a-growin' 
 ag'in to satisfy ye that way." 
 
 "You go 'long," growled the deacon, falling back 
 on his pillow; "it's a pretty piece o' business to 
 come to my time o' life to learn how to handle thistles. 
 I don't deny but what I've learned suthin', but I guess 
 you'd better go to bed now ; you're all-fired tired." 
 
 " Well I be, some," and, stretching and yawning, 
 Jim obeyed.
 
 JERICHO JIM. 71 
 
 " That aint nobody's fool," ejaculated the deacon, 
 looking after him; " 'r if he is, 't's a plaguy sight 
 better folly than most folkses wisdom." 
 
 There was no lawyer sent to John Dekin ; the fence 
 stood firm against wintry storms, but Jim noticed 
 that the bull was not turned into that lot again ; and 
 when spring returned the grain shot up in full luxuri 
 ance, thick and heavy-headed ; none the worse for its 
 accidental pruning, perhaps all the better. And, be 
 sides, there was certainly a softening in John Dekin's 
 aspect toward his neighbor ; perhaps not unmingled 
 with contempt for the deacon's " softness ; " but 
 still a grain of leaven had been planted in this un 
 promising lump ; time perhaps eternity only could 
 show how it worked. So Jim went his way in and 
 about Sawyer : a being of no account in the eyes of 
 most people ; of less than none in his own ; but plant 
 ing here and there by the wayside little seeds of 
 kindness and humanity that blossomed to some soul's 
 delight and benefit. " She hath done what she could," 
 was the Lord's own commendation, and this was the 
 lowly measure of Jim's desert ; but can any of us do 
 more? How many of us do as much? How many of 
 the great and rich leave behind them a grateful record 
 in even as many hearts as always remembered with 
 tender affection poor Jericho Jim? 
 
 But it was reserved for him to do the great service 
 of his life for his good old friends, the Ellerys. It has 
 not been declared to you, dear reader, any more than 
 it was to Jirn, that De:icon Ellery had a son living in a 
 distant city, who for some ycurs had never been seen 
 in Sawyer, nor spoken of in his father's house. Sam 
 Ellery had been the very core of his father's heart, to
 
 72 THE srniNZ'S CHILDREN. 
 
 use the pathetic Irish phrase, and yet he never found 
 it out ; for, with the painful shyness and reticence of his 
 race and nature, Deacon Ellery hid this affection deep 
 in silence and coldness. He was a rigid Calvinist, 
 and had striven to bring up Samuel in the straitest sect 
 of that sort. Dogmas and doctrines are husky food 
 for a bright, brave, joyful soul like this boy's ; he 
 never took to them kindly ; his mother's love made her 
 religion just tolerable to him, for professedly she held 
 her husband's faith. Sam could believe in the goodness 
 and tenderness of God when he saw and heard his 
 mother ; but his father's stern and unflinching hand 
 closed the gates which he was most desirous of open 
 ing. He went away from home to a position in a 
 bank in Boston, where he began as " boy," and had 
 now arrived at the office of cashier. At first he had 
 returned once or twice a year to the old home, to mother, 
 and also to keep up a certain }*outhful sweethearting 
 with Annie Palmer, the minister's pretty daughter ; 
 but as he grew to be a man, and remembered bitterly 
 his father's stern belief, he made use of his freedom to 
 examine into religious faiths, and naturally enough 
 rebounded into Unitarianism. That his son should 
 become a member of that sect in particular was the 
 very gall and bitterness of iniquitj' to the old deacon, 
 who could better have borne a defection in almost any 
 other direction ; and in what he called righteous wrath 
 he wrote a dreadful letter to Samuel, and forbade him 
 ever to enter his doors again till he had repented of 
 this great sin, and humbled himself in dust and ashes 
 for betraying his Master, as the deacon was pleased to 
 style it. Although a loving and entreating letter from 
 his mother went after this fulmination, and somewhat
 
 JERICHO JIM. 73 
 
 calmed Sam's first contemptuous anger, and though 
 that letter was answered, and a fitful correspondence 
 carried on between mother and son through Annie 
 Palmer, Sam accepted his father's alternative, and 
 stayed away from his home as persistently as the 
 deacon ignored him ; for he was, indeed, " a chip of the 
 old block." 
 
 His name was never named in the family, nor 
 uttered in the daily prayer, and if his father's heart 
 ever cried after him, it cried in silence. 
 
 Now Jericho Jim adored the minister's daughter with 
 the dumb passion of a faithful dog. It was the great 
 joy of his life to have her come to the door with the milk- 
 pitcher for him to fill, as she sometimes did ; and one 
 pleasant word or lovelj' smile made Jim happy all day. 
 After the fashion of wiser folks he paid tribute to this 
 goddess continually. He brought her every wild 
 flower in its season, and the rarest of all ; he knew 
 where the rhodora grew, and gathered its early blooms 
 for Annie ; delicate orchids unveiled their shy haunts 
 for him, and the slight sweet flowers of spring all lay 
 at Aunie's feet from her faithful worshipper. Cardinal 
 flowers and spotless pond-lilies came in their season ; 
 for her he stored the biggest nuts, and begged the 
 sweetest fruits that grew in any garden, nor ever 
 begged in vain, for Jim was petted and privileged in 
 Sawyer. Annie was mightily joked about her fervent 
 admirer, but nobody ever laughed at Jim ; his pathetic 
 simplicity shielded him like a young girl's innocence. 
 But Annie knew very well that this poor boy liked her, 
 though not how deeply ; and knowing, too, his curious 
 power of setting people to rights, it occurred to her 
 that he might perhaps pave the way for her lover's
 
 74 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 reconciliation with his father ; for the careless admira 
 tion of the deacon's son had long ago deepened into 
 love, and Sam Ellery had been many times to Sawyer 
 to see Annie Palmer since he finally left his father's 
 door ; and now they were soon to be married, and 
 Annie longed with all her heart to have peace between 
 father and son. 
 
 One July evening, just at twilight, Jericho Jim 
 arrived at the door of Parson Palmer's house with the 
 milk for Sunday, which was always carried round 
 Saturday night, and also with a pail of fresh lilies 
 from Warren pond. 
 
 Annie came out to take them, fresh and cool as their 
 spotless blooms herself ; her dark hair waved above a 
 sweet, colorless face, and her clear, sad, hazel eyes 
 looked at Jim both gratefully and wistfully. 
 
 "O Jim! thank you! these are so lovely. Jim, 
 there is one thing I wish you could help me about." 
 
 "I'll do anything I can in the natur' of things to 
 help ye, ma'am, as sure's you're born," he answered to 
 the half question. 
 
 "I do want so much to have Deacon Ellery make 
 friends with his son." 
 
 "Why, he haint got any!" said Jim, with simple 
 confidence. 
 
 " Yes, he has, Jim ; he has indeed ; but they haven't 
 spoken for years." 
 
 " Sho now ! that are can't be ; guess you dreamed 
 it, Miss Annie. Why, Deacon Ellery's a good man ; 
 a Christian cretur as ever was ; can't be ; somebody's 
 ben a " 
 
 "Annie!" called Mrs. Palmer, evidently in haste ; 
 and Jim drove off, feeling in an uncertain sort of way
 
 JERICHO JIM. 75 
 
 as if he hadn't heard, or ought not to have heard, such 
 things about his best friend, even from the adorable 
 Annie. But the thing worked in his feeble head, and 
 as "Fools rush in where angels fear to tread," and 
 sometimes do good service by their folly, so Jim 
 plunged into the middle of things the very next morn 
 ing as he was brushing the shoes for church-going, 
 while the deacon read over his Sunday-school lesson 
 by the window. 
 
 "Say! you haint got any son, have 3*6, deacon?" 
 
 The old man looked at Jim with an air of terror 
 as well as wonder, and turned pale as ashes. 
 
 " Yes, I've got a son," he answered mechanically. 
 
 " Why, I haint never seen him," exclaimed Jim, as 
 if still he scarcely believed. 
 
 " He has not been at home for five long years, Jim ; 
 he is a prodigal who filleth himself with husks," sol 
 emnly replied the deacon, who had somewhat recov 
 ered his poise. 
 
 :< Well, why don't ye fetch him home 'nd give him 
 suthin' better to eat ? " 
 
 The deacon stared at Jim, but could not answer. 
 
 "What's he ben 'nd done anyway?" went on 
 the simple torturer. "Killed anybody? Stole any- 
 thin' ? " 
 
 "No! no! no!" ejaculated the deacon, raging in- 
 wardty between the persistency of his questioner and 
 the impossibility of explaining to him the reason of 
 Sum's banishment. Perhaps, too, the reason why this 
 was so difficult to explain began to wrestle with his 
 conscience. 
 
 " Well, I'm dretful sorry," said Jim, musingly. 
 " My daddy, now, was a poor cretur, drunk, mostly;
 
 76 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 but be was real good to me. I'm glad he wa'n't no 
 better ; mebbe I shouldn't ha' ben good enough for him 
 to speak to, too." 
 
 The deacon could have struck Jim, who went on 
 brushing the shoes as seriously as if they were an 
 algebraic problem. 
 
 " Well, Jim, the fact is, he didn't believe in the 
 Bible Sam didn't." 
 
 "Poor cretur ! poor cretur ! " said Jim, warming 
 into sympathy at once. " Well, deacon ; ye know 
 what you was a-readin' about to me last Sabba'-day ; a 
 tryin' to drive in ter my head, }*e know ? takes a lot o' 
 time to drive anythin' into a fool's head ; but I can't 
 disremember that, 'twas so kinder marciful like, 'bout 
 how the good Lord forgiv' them ft-llers that killed him, 
 'cause he said they didn't know what the}* was a-doin'. 
 Mebbe your Sam don't ; what ef ye was to take him to 
 Sabba'-school, an' larn him better? You tell me where 
 he stays, 'nd I'll go fetch him." 
 
 Jim was in eager earnest ; his e}'es were lit with un 
 usual rays, and one hand held awkwardly out toward 
 the deacon ; but the old man could not answer ; he 
 stumbled away to the bedroom and fell on his knees by 
 the bedside. What he said to God is not for us to 
 know ; what he did was to write a letter that very 
 night to Samuel, and beg him to come home to his old 
 father and his loving mother. 
 
 As for Jim, the matter passed clear out of his oddly 
 rnade-up mind ; he had satisfied himself the deacon had 
 a son ; the immediate curiosity was at rest. He did not 
 see Annie Palmer the next day ; in fact so inconse 
 quent were his mental processes when under the exter 
 nal excitement he did not once think of what she said
 
 JERICHO JIM. 77 
 
 to him ; but only missed her as he would miss sunshine, 
 or fire, or food ; for Annie had become a necessity to 
 the largest share of his nature his heart. 
 
 A week after Mrs. Ellery came out into the garden 
 where Jim was weeding. 
 
 "O Jim!" said she, "my dear son, my Sam, is 
 comin' home to-morrer ; and goin' to be married." 
 
 " Well, I'm glad on't," cheerfully answered Jim. 
 
 "Yes, he's a-comin' home to-morrer. I haint sot 
 eyes on him this five year an' more ; and a Thursday 
 he's a-goin' to be married to Annie Palmer." 
 
 "O Lord!" said Jim, with a gasp; but the good 
 woman did not hear him : heart and head were full of 
 Sam, and she turned and went into the house. 
 
 Jim did not come in after milking that night ; the 
 deacon found him curled down in a corner of the 
 barn. 
 
 " I guess I'm sick," was all he said ; but somehow 
 he reminded the deacon of an old dog he once had, 
 that was mortally wounded by accident, and stole into 
 that very corner to die. There was the same hurt, 
 protesting look in both pairs of eyes. 
 
 They took Jim into his own room, and in a day or 
 two he was better, but never well again ; he lived a 
 few months, feeble, patient, smiling, and doing all he 
 could. The only queer thing about him was that he 
 never asked to see Annie Palmer, or even spoke her 
 name again. Sam went upstairs to see him, but Jim 
 was asleep, he said, and he wouldn't waken him. Per 
 haps Deacon Ellery, being a reticent man, never told 
 his son how much he owed to the poor fool. Annie 
 forgot him too, probably ; but what can you expect of 
 a happy young bride? When winter came, Jim went.
 
 78 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 Dr. Green said the cold was too great for such a low 
 state of vitality ; perhaps it was. However that might 
 be, one starry and splendid night a quick flash sprung 
 into the languid eyes. "Mother! "he said, with an 
 accent of rapture, and Jericho Jim was gone to the 
 Jerusalem which is above.
 
 LOST ON A RAILWAY. 79 
 
 LOST ON A RAILWAY. 
 
 " MOOSOP STATION!" roared the conductor on the 
 H. P. & F. R.R., as advertisements economically style 
 that line of road that cuts Connecticut in two, as far 
 as it goes, probably on the principle that it might go 
 farther and fare worse, or rather get no fares. 
 
 The train stopped, the axles screeched, the whistle 
 shrieked, and the engine sent out side-puffs of spiteful 
 steam, and on the platform stood a little old lady with 
 a big new bandbox, in that state of mingled confusion 
 and excitement common to old ladies from the coun 
 try in prospect of a journey, particularly a journey 
 after that incarnation of Young America, a loco 
 motive. 
 
 " Good-by, mother !" said a mild-looking, dark-eyed 
 woman, giving the old lady a kiss. 
 
 "Good-by, gran'ma," shouted a thick-set boy from 
 his station beside the engine, which he was surveying, 
 much as if he had taken an order to build one, and 
 meant to improve on this pattern. 
 
 " Oh, dear me ! where's my bundle? no, my band 
 box ! I declare if I haint got it in my hand, after all ! 
 Good-by, Sary ! Good-by, Sammy ! Where's John? 
 Oh, here he is ! John, where's my umberell?" 
 
 "Here it is, mother; now get in," answered an 
 elderly man, who stood at her elbow.
 
 80 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 " But vvhere's my piece of string? and the apples? 
 and you haint lost that fennel, have ye, Sary ?" 
 
 " All aboard ! " again roared the conductor, and the 
 old lacly made for the car, with John after her, holding 
 in his hand the basket of apples, with a piece of string 
 knotted to the handle, a bundle of dry fennel, and a 
 blue cotton umbrella. John could get no farther than 
 the door, for the cars began to move. lie piled the 
 things upon tl~e old lady's bandbox, and swung him 
 self off, just in time to get upon the end of the platform, 
 leaving his mother-in-law a picture of confusion. 
 
 However, the old lady righted herself pretty quickly ; 
 she tied her fennel to one end of the string, took the 
 umbrella in one hand and the bandbox in the other, 
 hung the basket on the umbrella handle, which she 
 held horizontally, and proceeded to find a seat. There 
 were none empty, but several occupied b}' only one 
 woman ; and, guided by the instinct of dress that almost 
 all women possess, she stopped beside one of those 
 whose occupant's peculiar array stamped her as a 
 country woman, and gave her a familiar aspect to our 
 heroine. 
 
 " Can I set here?" said the old lady, giving a little 
 poke to the woman's elbow, who looked round with 
 the forbidding expression common to single or solitary 
 females when assaulted by that question in the cars. 
 But as soon as she caught sight of her questioner's face 
 within the frill of her black bonnet, she smiled a be 
 nignant smile of welcome, and said, in a loud, cheerful 
 voice : 
 
 " Why, 'taint you, Miss Dodd, is it?" 
 
 " Well, I declare," said the old lad} 7 , who recog 
 nized a neighbor from the town next her own, " I am
 
 LOST ON A RAILWAY. 81 
 
 beat now ! When did you leave home, Miss Pack 
 ard?" 
 
 " Why, I come away this morning. But set down, 
 set down. I'm real glad it's you ; I never do fellow 
 ship strange folks sottin' in the same seat with me on 
 the railroad ; seems so intimate like, and they 'most 
 always crowd." 
 
 " I'm goin' to hang my basket up before I sot 
 down," remarked Mrs. Dodd. " John, he put a string 
 ou't so as to be handy." 
 
 She stretched up her arm across Mrs. Packard's 
 head to hang up her apples, but at that unlucky 
 moment a sharp jar shook the car, and the apples roll 
 ing out of the basket fell on the head below, and Mrs. 
 Packard sprung up in a fury, her straw bonnet, lib 
 erally adorned with red flowers, thoroughly smashed, 
 and her head well bruised. 
 
 " Good gracious ! " said she, darting a sharp look at 
 Mrs. Dodd, who was holding on to the seat, pretty 
 well frightened. " Good gracious ! them apples have 
 a'most broke 1113- skull ! and they've smashed my bun- 
 net all up ! I don't see what folks do want to carry 
 sech things for ! " 
 
 " Dear me ! " said the old lady, " it is too bad, I do 
 say ! But what on airth jounced all these cars so ? I 
 do believe we've run away ! " 
 
 "Well," was Mrs. Packard's indignant reply, "I 
 guess if we had, you wouldn't be a-talkin' about it!" 
 
 " Don't you want some rum onto your head? " said 
 Mrs. Dodd, anxious to repair the injuries her apples 
 had committed. 
 
 " I guess I had better have some," was the mollified 
 reply, evidently expecting the old lady to hand over
 
 82 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN 1 . 
 
 the lotion from her bandbox or her pocket. But she 
 innocently answered : 
 
 " I wonder if the conductor haint got any. I 
 should think he'd keep some in case of bruises and 
 cuts." 
 
 An indignant sniff was the sole remark Mrs. Packard 
 hazarded ; and the old lady, after picking up her 
 apples, which had rolled hither and yon through the 
 car, quietly established herself in the seat beside her 
 friend, who was occupied in pinching up and pulling 
 out the crushed bonnet and its decorations. Just as 
 bandbox, umbrella, apples, and fennel were all finally 
 arranged, the conductor came by. 
 
 "Ticket, ma'am! " 
 
 Mrs. Dodd was a long time getting it. Out of her 
 deep pocket came all its contents before the missing 
 card was found : three keys on a blue string, one red 
 silk handkerchief and one white cambric one, two 
 pieces of flag-root, an old silk purse with change in it, 
 half a nutmeg, a silver thimble, a tape-needle, a little 
 almanac, a box of Daily's Pain Extractor, and one of 
 corn salve, a pin- ball, and a pair of scissors, a lemon, 
 and two peppermints, a small ball of blue yarn, a bit 
 of Turkey rhubarb, three peanuts, and a pair of black 
 silk gloves, in whose folds was the ticket. But while 
 this investigation was going on Mrs. Dodd improved 
 jier time in questioning the conductor. 
 
 " What did make these cars jump so a little while 
 back, sir? " 
 
 " Cow on the track," laconically growled the man. 
 
 " Dew tell ! " said the old lady, in an accent of hor 
 ror, l ' was't a red caow? " 
 
 " Pretty red when I see her," grimly remarked he.
 
 LOST ON A RAILWAY. 83 
 
 " I shouldn't wonder now if 'twas Miss Jacob 
 Smith's old Red," went on she. " I heerd her tell how 
 her caow would run acrost the track comin' home from 
 pastur'. Why, here's my yarn, and Sammy's peanuts 't 
 I took away from him last night when he was goiii' to 
 eat 'em in bed ; poor little fellow, he'll think gran'ma 
 is dreadful ! I declare I did mean 't he should have 
 'em again. You didn't hear whose caow it was, did 
 you, sir ? " 
 
 " No ! " emphasized the conductor, who wanted the 
 ticket, and at last got it ! 
 
 By this time Mrs. Packard's bonnet was bent out 
 to its pristine shape and splendor, and Mrs. Dodd, 
 recalled from her ticket-hunt, remembered the bruises 
 and called the conductor back in so loud and earnest a 
 voice that he could not affect not to hear her, and un 
 willingly turned. 
 
 " Say, Mr. Conductor, you haven't got any old rum, 
 have you? I want to wet her head with *t." 
 
 The conductor, I regret to say, became profane. 
 
 " Wh}-, he swears ! " ejaculated the old lady, with an 
 accent of horror and surprise. 
 
 Mrs. Packard laughed ; a touch of superiority 
 restored her temper ; she could afford to be amiable to 
 a woman who knew so little of the ways of the world 
 as Mrs. Dodd. So she resumed the conversation. 
 
 " You haven't told me yet where you're goin', Miss 
 Dodd." 
 
 " Me? Wh}", I'm goin' to Albany, to see my son 
 Jehiel, he that studied for the ministry, and was 
 settled a spell in Westbury, and then down to Fall 
 River, and now he's ben in Albany quite a spell, five 
 years I guess, and I haven't ben to see him never.
 
 84 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 You see Sary she's bed young childern, and I hevu't 
 felt as though I could leave her to worry it through 
 alone. But now they're pretty well grown ; Sammy 
 he's the smallest, and Jehiel wouldn't hear to my stay- 
 in' away no longer ; I was bound to go and stay there 
 a year. So John he sent my trunk somehow, by ex 
 press, I expect, so 't I shouldn't hev no trouble, and 
 I'm a-goin' in to Hartford and down to York, and 
 John's brother he's goin' to meet me there, and find 
 somebody that's goin' that way, who'll take me along. 
 It's quite a voyage out to Indianny, and I don't hanker 
 much to go." 
 
 "Out to Indianny!" exclaimed Mrs. Packard. 
 "Why, Albany's in York State ; 'taint out there." 
 
 " Why, yes it is," stoutly answered Mrs. Dodd. 
 
 " Why, Miss Dodd, it aint ! I guess I know where 
 Albany is ; his sister's son, Joe Weed, Jives to Albany ; 
 and when he had a liver complaint, and had to go to 
 Saratogue a spell (he's got a nephew 't keeps a bakery 
 to Saratogue, so it didn't cost no great), he slep to 
 Albany, to Joe Weed's house, and he said 'twas queer 
 wh}- they had it for the capital to York State when 
 York City was so much the biggest. I know 'taint in 
 Indianny ! " 
 
 (Dear reader, let me tell you, par parenthdse, that 
 "he," to a Connecticut woman, always means "my 
 husband." Grammar fails before conjugal devotion ; 
 there is but one man to our Mrs. Packards, and the 
 personal pronoun is sacred to that one.) 
 
 " Well," rather irresolutely replied Mrs. Dodd, " I 
 know Jehiel said 'twas Indiann}-, and so did John ; and, 
 come to think out,' Jehiel's letters always have New 
 Albany on 'em, but I never heerd John call it New."
 
 LOST OX A RAILWAY. 85 
 
 " I don't say but what there may be an Albany or 
 even a Ntw Albany out to Indianny," retorted Mrs. 
 Packard, with dignity; "but I do say I haint never 
 heerd of no Albany except the one in York State ; and 
 if there was one out in Indianny I don't see why John 
 should send you to York to go there ; it appears 
 more likely you should go to the York State Albany 
 from there." 
 
 " Well, I don't know," feebly answered the old 
 lady; " I expect John's brother '11 know. I feel 
 rather uncertain about changin' cars to Hartford. 
 After that, I expect I'll go straight." 
 
 " There aint no difficulty to Hartford," condescended 
 Mrs. Packard. " You've jest got to step acrost the 
 depott, and there '11 come along a train by-'n-by, and 
 you jest ask ef that's the Albany train I would say 
 the York train and they'll tell you, somebody will. 
 I wish 't I was a-goin' as fur as that myself, but I 
 aint. I'm goin' to stop to Manchester to see my 
 sister Lucy-Ann ; she's got a bad complaint of her 
 vitals, and I ruther expect she won't survive. Any 
 way, I'm goin' to nuss her for a spell." 
 
 " I declare I do wish you was goin' along," said the 
 old lady, in a wistful voice. " I'm kind o' hampered 
 with these bundles and things. But my trunk was 
 packed, and I thought maybe I'd have to stop quite a 
 while in York, and this pongee I'm ridin' in isn't very 
 much to look at, so I put up my best black silk gown, 
 and two frilled caps, and some handkerchers, so't I 
 needn't appear otherwise than conformable to city 
 folks's ways ; and then I knew James Greene (that's 
 John's brother, leastways his step-brother) was ex 
 treme fond of Roxbury russets, so I concluded to take
 
 86 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 along a few : they have kept over so well why, it's 
 June the tenth to-day ; and I couldn't go without my 
 umberell no way, if it should come on to rain ; and 
 then I had the fennel so 't if I should be sick to my 
 stomach a-ridin' in the cars, it's very warmin' " 
 
 " Manchester ! " interposed the conductor, and Mrs. 
 Packard bundled out of the cars with a rapid fare 
 well to her travelling companion, and left the old 
 lady alone. Before long the train rolled into the 
 Hartford station, and Mrs. Dodd, somewhat confused 
 by the rush of people out of the cars, and the vocifera 
 tions of the hackmen, gathered up her " things " and 
 stepped off the train, coming down the long step quite 
 unawares, with a bounce that made her drop her 
 bandbox and exclaim : 
 
 " Oh, goodness ! I believe I have bumped my bun- 
 net off ! " 
 
 But the approach of a predatory hackman made her 
 grasp the precious box again, and let go of the bonnet. 
 
 " Allyn House, ma'am? " 
 
 "Hay?" replied the bewildered old lady, as another 
 man behind her screamed, "United States Hotel! 
 where's yer checks ? " 
 
 "Why, I left 'em to home," was the nai've reply, 
 " a-hangin' behind the milk-room door." 
 
 " City Hotel ! give me your box, ma'am. Any 
 more baggage ? " 
 
 ' ' Why, what do you want of my box ? I haint got 
 no trunk, it's gone to Albany." 
 
 Just then a train screeched into the station and com 
 pleted Mrs. Dodd's confusion, while it drowned the 
 drivers' voices ; and, seeing there was nothing to be 
 done with the old lady, they left her staring at the
 
 LOST ON A RAILWAY. 87 
 
 locomotive, as thoroughly confused as ever any old 
 lady was. " Dear me !" soliloquized she ; " seems as 
 though my head would bust." Just then her eye 
 caught a placard, " Beware of pickpockets ! " A look 
 of alarm and horror crossed her face ; she shifted the 
 apples and the " umberell " all to one hand, and grasped 
 her pocket firmly with the other, thereby drawing up 
 her gray pongee dress, and displaying to all beholders 
 a pair of thick-set ankles cased in blue cotton stock 
 ings, and the goodly feet to which they belonged 
 clothed with prunella shoes, whose shape betrayed the 
 swollen joints and crooked shapes that were the reward 
 of hard work and cheap shoe-leather. Certainly Mrs. 
 Dodd did not look one whit less funny to the loungers 
 and employe's in that station-house because she was 
 one of the kindest and best old ladies in the world ! If 
 love and truth and unselfishness want to be appreciated, 
 the}' must wear hoops and sacques and coats with 
 big sleeves ; not pongee-skirts and black bombazine 
 bonnets, or even blue yarn stockings ! As she stood 
 there glaring through her silver-rimmed spectacles, and 
 trying to recall Mrs. Packard's advice, the station-mas 
 ter came by, and she appealed to him, for she despaired 
 of finding out for herself. 
 
 " Sir," said she, tremulously, quite forgetting in her 
 confusion where she was going, ' ' are them the Albany 
 cars ? " 
 
 "That's the New Haven, Hartford, and Springfield 
 train, ma'am ; you can go to Albany by it, or you can 
 go to New York or to Boston." 
 
 " Oh, well ! it's York I'm going to ; thankee, sir." 
 
 Somebody called the station-master, and he walked 
 rapidly away, while the old lady picked her way across
 
 88 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 the tracks, and with some difficulty clambered into the 
 cars on the wrong side, nothing doubting but that she 
 was all right, when in fact she had taken the up train. 
 
 She sat down behind two ladies, young and fash 
 ionably dressed, and presently the train moved off. 
 Poor Mrs. Dodd, tired with the worry and bustle of 
 the morning, fell asleep, and the conductor, having an 
 old mother himself, compassionately forbore to wake 
 her on his first round. But next time he tried to rouse 
 her, as they neared a station, and possibly she might 
 wish to get off; the old lady slept, however, so soundly 
 that shakings and callings seemed all in vain, much to 
 the amusement of the two women before her. But one 
 behind, more considerate, offered her bottle of salts to 
 the conductor, who applied it with such effect that Mrs. 
 Dodd jumped up, spilled her basket of apples out of 
 her lap, and looked about her with a dismayed and 
 alarmed expression, irresistible to behold. Even the 
 conductor laughed. 
 
 " Do you want to get off here, ma'am? " said he. 
 
 " Where is't? where is't? We haven't got to York, 
 have we? Oh, my apples ! I declare for 't, they've all 
 rolled away ! " 
 
 " Thompsonville ! " shouted the brakeman, as the 
 conductor did not fulfil that particular part of his duty, 
 being occupied with Mrs. Dodd. " Are you going off 
 here, ma'am ? " repeated this latter functionary. 
 
 " No, I'm goin' further. I'm goiu' to York." 
 
 The conductor did not wait to hear the latter part 
 of her answer, he was obliged to see to other affairs. 
 So long as the old lady didn't mean to get off, he could 
 wait for her ticket till their brief stop at the station 
 was over. And she, by this time wide awake, began
 
 LOST ON A RAILWAY. 89 
 
 to collect her scattered apples, a task of no small 
 difficult}', between the mischievousness of two school 
 boys who had already possessed themselves of three or 
 four, and the spread of sundry hoops thut concealed 
 others. At length she had gathered the better part of 
 her fruit, feeling rather puzzled by the earnest declara 
 tion of the boys that they hadn't seen such a thing, 
 when she had found three rolled beyond them ; and 
 just as she stooped to pick up one more the train 
 started and pitched her forward. Luckily the bom 
 bazine bonnet took the brunt of her fall, the front 
 crushed in and saved her face, but the bonnet was 
 deplorable ; and the poor old lady's discomfiture was 
 completed by the malicious tittering of the "ladies" 
 before her. 
 
 As soon as she was seated the conductor came back ; 
 his face twitched a little at Mrs. Dodd's aspect : the 
 pongee was streaked with dust from the car-floor ; the 
 bonnet bent in angles that were none of them right 
 angles, and her attempts at straightening it had only 
 multiplied them ; her face was flushed with heat and 
 mortification, and she had put down her basket of 
 apples on the floor between her feet, which steadied it 
 as resolutely as if they were glued to either side. 
 
 " Where's your ticket, ma'am? " said he. 
 
 " Why, I haint got none," she answered, meekly. 
 " I thought you kep' 'em." 
 
 " Didn't you get one at the office? " 
 
 " Well, I declare, I forgot John told me to, I was in 
 sech a hurry. You see I come in on the Providence 
 train, and I see this train come in right off, and I 
 didn't recollect nothing about a ticket." 
 
 u Where do you want to go? " said he.
 
 90 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN: 
 
 " Why, I want to go to York. You see I'm goin' to 
 Albany, but I'm goin' to York fust." 
 
 " You're in the wrong train, ma'am. This train goes 
 to Boston." 
 
 " Oh, dear! " exclaimed she, in a tone of heart-felt 
 confusion and distress. " What be I goin' to do?" 
 
 " Why, we stop at Springfield in a few minutes, and 
 you can get on the down train there, and go right on 
 10 New York." 
 
 " Well, can you give me a ticket, sir? I've got the 
 money all right. I held on to't down to Hartford de- 
 pott so't there shouldn't no pick-pockets git it." 
 
 " I guess I sha'n't ask you to pay for this ride," 
 said he, smiling. " You can get a ticket for New York 
 at the Springfield office, and the down train starts in 
 five minutes, right alongside t'other side of the waiting- 
 room ; you won't have any stop to make there. Is this 
 all your baggage ? " 
 
 " I expect it is, sir. John, he sent my trunk by ex 
 press, and these is all besides, if I don't tip over them 
 apples ag'in." 
 
 Pretty soon the train did stop, and the old lady 
 bundled out, and after much questioning and explana 
 tion discovered a ticket-office, and in her fresh con 
 fusion asked for and bought a ticket to Albanj-, and 
 leposited herself in the train for Boston. 
 
 It was some time before the cars began to move, and 
 Mrs. Dodd thought her friendly conductor must have 
 mistaken the time, so she left her box and walked for 
 ward to an elderly man, who sat reading a paper just 
 Sefore her, and said : 
 
 " I thought these here cars wa'n't goin' to wait very 
 long."
 
 LOST ON A RAILWAY. 91 
 
 " Time changed," gruffly replied he. 
 
 So Mrs. Dodd sat down again, and in a few minutes 
 the same two women who had been before her on the 
 Springfield train came in, and took the same seat. Mrs. 
 t Dodd was hardly pleased by this encounter, and it puz 
 zled her somewhat that these two ladies who had just 
 come up should be going down again ; but she said noth 
 ing, and in ten minutes the train was off. It was an ex 
 press train, and stopped at but few places, so that she 
 was well on her journey before the conductor claimed her 
 ticket, which was safe at the bottom of her pocket. 
 
 " I'll get it in a minute," said she, deprecatingly, as 
 the conductor began to look impatiently at the hetero 
 geneous articles that one by one were being fished up 
 out of her pocket. 
 
 " Hurry up, ma'am ! " said he, at length, crossly. " I 
 can't wait all day ! " 
 
 So urged, the poor old lady thrust her hand ener 
 getically down, deeper yet, and ran a sharp pin from 
 the pin-ball into her thumb : her hand was withdrawn 
 with as much force as it went in, and her elbow hit the 
 basket of apples, which, for the third time that da}*, 
 went rolling along the floor. This last catastrophe was 
 too much for poor Mrs. Dodd. She was tired, and 
 puzzled, and hungry withal ; she had had no dinner, 
 and had brought nothing to eat with her ; and tears of 
 fatigue as well as vexation dimmed her spectacles as 
 she tried to inspect the wounded thumb. 
 
 "I'll get your ticket when I come back," said the 
 conductor, tired of waiting. 
 
 But the old lady scarcely heard him ; she could not 
 see the place that was hurt on her thumb, which she 
 was most anxious to do, and in her simplicity she quite
 
 92 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 forgot that the ladies in front of her had been rude in 
 the morning ; so, quite regardless of her apples, she 
 lifted herself half-way off the seat, and leaning forward 
 thrust her hand between the two ladies, and asked, in 
 perfect good faith : 
 
 " Sa}-, ma'am ! can you see the hole? " 
 
 The lady on the right turned round and looked at 
 Mrs. Dodd with a pair of eyes that expression made 
 more insolent even than nature had made them, and 
 said, in the sweetest voice of ice and snow, tingling with 
 a fine suggestion of astonishment : 
 
 "What?" 
 
 Mrs. Dodd never winced, she was so absorbed in her 
 hurt. ' Why, you see I sticked a pin into my thumb, 
 and pins are p'isonous, they say. Hester Smith's 
 daughter, she 't worked to a pin-factor}-, she got pricked 
 and didn't take no pains to heal up the wownd, and she 
 swelled up awfully, got mortified and re'lly died ; so I 
 always carry Dally in my pocket to put on first jump ; 
 but I can't see real well in the cars so as to apply it 
 right. Do you see the hole?" 
 
 The green eyes and amber hair confronted her 
 again, and the same discriminating voice remarked, " I 
 see a very dirty thumb." 
 
 Now Mrs. Dodd's thumb did not look clean ; she had 
 taken off her clinging silk gloves to straighten out her 
 bonnet and pick up her apples, and the dust had left 
 unmistakable traces on that puckered and pierced 
 member. But Mrs. Dodd's hobby was cleanliness ; 
 she was scrupulously, religiously neat ; however old, 
 and faded, and stained her dress might be, it was 
 always faultlessly clean as soap and water could make 
 it ; and to have a strange woman in a public convey-
 
 LOST ON A RAILWAY. 93 
 
 ance tell her that her thumb was " dirty " was not to 
 be endured. She bent her head slightly to facilitate 
 the manoeuvre, and directed a look over her spectacles 
 at the offender, a look of that transfixing kind peculiar 
 to indignant old ladies, in which they assume something 
 of the severely virtuous aspect common to those 
 dragon-flies that have four eyes, though they do not 
 wear spectacles. But the green eyes and amber hair 
 were turned away, and poor Mrs. Dodd's Medusean 
 artillery was wasted. She gave no further license to 
 her tongue than to remark quite audibly : 
 
 " I wish you better manners ! " 
 
 No notice was taken of this little remark by the 
 green eyes. An icicle could not have been more insen 
 sitive, and Mrs. Dodd had spent all her ammunition ; 
 so after anointing her whole thumb with her favorite 
 remedy, and tying it up in a rag extracted from that 
 voluminous pocket which certainly was clean she 
 betook herself to gathering up the scattered apples, 
 a work of time and patience, for they had rolled fur 
 ther than ever. Just as she was fairly settled again 
 the conductor came back for her ticket, which she had 
 discovered, and taken the precaution to pin to her 
 shawl. She handed it up to him with a look of serene 
 satisfaction. 
 
 " "Wrong ticket ! " said he. 
 
 " Why, sir ! isn't this the York train? " 
 
 " No ; this is the Boston express, and your ticket is 
 for Albany." 
 
 " Goodness gracious ! I haint got lost again, have 
 I? Oh, dear ! what shall I do? " 
 
 " Get out at the next station," said he. 
 
 ''Where is't?"
 
 94 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 " "Worcester, fare, a dollar sixty-two." 
 
 "Aint my ticket good for nothing?" said Mrs. 
 Dodd, with a dismayed accent. 
 
 "Don't you see," answered he, running his finger 
 along the card, " 'Good for this day and train only'? " 
 
 " Well, can't I get back to anywhere afore it's 
 dark?" said she. 
 
 The conductor did not hear her ; the cars were stop 
 ping without leave. He hurried through to find the 
 trouble, leaving the poor old woman more perplexed 
 than ever. Opposite to her sat a lady much less 
 elaborately dressed than those before her. Something 
 quiet and well-bred marked her whole aspect, though 
 her dress was of a gray, unnoticeable fabric, and her 
 thin cloak and hat of a delicate transparent material, 
 dull in tint, but without crease or spot. She looked 
 across at Mrs. Dodd, and said in a low, pleasant 
 voice : 
 
 " Can I help you, ma'am? " 
 
 " Oh, dear! I don't know," said she. "You don't 
 know nothin' about the trains, do you, nor what timfe 
 we get to Worcester ? " 
 
 " We ought to get to Worcester by half-past three," 
 said the lady. 
 
 " Where be we a-stoppin' now?" 
 
 " I don't know. I think something is wrong ; there 
 is no station here." 
 
 Just as she spoke one of the gentlemen who had got 
 out as gentlemen always do on such occasions, to 
 see for themselves came back and took his seat behind 
 Mrs. Dodd. The lady addressed him in her sweet and 
 delicate tones. " What is the matter, sir?" said she. 
 It was the same man who had given so laconic an
 
 LOST ON A RAILWAY. 95 
 
 answer to the old lady when she spoke to him on com 
 ing into the cars at Springfield ; but he was neithei 
 gruff nor brief to his present querist. 
 
 " The locomotive has burst a flue, ma'am, I believe. 
 If so, we shall be detained some time on the track." 
 
 Mrs. Dodd looked aghast. "Oh, dear me!" sai(\ 
 she; "what shall I do?" 
 
 ' ' I think you will have to spend the night at Worces-. 
 ter, and go back in the morning," said the lady. 
 
 " Well, if I go to York now, I don't know where to 
 go, for James he won't expect me," was the piteous 
 reply. 
 
 So the lady a woman who deserved the name 
 addressed herself kindly to quiet the poor old woman's 
 apprehensions ; and, having gradually extracted the 
 history of Mrs. Dodd's wanderings, advised her to ask 
 somebody in the station at Worcester to show her a 
 hotel, and then to proceed in the first morning train to 
 Albany the kind adviser not suspecting that New 
 Albany was her proper destination. 
 
 " I thank you kindly," said Mrs. Dodd. " 'Taint 
 everybody that's willin' to take so much pains and 
 trouble for an old cretur like me." 
 
 "You are very welcome," said the lady. " I shall 
 be old myself sometime and want help." 
 
 " Well, I'll be bound you'll get it," was the earnest 
 response of Mrs. Dodd, as the lad}' returned, smiling, 
 to her seat and her book, while the pair of women on 
 the seat in front stared at her with undisguised wonder, 
 one of them having recognized her, on entering, as 
 a Boston lady, to attain whose position and reputation 
 she would have given all her luxuriant amber hair ancj 
 one of her green eyes.
 
 96 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 After long delay the train moved on, and at Worces 
 ter our old lady left the cars, not without a hearty 
 shake of the hand from her unknown friend, to whom 
 she offered her basket of apples, begging her to take 
 them all, an offer graciously declined, though she did 
 take one, by way of showing her appreciation of the 
 kindness intended. 
 
 When Mrs. Dodd found, herself once more left to 
 her own devices in a strange place she made a resolute 
 effort to keep her wits about her, not to get lost again. 
 She asked one hackman after another "where the 
 tavern was." And as fast as they discovered she was 
 no fare for them they turned away ; and soon both 
 men and women had left the station empty, except 
 for the ticket-seller, who waited for another train and 
 had shut his window, so that not even the strenuous 
 inquisitiveness of spectacles could discover him. In 
 this strait was poor Mrs. Dodd left: tired, dusty, 
 thirsty, hungry, and perplexed, when, just as her with 
 ered lip began to quiver and her eyes to fill, a stout, 
 rosy Irish girl, in the most wonderful figured cotton 
 dress, and a red shawl over her head, came in at one 
 door of the station, and the old lady, determined to 
 intercept her, planted herself right before her, bran 
 dishing the umbrella feebly, and accosted Bridget 
 with : 
 
 " Say ! do you know where the tavern is?" 
 
 " Shure there's more 'n one to this big place, mem," 
 said she ; " whichever is it ye'll be afther?" 
 
 " Well, I don't care much, only I've got kinder lost 
 on the railroad, 'u I've got to stay here overnight, so's 
 to go back in the mornin' to Albany, and I want a 
 place to sleep, and get some vittles, pretty near by."
 
 LOST O.V A RAILWAY. 97 
 
 " Well, an' if it aint a big hott el ye've set your 
 mind on, here's Mrs. Donovan's close by, an' she 
 keeps a fust-rate boordin'-house, and it's meself waits, 
 an' cooks, and does up the chamber- work ; and Miss 
 Flynn, she left the place last week, and there aint a 
 sowl in her room, and I think ye'd better be afther 
 comiu' along wid me, where ye'll get boord an' lodgin' 
 av the best, an' it's right forninst the dapott." 
 
 Mrs. Dodd yielded : she knew nothing else to do, 
 and after a supper at Mrs. Donovan's " boordin'- 
 house" which made her recall the clean and savory 
 food she was used to at her daughter's table with re 
 gretful astonishment she was shown into a dark, 
 close room, upstairs, where the fluffy bed and very 
 objectionable linen or rather cotton thereof, 
 shocked Mrs. Dodd quite as much as it would have the 
 green-eyed lady who insulted her thumb. But the 
 extremity of her fatigue made her less fastidious prac 
 tically ; she went to bed, and forgot everything in so 
 sound a sleep that she did not wake till half -past seven 
 of the brightest possible June morning, when a sound 
 shake from Bridget effected that desirable event. 
 
 " Shure, mem, the accomydashin's goin' by in a 
 half an hour, an' ye've overslep' yerself , an' the brekfist 
 is ready." 
 
 Mrs. Dodd yawned, and rubbed her eyes, and 
 yawned again, but at length awoke to what the news 
 papers call " a sense of her situation," and dressed 
 herself as hastily as the methodical ways of an old 
 lady would permit ; for such brushings and shakings 
 as gown, shawl, cap, handkerchief, and bonnet had to 
 go through were a work of time, and the breakfast- 
 bell rung impatiently twice before the dust of three
 
 D8 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 railways was expelled from every gather and plait, and 
 when at length she appeared downstairs, much the 
 better for the aforesaid processes, she was greeted by 
 Bridget standing at the foot of the stairs with arms 
 akimbo: "An' there's the accomydashin' train a 
 whustlin' this blessed minit, an' you haven't ate j'er 
 brekfist, as shure's I'm Bridget Flanigin ! " 
 
 "Oh, dear!" said Mrs. Dodd, " if I aiut the uii- 
 luckiest woman ! Can't I get over to 't, Bridget? " 
 
 " Shure ye can't aven put on yer bonnet quick 
 enough, for it's afther goin' out as quick as iver it 
 comes in ! " 
 
 "Oh, what shall I do!" exclaimed the old lady, 
 who felt as one does when, after waking out of one 
 nightmare, breathless and oppressed, is felt the creep 
 ing, curdling horror of another, and, conscious of its 
 presence, cannot stir to escape. 
 
 " Shure, whativer else ye'll do, ye'd betther ate yer 
 brekfist. Hev'n't I been an' br'iled a beautf ul salt fish 
 meself for that same, wid chopped petatys, an' fine 
 hot caffee?" 
 
 Mrs. Dodd followed her to the dining-room, which 
 was deserted even by Mrs. Donovan ; and if cold or 
 tepid salt mackerel, greasy potatoes, coffee that never 
 grew on any Javan or Arabian soil, being uublush- 
 ingly burned beans, and stale baker's bread could 
 have tempted her appetite, our old lady would have 
 scarcely eaten with less apparent notice of her food 
 than now. She did not know what to do till at last 
 a bright thought visited her, and she turned to Bridget, 
 who sat at ease in a chair behind her, heaving Irish 
 sighs, and wiping her hot face with an apron that was 
 far from clean, sa3 T ing :
 
 LOST ON A RAILWAY. 99 
 
 " Aint there no more trains besides this, Bridget?" 
 
 " Shure an' there is. 'Taint a twopenny railroad 
 that runs twice't an' then gives over. It's sivin or tin 
 trains a day they do be havin', I don't remimber 
 which." 
 
 " Well, then, I can go in the next one, can't I? 
 When does it go ? " 
 
 " There's the express comes by at tin o'clock, mem ; 
 but I undtherstood 3*6 to say ye wanted the first train, 
 and that's the accomydashin that's agoin' out beyant 
 now." 
 
 " Then I'll go by express. I'll put on my bunnit 
 right away, and take my things, and go and set in the 
 depott till it comes along, so 't I'll be sure next time." 
 
 " And I'll come afther I get the dishes done, about 
 tin o'clock, an' see ye safe in," said Bridget, muttering 
 as she retreated, " she's a rale plisant otild lady, and as 
 like to me Aunt Honour Maguire the heavens be her 
 bed this day ! as one pay is like to another in the 
 pod ; and it's more nor likely she'll make me the com- 
 plimint of a quarther for bein' attintive ! " 
 
 Mrs. Dodd paid for her board at the rate of a great 
 hotel, and gladly left Mrs. Donovan smiling from under 
 her be-ribboned cap at the meek inexperience of the 
 old lady. After a few inquiries she found her way to 
 the station, and seated herself in the gentlemen's wait 
 ing-room, as if the spirit of all blunders possessed her ! 
 She was somewhat chagrined at not finding a rocking- 
 chair, but compromised affairs by sitting in one com 
 mon one, with her feet on the rujigs of another, that 
 held her box, basket, and umbrella. Thus perched she 
 waited quietly till the hour for the train should come. 
 As the time drew near, and only men began to come in,
 
 100 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 one after another, she wondered mightily what was the 
 reason that no women were going, and why all the men 
 looked at her so. Presently two coarse-looking youths 
 entered, tolerably well-dressed except in the article of 
 vests, which were of the showiest character, brilliant 
 pink and blue checked Marseilles, overhung with the 
 gaudiest and most elaborate chains, while Mosaic 
 studs, rings big enough for the finger of Gog or Magog, 
 and blue neck-ties stamped them as undoubted 
 " swells." 
 
 ' Hullo ! " said the reddest of them, as his eye 
 caught Mrs. Dodd's quaint figure. " Jim ! I say, look 
 there ! " 
 
 Jim turned round, struck an attitude, and whistled ; 
 while Joe quoted audibly, " Big box, little box, band 
 box, bundle." 
 
 Mrs. Dodd couldn't hear them, or she might perhaps 
 have taken herself out of the way of the next manoeuvre, 
 which was, after buying their tickets, to seat themselves 
 one on each side of her, and begin a conversation. 
 
 " Good-morning, ma'am ! " said Joe, which was 
 reciprocated by Mrs. Dodd. " Got }'our ticket, 
 ma'am?" 
 
 "Well, no, I hevn't. I calculate to get it in the 
 cars, so's I can't make no mistakes no more. Can I 
 get it way through to Albany, sir?" 
 
 " Lord, yes ! " answered Jim. " They ticket 
 through to the Rocky Mountains, and overland to 
 China, on this track." 
 
 " Dew tell ! " saidJhe old lady. " I thought Chiney 
 was acrost the water." 
 
 " Well, the} 7 've bridged it over on the telegraph 
 cable," said Joe, graveby.
 
 LOST OX A RAILWAY. 101 
 
 Mrs. Dodd looked at him over her spectacles, not 
 indignantly, but inquiringly. 
 
 " Dew tell ! " said she. " I didn't know as they 
 could ! " 
 
 " Why," said Jim, " that feller next you, ma'am, 
 he ticketed through to Japan, and shot buffaloes flying 
 for seven hundred and forty miles of the way light 
 ning speed." 
 
 " Why, buffaloes don't fly ! " said Mrs. Dodd, indig 
 nantly. 
 
 " Oh, no ! " said Joe ; " but I did, after the engine : 
 it's the same principle. I used to aim a mile ahead, 
 and hit every time." 
 
 " Dear me ! " said the old lady, quite reassured by 
 Joe's grave air. " Be they quite large critters?" 
 
 "Oh, immense!" said Jim; "they use their horns 
 for church-steeples out in Kansas, and make a bell- 
 rope of the tail." 
 
 Mrs. Dodd began to look dubious, and just then 
 Joe's e}~e lit on a number of an agricultural paper lying 
 on the floor, that some one had dropped, where were 
 depicted certain diagrams illustrating the shape that a 
 well-fed ox should be, inclosing him in a parallelogram 
 except his head and legs ; he availed himself of the ac 
 cident directly. 
 
 "Well, that does sound rather largish," said he; 
 " but we shall get a look at 'em in this part of the 
 country before long. They're goin' to be imported." 
 
 " I should like to see a man drive a herd of 'em into 
 New York ! " said Jim, affecting a great scorn for the 
 idea. 
 
 " Oh, they're going to be boxed up ! " returned Joe. 
 " Look here, ma'am : here's a description of the v way,
 
 102 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 in the last ' Syracuse Harrow.' You see how it's to be 
 done ! " 
 
 "What!" said the pitiful old lady, eyiug the dia 
 gram, that presented a view of the ox's back, " a-settin' 
 up on end ! Why, it must hurt their tails dreadfully. 
 Poor creturs ! I should think they'd beller all the wa} T ." 
 
 This was too much for Jim and Joe ; the} 7 disappeared 
 in a roar of laughter, leaving the mortified and aston 
 ished Mrs. Dodd to her own reflections. Presently the 
 train came up, and the old lady betook herself to the 
 cars, being seized on the way by Bridget, who put her 
 into a seat, and bade her an affectionate good-by, lin 
 gering in hope of some more tangible souvenir, but 
 lingering in vain. Mrs. Dodd was " of prudent 
 mind," and she thought the two dollars she had paid 
 Mrs. Donovan quite enough, to say the least, for her 
 scanty accommodations ; so she only said, " Good-by, 
 Bridget ; I wish you well." Just then the bell rung. 
 
 " Ye stingy ould nagur ! " sputtered the indignant 
 serving-maid ; " the divil's own luck go wid }*e ! " 
 
 " All aboard ! " sung out the conductor, and Bridget 
 beat a hasty retreat without her " complimint," whereon 
 Mrs. Dodd uttered but one reflection, in soliloquy, 
 Which we preserve for its point and pith : 
 
 " She's real Irish, sweet one minute and sassy the 
 next." 
 
 The cars had passed Springfield, and were well on 
 their way toward Albany. Mrs. Dodd had procured 
 the right ticket this time, and sat peacefully nibbling 
 a great piece of cake she had bought of a boy ; for 
 nothing could have induced her to leave her seat a 
 moment till she arrived at Albany, hardly the neces 
 sity of the ferry, when suddenly it occurred to her
 
 LOST ON A RAILWAY. 103 
 
 she could get away from the troublesome sunshine in 
 her face by taking the other end of the seat. To do so, 
 bandbox, umbrella, and apple-basket must change 
 places, and of course she knocked down the apples, 
 and was obliged to grope for them here and there as 
 they had rolled. Just before her sat a young man, 
 with a deep weed on his hat, which had given rise to 
 various sympathetic conjectures in the old lady's mind. 
 He had taken that seat at Westfield, and remained ap 
 parently absorbed in his papers ever since. He was 
 not handsome, but there was something serious and 
 sweet about his dark face, and his dress was quiet and 
 serviceable. Just as Mrs. Dodd stooped b}' his seat to 
 look for one of the unfortunate russets, he perceived 
 her errand, and offered to help her so kindly that the 
 weary old lady looked up at him with a glow of satis 
 faction. 
 
 " Well, I wish you would," said she. " Them apples 
 do pester me dreadfully ; they've kep' a-tumblin' down 
 ever since I come away from home." 
 
 " Let me tie a paper over the basket," said he, 
 "and then you will have no more trouble;" and he 
 proceeded to tie a bit of his newspaper over the re-col 
 lected russets. 
 
 "I declare for't," said she, " it's a great thing to 
 have one's faculties handy ! I don't see why I never 
 thought of that myself." 
 
 The gentleman smiled, and, arranging the old lady's 
 possessions, offered her a pictorial paper, and for the 
 next hour she was happy ; but the paper being finished 
 she began to think with apprehension of her search 
 through Albany after Jehiel. She returned the paper 
 with thanks, and proceeded encouraged by the smile
 
 104 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 with which it was acknowledged to inquire of him as 
 follows : 
 
 " You haven't never been to Albany, have you, sir? " 
 
 He smiled again, at the intensely Yankee idiom. 
 
 " Oh, yes, ma'am ; a great many times." 
 
 " Well, do you know the Eeverend Jehiel Dodd 
 there ? " 
 
 " No ; there is no settled clergyman of that name in 
 Albany." 
 
 " Why, yes, there is, sure. He's my son ; he's set 
 tled in the Pilgrim Church, I b'lieve 'tis they call it." 
 
 " But there is no such church in Alban}\" 
 
 Several new wrinkles gathered on the wistful, troubled 
 face that looked into his, and the wonted exclamation 
 came to her lips : 
 
 "Dear me! what shall I do? Well, do you know 
 one thing, is Albany^ in Indianny or York? " 
 
 " The Albany we are going to is in New York State. 
 There is a New Albany in Indiana." 
 
 " Well, that is it, I expect; but everybody told me 
 it was in York. And here I am a-goin' all wrong ! 
 Oh, dear me, sus ! " 
 
 This was the extreme of Mrs. Dodd's ejaculations ; 
 language reached its limits with her in that climax of 
 phraseology ; and the hot, slow tears began to creep 
 out of her poor old eyes. Something about her look 
 touched her listener's heart to the quick. The weed on 
 his hat was not the token of a lost love, or wife, or 
 child ; it signified to him a loss never to be amended, 
 a dead mother, who also had been gray-haired, wrinkled, 
 faded out of her young bloom, but lovely with the un 
 dying beauty of a lovely soul that transfigured her for 
 ever, and left its fair ghost behind in the hearts and the
 
 LOST ON A RAILWAY. 105 
 
 memories of all who knew her. Her son, remembering 
 her, soothed poor old Mrs. Dodd into quiet, drew from 
 her all her story, and, after thinking it over, decided 
 that it was not best for her to go to New York, but to 
 keep right on to Cleveland, and from there, by various 
 railways, to Indianapolis and New Albany. 
 
 " But I don't believe I've got money enough," said 
 she. " It must take quite a spell o' travellin' to get out 
 there ; and John Greeue, that's my son-in-law down to 
 Moosop " 
 
 " John Greene ! Why, I know him quite well. I've 
 bought wool of him many a time," said the young man, 
 speaking with visible pleasure, as everybody who knew 
 John Greene did speak of him. 
 
 " Why, dew tell ! I want to know if you know our 
 John ! Well, now, I feel kind o' familiar, I declare ! 
 Well, I was goin' on to say, he said't James, his brother, 
 when I was goin' down to York, would hand over the 
 money for my passage to whoever should take me along, 
 so't I shouldn't have no trouble ; and I brought along 
 ten dollars for little things, and for to pay my passage 
 from Hartford to York, and I haint got more'n three 
 of it left, I've been a-wanderin' round so." Here the 
 old lady's lip began to quiver. 
 
 " Well, you're all right now ! " said he, soothingly. 
 " I'm going on out West, and I've got money enough 
 for both of us. I shall go as far as Indianapolis, and 
 there I'll put you in a train straight for New Albany." 
 
 "Oh, I don't know how to be thankful enough!" 
 said she. " I'm greatly obleeged ; and 3'ou'll be sure 
 to get your money though that's the least part 
 on't." 
 
 " Oh, yes ; I'll get that out of Mr. Greene on our
 
 106 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 next wool bargain. He'll trust Frank Scarborough's 
 word for the debt, I'll be bound." 
 
 " I guess he'd trust a look out o' them eyes o' yourn 
 as quick," said the old lady, thinking aloud. 
 
 Mr. Scarborough turned her thoughts by saying, 
 " We'll telegraph from Albany to Moosop Station that 
 you're all safe with me." 
 
 "Oh, yes, sir; and you needn't never go to John 
 for wool after this without makin' it your home while 
 you stay. They'll always befriend anybody that be 
 friends mother." 
 
 They arrived at Albany very soon after this agree 
 ment ; and, deciding to take a night train on, Mr. 
 Scarborough arranged his shawl carefully for the old 
 lady's rest, and cared for her as if he had indeed been 
 her son, better, perhaps; for Mr. Scarborough was 
 that rarest of modern curiosities a gentleman ! 
 
 Mrs. Dodd's troubles were all ended now, and she 
 ceases to be interesting. Suffice it to say, that she had 
 a weary yet a very pleasant journey to Indianapolis, 
 entertaining her friend all the way with her family his 
 tories, and praises of a little girl, named Lizz}', be 
 longing to Jehiel, "The prettiest little cretur you 
 ever see ! " 
 
 They parted with a promise on Frank Scarborough's 
 part to surely visit New Albany on his return home in 
 a month or two ; and August was just fading awa} r 
 when he rung the bell of the Rev. Jehiel Dodd's door, 
 in the quietest street of New Albany, a door which 
 was opened to him by Lizzy herself, a young lady, 
 instead of the pretty little girl her grandmother had 
 painted. Pretty she was, nevertheless, with a true 
 Saxon complexion of milk and roses ; sweet, honest
 
 LOST ON A RAILWAY. 107 
 
 blue eyes, still innocent and childish ; waves on waves 
 of braided golden hair, and the kind, sweet beauty of 
 a heart as true and gentle as her grandmother's. 
 
 More than once on his Western tours did Mr. Frank 
 Scarborough find his way to New Albany ; once, just 
 in time to say good-by to his travelling companion, now 
 bound on a longer journey, yet fearing not to be lost, 
 though she went alone. The old lady drew that grave, 
 yet tender, face down to hers, and kissed him for good- 
 by, even as his mother had. 
 
 " The Lord bless you ! " whispered she. " He will. 
 He is faithful ! " 
 
 Frank Scarborough never saw her again ; but a year 
 after he came back to New Albany, and, with much 
 unwillingness on the Rev. Jehiel Dodd's part, that ven 
 erable man nevertheless performed a certain ceremony 
 that gave his Lizzy over into the young man's hands 
 for life ; and I am credibly informed that old Mrs. 
 Dodd's opinion of Mr. Scarborough is fully indorsed by 
 Lizzy, who had heard many and many a time that he 
 was " the best of all the Lord's creturs, ef he was a 
 man ! "
 
 108 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 DOCTOR PARKER'S PATTY. 
 
 "PATTY! Patty!" called the doctor's cheery voice 
 from the little ell he used as an office, " tell Eph to 
 harness up old Whitey." 
 
 "Into the 'chay'or the sulky, father?" answered 
 a clear note from the kitchen. 
 
 "The ' chay.' I've got to go down to Dog's Misery. 
 Friend Abraham Best has broken his leg." 
 
 Patty did her errand, and then tripping to the open 
 window of the ell, which stood at right angles with 
 the kitchen, put her pretty head in, and asked : 
 
 " Can I go with you, father? " 
 
 The doctor nodded assent ; he was very busy sort 
 ing splints, and one long one athwart his big mouth pre 
 vented his speaking. Doctor Billious Parker, though 
 lie bore so ominous and medical a name, was a kind, 
 friendly, jolly soul, carrying a big heart in a big body. 
 His coarse, humorous face, his always cheerful smile, 
 hearty laugh, and warm, strong hand-grip, did his 
 patients quite as much good as medicine ; and he had 
 plenty of patients. 
 
 Ths profession generally did not fraternize with 
 him. He did not walk just as the Medical Associa 
 tion would have him. He had cast a certain doubt 
 on the free use of calomel, and was known to distrust 
 opium ; and in those days the sheet-anchors of the
 
 DOCTOR PARKER'S PATTY. 109 
 
 profession were those of Scott's farrier friend, "joost 
 twa simples : laudamy and calamy ; " and if they did 
 not, as in his case, " mak' up for Flodden," they cer 
 tainly slew their thousands, and to the accompaniment 
 of the jawbones of more than one ass. 
 
 Doctor Parker, you see, was somewhat in advance 
 of his age, and no profession likes a member to step 
 out of its ranks. But he did not care about that; he 
 was a man of independence in weight}' matters, having 
 worldly wisdom enough to conform in little things, or 
 keep his opinions to himself about them, that he might 
 the more freely use his liberty when it was truly need 
 ful. 
 
 If the medical tribes in and about Tenterden had 
 been aware of the bread pills, burnt sugar and water 
 draughts, and baths medicated with a powder com 
 posed of rye flour and common salt, which this man 
 administered under long Latin names, they would 
 have put him in the pillory, which still stood on Ten 
 terden green, or ducked him in the frog-pond. They 
 wanted to now, he had cured so many patients ; but 
 there was no legal chance to do so, therefore he still 
 went on his way rejoicing. 
 
 Another thing was against him : he was not orthodox, 
 people suspected. To be sure, a doctor could not go 
 to church regularly ; the exigencies of the profession 
 forbid this, particularly with so popular a physician ; 
 but then when he did go he almost always fell asleep 
 before Father Marsh got to " tenthly, beloved ; " and 
 once, I shudder to reveal it, once he gave forth a 
 horrid snore, and when it woke him with its long re 
 verberations he was seen to smile, and Patty tittered 
 audibly. Moreover, had he not forbidden Hannah
 
 110 . THE SPHINXES CHILDREN: 
 
 Marsh to attend meeting all one winter? If she did 
 have a weak spine and a cough, and the straight pew- 
 backs and unwarmed edifice were bad for her, was it 
 not still worse for her soul to absent herself from the 
 courts of the tabernacle? 
 
 When Deacon Green solemnly remonstrated with the 
 doctor on this ground he was horrified to hear him 
 swear. If he had been a member Mr. Green would have 
 dealt with him summarily ; but the good man never had 
 joined any church, and escaped censure from the meet 
 ing on that account. No wonder Tenterden people 
 thought he was not orthodox ! But, for all that, they 
 continued to employ him. Mrs. Parker was pious 
 enough for both. I say pious, advisedly ; for I do not 
 consider that she was religious. Of the two I should 
 say the doctor had more religion. 
 
 " Sabriny " Gunn had been a patient of his when he 
 first came to Tenterden ; and after a year of visiting 
 and prescribing, everybody was surprised at their sud 
 den marriage ; perhaps nobody more so than the bride 
 groom. Miss Gunn was not pretty, or healthy, or even 
 graceful ; she had thick, dull, light hair ; gray eyes 
 that really were green, but passed for gray, and had a 
 queer way of looking steel-blue in certain lights, eyes 
 as cold and hard as bits of mountain crystal, but ca 
 pable of flashing with fierce passion. A pale skin, 
 strong jaw, plausible mouth, and cruel white teeth, 
 completed this feline type. She was " smart as a 
 steel-trap," besides. Some people loved no, not loved 
 her were under her dominion, soul and body ; others 
 hated her. She was of that German proverb's class : 
 " Strass-engel Haus-teufel." Professedly a saint of the 
 highest style, she made religion so distasteful in her
 
 DOCTOR PARKER'S PATTY. Ill 
 
 daily life that neither her husband nor her children be 
 lieved in her, and all were repelled from the real paths 
 of pleasantness because her pretence and arrogance 
 made them seem so unpleasant. Of this she also made 
 outside capital, openly praying in meetings for her 
 "unconverted husband," to his deep disgust; and 
 when Patty, under the wonderful preaching of George 
 Whitefield, was converted, and joined the church at the 
 early age of sixteen, it only gave her mother a new 
 lever of torture. 
 
 Thenceforward Patty was watched, mouse-fashion, 
 by an untiring cat. All the innocent diversions of 
 youth were denied her, as being worldly snares. 
 Books were forbidden, few as they were. " Boston's 
 Fourfold State," " Taylor's Holy Living," " Pilgrim's 
 Progress," these were allowed; but "Clarissa," 
 " Pamela," " Sir Charles Grandison," a torn copy of 
 " Amadis of Gaul," and sundry remnants of still older 
 and more high-flown stories were burned up in the 
 kitchen fire with summary judgment. It was just as 
 well for Patty ; for if Mrs. Parker had stolen a march 
 upon the doctor as regarded matrimony, she was there 
 after thoroughly understood by him, and made to 
 understand that he was master whenever he saw fit to 
 assert it, and always master of his own especial 
 domain, the office. So there Patty read at will the 
 works of William Shakespeare, the elaborate allegories 
 of Spenser, and a full edition of English Classics, 
 as certain British publishers chose to call a set of those 
 old papers, the " Spectator," the " Tattler," the 
 " Rambler, and sundry lesser sparks from the era of 
 Addison. Steele, and Sterne. 
 
 Odd reading enough for a young girl ; but in those
 
 112 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 days the modern novel w;is unknown, and Patty at 
 least read pure and lucid English, which is more 
 than can be said of girls to-day. 
 
 By the time the "chay" came round Patty was 
 ready, and a very pretty Patty she was, in a skirt 
 of pink calimanco, a white dimity short- gown, a 
 flat of straw she had braided and sewn herself, from 
 the bright fine stems of Leghorn grass, tied down over 
 her abundant and riotous curls, a black silk tippet 
 upon her shapely shoulders, and black mitts on her 
 little brown hands. But, though dress adorned her, 
 as it does any woman, she more than returned the com 
 pliment ; for even in her homespun gown tucked up 
 over a stuff petticoat she was still beautiful. She in 
 herited her sturdy constitution and splendid coloring 
 from her father's family, as well as the regular, delicate 
 features which her rich brunette complexion and laugh 
 ing dark eyes illuminated. Not slight nor slender, but 
 well filled out, dimpled at wrist and elbow as well as in 
 cheek and chin, as graceful as unconscious nature and 
 a total absence of stays and whalebone (for which she 
 had the doctor to thank) could make her, Patty Parker 
 was about as charming a bit of flesh and blood as one 
 could see on a summer's day ; and it was generally 
 summer where she was, for she had a sweet, sunny 
 temper, with enough will to strengthen the cheeriness, 
 and as much energy and common-sense as steadied her 
 for the conflicts that we all share, sooner or later. 
 
 When I say her temper was sweet I do not mean 
 that she never lost it ; for there were times when Miss 
 Patty could thunder and lighten like any other summer 
 squall ; but she always cleared off thoroughly and 
 smiling, as brief tempests are apt to. Dr. Parker
 
 DOCTOR PARKER'S PATTY. 113 
 
 said the explosion did her good, aerated her moral 
 nature, and restored the disturbed equilibrium. He 
 was of good old Fuller's opinion: "Anger is one of 
 the sinews of the soul. He that wants it hath a 
 maimed mind." 
 
 How Patty would endure real grief and thwarting 
 remained to be seen. Her mother was steadily pre 
 paring her for trouble by the daily fret that took out 
 much sweetness from the girl's life, and the rigid ob 
 servances that tried hard to misinterpret both heaven 
 and earth for this young soul that knew neither. But 
 here the doctor's counteractive force came in. He 
 took his daughter with him on his daily rounds when 
 ever the " housewif e-skep " could spare her, and some 
 times when it could not. He opened her eyes to all 
 the healing and delighting forces of nature. There 
 was not a flower in Wyannis County unknown to 
 Patty, a bird whose song she could not recognize be 
 fore she saw its plumage, or a tree she could not name 
 from its bark, though it were already cut and chopped 
 and laid up in the wood-pile. All the simples of the 
 neighborhood and their properties were familiar to her. 
 She could tell you what black cohosh, and blue cohosh, 
 and meadow rue, and mullein, and elecampane, and 
 prince's piney, hardback, and hemlock, were good for. 
 Had not she gathered them all, and fairly tapestried 
 the great garret with their odorous and inodorous 
 sheaves? For the doctor was much given to use 
 these things when he used any medicine ; and it was 
 considered a feather in his cap that he never used any 
 "mineral doses." How the doctor laughed when 
 Patty told him of this boast, made by one of his 
 patients !
 
 114 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 "I like that, Patty," he said. "That's vox populi 
 with a vengeance. ' Mineral closes,' quotha ! A few 
 boluses of mandrake root, a little drink of nightshade 
 tea, or a pinch of dried stink- weed, or St. Ignatius's 
 bean, would change their tune, I reckon ! I'd engage to 
 kill more men to-day, twice over, with messes out of 
 the swamp down at Dog's Misery, than anything in all 
 the minerals in the county ! " 
 
 And with this the doctor gave a smart lash to Old 
 Whitey that was really meant for the ignorance of his 
 admiring patients. 
 
 But to-day the doctor was bent on a purely surgical 
 errand ; and he jogged quietly along with Patty by his 
 side, as congruous companions to behold as a damask 
 rose and a lobster, but a pair of dear friends for all 
 that ; and in due time drew up at Abraham Best's 
 farm-house in the district, called " Dog's Miseiy," a 
 name given it in old times when all the intervale had 
 been a swamp of tangled thicket and boggy ground, 
 into which the dogs of the first settlers were always 
 straying after wild animals, and between the mire and 
 the beasts rarely coming back. The land had long 
 been drained and reclaimed, except a few acres that 
 lay too low, and were too full of springs to repay so 
 much expense and trouble as their drainage would have 
 cost ; and the Best farm stood just at the head of the 
 little valley where the hills converged. 
 
 Abraham Best was the descendant of a persecuted 
 remnant of Quakers, driven into the wilderness years 
 ago for their faith's sake, and clinging for that very 
 reason still closer to the creed that had exiled them 
 from their earlier homes. 
 
 There were twenty or thirty families scattered in
 
 DOCTOR PARKER'S PATTY. 115 
 
 and about Tenterden, who had a little meeting-house at 
 one end of the village, and adhered in their walk and 
 conversation to the most rigid tenets of the sect. 
 Abraham Best was grim as Giant Despair in his outer 
 aspect. He was a preacher, and in early life had mar 
 ried a beautiful English girl converted under his own 
 exhortations, and who had herself become a preacher 
 too. Long ago Elizabeth Best's beauty had gone from 
 her thin face and spare form ; the rich golden hair, 
 whose waves had been tucked away under a Quaker 
 cap, was gray and sparse now ; the milk and roses of 
 her complexion had faded to true American sallowness, 
 and the scarlet lips grown pallid and set ; but her dark 
 blue eyes were still beautiful and tender, and a certain 
 divine patience and sweet serenit}' seemed to glorify 
 those wan tints and sharpened outlines with a beauty 
 that was truly not of this world. 
 
 The house where they lived was bare of all external 
 charm, though thrift, neatness, and order made it 
 thoroughly respectable. If no roses or lilies lit up its 
 brown walls, or clambering honeysuckles floriated its 
 angles, there were no scattered chips, broken wagons, 
 or neglected implements in sight ; and the inside of the 
 house was as exquisitely neat as it was formal and 
 unlovely. 
 
 Abraham Best lay on the bed, quite silent, though 
 he had bitten his lips till they bled, in stern determina 
 tion to suffer without a murmur. His wife was in the 
 kitchen preparing dinner, but a young man stood by 
 his father's side, who was not known to the doctor, 
 but carried his name in his face, and advertised him 
 self thereby as Friend Best's only son. 
 
 Why a Quaker, and a rigid Quaker, should have
 
 11G THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 thought of calling a boy " Liverius " is a problem I 
 cannot solve ; but that was the youth's name. Perhaps 
 there was a spell in it, for he was the sole survivor of 
 five ; and while Friend Best regarded carnal affection 
 as a snare, and had trained Liverius in the way he 
 wished him to go. with unflinching sternness and appar 
 ent success, Friend Elizabeth " clave unto the lad," 
 in the lovely phrase of Scripture, with all the passion 
 of a mother's heart who had been bereaved of her 
 children, and refused to be comforted because they 
 were not, till the Lord sent her this son of consolation. 
 The doctor looked at Liverius with approbation ; he 
 had never happened to see him before, because the 
 Bests had little to do with the medical profession ; 
 whether it was the effect of that habitual self-control 
 that calms the nervous system, and so equalizes the 
 circulation, and speaks peace to that perpetual duel 
 between mind and body which affects most people ; or 
 the ease which abundant possessions give, since their 
 possessor never knows the rack of debt, the terror of 
 poverty, or " that nameless fear which haunts the steps 
 of the moneyless man ; " or whether the simple life and 
 out-door labor of the family fortified them against dis 
 ease, this, at any rate, was the first time Dr. Parker 
 had been called to their aid, and the splendid beauty 
 of the young Quaker struck him with delight : for Live 
 rius had his mother's gift of outline and coloring, and 
 added to that a noble masculine figure and a rarely in 
 telligent expression. It is all very well for people to 
 prate about mental charms and the loveliness of the 
 soul ; that 
 
 " Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat,"
 
 DOCTOR PARKER'S PATTY. 117 
 
 the stamp of God on flesh and blood has and must 
 have a charm for every healthy and honest nature. It 
 gave the doctor keen pleasure, as he proceeded to set 
 and bandage Friend Best's badly broken leg, to look 
 up now and then at this Quaker Apollo, who handed 
 him splints and bandages with quick apprehension of 
 his wants, and seemed as deft and gentle as he was 
 handsome. 
 
 At last the old man was put in order, the bed care 
 fully smoothed, and a cup of hot sassafras tea brought 
 for his refreshment, and, promising to come next day, 
 the doctor nodded good-morning. But Liverius fol 
 lowed him to the fence to ask such questions as people 
 unused to sickness always crave to ask the doctor, feel 
 ing dimly that in his hands are the issues of life and 
 death, though they really know better. 
 
 " How long will it be, doctor?" said the young man, 
 eagerly. 
 
 " Well, I can't tell," said Dr. Parker, with a smile. 
 "It depends on the turn things take. It's a bad break 
 age, what we doctors call a compound fracture." And, 
 picking a couple of slender twigs from the apple-tree- 
 shoot beside him, the doctor proceeded to illustrate ; 
 but suddenly Liverius ceased to attend. The doctor, a 
 little touched, followed his eyes, and soon saw the 
 cause of the diversion, no less than his own Patty, 
 who had made herself more radiant than even calimanco 
 and dimity allowed, by straying off to a wild apple-tree 
 by the road-side, and returning to the "chay" laden 
 with blushing, budding apple-blossoms. The exercise 
 of breaking those thorny and tough boughs had height 
 ened her glowing color and half knocked off her flat 
 hat, thereby pulling over her little ear and against her
 
 118 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 peachy cheek a thick and glittering tress of dark curls, 
 and her lips were redder than alder-berries as she 
 laughed and nodded to her father. 
 
 "Adam and Eve," said the doctor to himself, but 
 quite to himself ; adding to Liverius : " Good-day, sir ! 
 good-day ! I shall be back to-morrow ; " and again, 
 sotto voce, " but I shan't bring Patty ! " 
 
 "What do you think about that }'oung fellow?" 
 said the doctor to Patty, as he whipped up the old horse 
 over Milking- Yard Hill. " Handsome, aint he?" 
 
 " As tall and straight as a poplar tree, 
 
 His cheeks as red as a rose ; 
 He looks like a squire of high degree 
 When dressed in his Sunday clothes," 
 
 sang Patty, mockingly. Her father laughed with an 
 air of relief ; the girl certainly was not taken with that 
 fellow's aspect. 
 
 Poor doctor ! that which is common to man had be 
 fallen him. His girl had grown up safe in the fold, 
 the delight of his eyes and the joy of his heart, and 
 here now was a young springald ready to walk off with 
 her for the term of her natural life, and deprive the 
 father, who had reared and adored her, of his most 
 cherished possession. All this misery his foreboding 
 soul had conjured out of that one bewildered stare 
 Liverius had bestowed on Patty. But jealous}* is pro 
 phetic, and well he knew that if Friend Best's son were 
 to die to-morrow, there were still enough youths in 
 Tenterden to woo Patty ; for half a dozen were already 
 casting sheep's eyes at her of a Sunday, and appearing 
 now and then of a Sunday night, as awkward as their 
 own flocks and herds, to sit on the settle by the fire an 
 hour or so, red and speechless, chewing" meetin'-seed,"
 
 DOCTOR PARKER'S PATTY. 119 
 
 and apparently afflicted with stiff neck, every one of 
 them ; then at the nine-o'clock bell departing in shame 
 faced haste, with dreadful squeaks of best boots and 
 mumbling of adieux. Further than this mystic demon 
 stration none of them had gotten, so far ; for Mrs. 
 Parker kept her glittering eye on them like an Ancient 
 Mariueress, and 
 
 " The boldest held his breath, for a time ! " 
 
 She had her own ideas for Patty, and no one yet had 
 met her requisitions. I suppose this woman loved her 
 daughter ; but there is love, and love. I have known a 
 love, so called, that could bear no other affection to 
 serve or please its objects ; that demanded as the 
 dreadful price of peace that the few it clung to should 
 receive or recognize no other affection, social or natural ; 
 a love that was a daily prison and thumb-screw to its 
 beloved ; that became life and breath by its own 
 strenuous force to one or two, and when it died and 
 went somewhere ! took that breath and life with 
 it : a sort of post-mortem homicide. This was Mrs. 
 Parker's way of loving. And I have known another 
 love that set all doors of sunshine open to its loves ; 
 that brought adorers from all quarters to its precious 
 shrine ; that heaped every good gift upon its idols, 
 whatever hand proffered them, and forgot itself and its 
 own passion in a fervor of anxiety for the happiness of 
 its objects, however that might bo best secured, even 
 at the cost of its own mortal agony. But this diviner 
 air was not for Patty's breathing ; it is the atmosphere 
 of heaven, and too good for this poor world. 
 
 The doctor went again to Friend Best's, and again ; 
 indeed, he went many times, for Abraham was not
 
 120 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 young, and his bones knit slowly ; beside, his strong 
 repression of the nervous irritation that will beset even 
 Quaker flesh and blood, under some circumstances, 
 made him feverish. 
 
 " I wish to the Lord he would swear ! " said the 
 doctor, shaking his head, as he jogged home one day 
 by himself. "It would do him so much good. 
 There's enough electric force stopped up there to 
 turn a mill ; his blood's all afire, and there must be 
 an explosion, or leeches ; and I don't like leeches, 
 he's too old." 
 
 But leeches it had to be. The world might have 
 stopped on its axis sooner than Friend Best swear. 
 All this time Doctor Parker kept an eye on Liverius ; 
 noted how he peered into the " chay " to see if Patty 
 nestled in its dusty corner ; and, though his face 
 always fell not to find her, still kept his daily watch, 
 while the cruel parent chuckled inwardly to see it. 
 Not that he had any objection to Friend Best's son 
 personally, but he did not want Patty to marry any 
 body yet. He desired to put off the evil day as far as 
 possible, to keep his treasure as long as he could. 
 Common sense and common observation warned him 
 that Patty, like all other girls, must sometime leave 
 the nest and fly for herself, but he did not want to 
 think about it. He would accept the inevitable, but 
 he would evade it as long as he could. 
 
 But the eternal forces were too much for him, as they 
 are for all of us. Liverius Best was young, and a man, 
 if he was a Quaker. Hitherto shut out from women's 
 society, for the few girls who were of his own faith 
 lived far from his home, and in their Seventh-Day 
 gear of poke bonnets and gray duffle cloaks were not a
 
 DOCTOR PARKER'S PATTY. 121 
 
 delight to behold, being for the most part fat and 
 stolid or sallow and skinny, Patty Parker fairly 
 dazzled him. Color, grace, freedom, these were un 
 known female splendors to this formal youth. His ears 
 rung with her sweet, gay voice, his eyes were blinded 
 \vith her brilliant beauty, which shone on him in dreams 
 and haunted his daytime ; her laugh echoed with be 
 witching mockery from every bubbling brook that 
 crossed the fields ; the orioles seemed to sing about 
 her, and the bobolinks to shout her name. In short, 
 Liverius Best was madly in love, and what more is to 
 be said ? For it is not to be supposed that Dr. Parker, 
 or any other doctor or father in the land, succeeded in 
 keeping Liverius and Patty apart ! Not at all. What 
 did a wise old poet say? 
 
 " Where there is no space 
 For the glow-worm to lie; 
 Where there is no place 
 For receipt of a fly ; 
 Where the midge dare not venture 
 Lest herself fast she lay; 
 If Love come he will enter 
 And find out the way." 
 
 And Liverius was neither midge nor fly, that the 
 three miles between Dog's Misery and Tenterden 
 village should daunt him. He thought nothing of the 
 walk when some advice was needed of the doctor, when 
 the saline draughts gave out, or the last Dover's powder 
 had been used ; and he thought still less of forgetting 
 to mention these little items when the doctor made his 
 visits, though he might have saved himself much shoe- 
 leather as well as weariness to the flesh ; but what are 
 these poor earthly things to a blissful sight of the be-
 
 122 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN'. 
 
 loved object? Liverius would have walked right over 
 Meriden Mountain and into the griffins that tradition 
 peopled the Peak of Lamentation withal, if they lay 
 between him and Patty. What to him were three miles 
 and back of highway? Nor is it to be denied that 
 before many days Patty perceived that this handsome 
 young fellow grovelled, so to speak, at her feet. Cu 
 riously enough he never found the doctor in, and Patty 
 always dispensed the medicines in such cases. Perhaps 
 it was fortuitous ; perhaps owing to the fact that young 
 Best always stopped to flip the dust from his shoes, and 
 shake his coat, in a certain clump of firs on the hill 
 above Tenterden, at the foot of which lay Dr. Parker's 
 mansion, plainly discernible from the aforesaid firs ; 
 but, however it was, the doctor never could be found 
 in the office when Liverius called, and Patt} r had to 
 wait on him. 
 
 The consequence was inevitable. In all her little life 
 Patty had never before met such a youth ; Romeo was 
 not a circumstance to him : Romeo, the prince of 
 lovers ! To be sure Liverius could not talk blank 
 verse, but to be thee'd and thou'd was almost poetry, 
 and he was so awfully handsome ! Before father or 
 mother opened their careless eyes ; while Friend Eliza 
 beth's tender old heart glowed afresh over her boy's 
 filial devotion, and Friend Abraham began to feel some 
 meltings and soundings of the inner man in view of 
 Liverius's unexpected care and painstaking ; yes, while 
 the cat looked the other way, these young mice began 
 their grande ronde, regardless of their doom, like 
 thousands before them. Do not let us protract the 
 prelude or describe at length the growth of Patty's love 
 or the headlong leap of her lover's passion ; the bios-
 
 DOCTOR PARKER'S PATTY. 123 
 
 soms on the apple-trees had long fallen, decked in 
 which Patty made her entree into Liverius's heart ; the 
 fruit had set, swelled, become streaked and painted in 
 autumnal suns, before Tenterden and Dog's Misery 
 awoke to the fact tliat Liverius Best and Patty Parker 
 were keeping company. The earthquake at Lisbon 
 was nothing to it ! Quakers and Presbyterians had 
 been in full cry against a small remnant of Prelatists, 
 commonly called Episcopalians, who had dared to 
 build a little log chapel at Tenterden North End, and 
 nail a cross to the gable ; thereby flapping a rag of 
 Papacy into the very face and eyes of Puritanism and 
 John Fox. Indeed, this chapel had been a rendezvous 
 more than once for Liverius and Patty, who chose it as 
 a place of perfect security from either of their own 
 sects, and had learned to love the beautiful liturgy, 
 partly from association, partly for itself. 
 
 But this was only a new drop in their cup ; it added 
 fresh force to the fury of their respective brethren to 
 learn that they had been seen coming together from 
 Priest Punderson's chapel on Pard Hill more than once. 
 Though Episcopacy was permitted by government, it 
 was s ill an offence and a hissing to both Presby 
 terians and Quakers ; like the cat and dog they could 
 run after a rat together, but here was other game. 
 Yes ; here on one hand was a bred and born Quaker 
 intent on marrying out of meeting ; and on the other 
 a member of good and regular standing in the Pres 
 byterian body, not only desirous to marry a Quaker, 
 but actually found out in attendance upon the Pre- 
 latical services of Priest Punderson ! 
 
 By this time Friend Best had gotten to his feet, 
 and was able to work a little and to supervise a great
 
 124 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 deal. This defection of his only child moved him 
 mightily ; he uplifted his voice in a way that might 
 have consoled Doctor Parker for his assumed inability 
 to swear, since the spirit, if not the letter, of profanity 
 took possession of him. Stern, rigid, white-hot with 
 passion, he made life a torture to his wife and son 
 after the most orthodox fashion. Friend Elizabeth 
 felt a sacred rage, it is true, when she heard of Live- 
 rius's defalcation ; but it was the sinless wrath that 
 Scripture itself commends, and melted into pity like 
 a cloud into rain when her sweet, motherly heart fully 
 comprehended how her boy's life was absorbed and 
 centred in Patty Parker. But Friend Abraham was 
 deaf to any softer emotion, and both blamed and de 
 spised his wife for giving way to " carnal weakness ; " 
 and in this he was backed up by the brethren. One 
 and all of this small conclave felt a call to visit 
 Liverius, and wrestle with him in spirit. No matter 
 where he was, infield or barn, these long-coated 
 gentry found rfim out, and dealt with him more or 
 less gently according to their own nature, but the bur 
 den of all their song was : 
 
 " Thee will be read out of meeting, surely, Liverius, 
 if thee takes to wife one of the world's people ;" and to 
 be " read out of meeting" is to a Quaker what an in 
 terdict or a Papal anathema is to the Romanist. Con 
 sider, you who smile that such a threat should have 
 terrors for our hero, that it meant separation from all 
 he had been born and taught to believe most sacred, 
 most necessary to salvation ; and that at the period 
 of which we write political freedom had not yet in 
 spired religious liberty in the individual soul. Whether 
 the intoxicating draught of absolute freedom is best
 
 DOCTOR PARKER'S PATTY. 125 
 
 for soul or bod} 7 is not to be discussed here ; however 
 that may be, it was a draught unknown to Liverius 
 Best, and he was in a bondage of spirit hard for any 
 of us to recognize to-da} T . He shuddered and trem 
 bled and turned pale under the pressure brought to 
 bear upon him ; conscious through all of one inevita 
 ble fact, that he loved Patty Parker ; but mortally in 
 dread of the threatened consequences, thougli he could 
 not and would not abjure his love to prevent them. 
 Nor did Patty come off scalhless ; her mother's 
 tongue was let loose upon her with devouring fury ; 
 it is true the office was always her refuge, and no 
 storm allowed to pass its door, but the doctor himself 
 was dull and unhappy, evidently, kind to Patt^v, but 
 with a visible effort. He was disappointed, cut to the 
 heart. Here, in spite of all his foresight, right under 
 his nose, as it were, this young sprig had made love to 
 his giil, turned her heart and her head, and set the 
 whole town talking angrily and coarsely about her. 
 The doctor had old-fashioned ideas about women folks ; 
 he believed their place was 
 
 " That still, safe corner by the household fire," 
 
 which some women never find, and some never wish 
 for, but which is, after all, the true woman's place ; 
 and it vexed him thoroughly that Patty should suffer 
 from the strife of tongues. He was a candid man, 
 and he allowed to himself that there was no personal 
 objection to Liverius. He even made a poor joke to 
 Patty, when he was striving to keep up her spirits one 
 day about their being an eternal fitness of things in 
 Liver-ius being connected with Billious ! Patty felt as 
 if he had joked about the Bible, and burst into tears.
 
 126 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 Poor old doctor ! If Pickwick had been born then, 
 how heartily would he have agreed with the immortal 
 Weller, that "women are rum creeturs " ! To think 
 his mild, professional joke should have made Patty 
 cry ! He turned sadly away, and went to work at his 
 books. He saw trouble before his darling ; be knew 
 what her life would be if she entered a divided family, 
 though love should have triumphed so far as to allow 
 her entrance. He knew the poison aud fury of his 
 wife's tongue and temper, and he knew something 
 worse than either : that his own tenure of life was 
 uncertain, and that it behooved him to do what he 
 could for Patty while he had opportunity and time. 
 He was seen more than once to enter Squire Morton's 
 office ; but then the Squire had hereditary gout, so 
 nobody made any remark, and nobody knew, till months 
 after, what patient was provided for in that little 
 shanty. 
 
 But Patty suffered in spite of her father's sad kind 
 ness quite as much as was necessarj-. Her mother re 
 viled, reproached, and entreated her, till her very soul 
 was sick and sore within. The elders of the church 
 visited her and remonstrated with her. Parson Hyde 
 summoned her into his studj*, and prayed with her by 
 the hour, and Parson Hyde, as old Moll Pitcher said, 
 could "pray like a house-a-fire." Patty herself was 
 shocked a little to find how interested she became 
 in the struggles of a fly to escape from a spider who 
 had netted it in his web, while the parson was praying ; 
 but her knees did ache so ; and it was so dreadful to be 
 put down and prayed for as if you were dead ! Poor 
 Patty ! 
 
 But worse than all were the visitations of the mothers
 
 DOCTOR PARKER'S PATTY. 127 
 
 in Israel, who must needs have a finger in the pie, 
 being competent to deal with a woman because they 
 were women ! Patty did not agree with them there ; 
 she had borne with the elders in a sort of sullen 
 patience because she had been brought up in an ortho 
 dox fashion to consider, theoretically, that the man 
 was the head of the woman, collectively as well as in 
 dividually. But when Madam Hall, and Aunt Peters, 
 and Goody Pogue, one after another, took her to do, 
 wagged their wide-ruffled caps at her, and nodded 
 their gray heads in awful prophecy, nagging and bait 
 ing her as only women can nag and bait each other, 
 Patty's patience gave wa}*, and, by a sort of poetic 
 justice, which I take to be real, not legal, justice, the 
 forces of gossip came to her aid. She had not been to 
 quillings, and huskings, and apple-parings in vain ; she 
 had eaten of the tree of knowledge like her grandam in 
 Eden, and now she used that knowledge to effect, 
 politely recalling to Madam Hall how her own eldest 
 daughter had skipped out of window to elope with 
 Aminadab Edwards, the gayest rake in all Connecticut, 
 but now a brilliant and hard-working lawyer, of whom 
 the Halls were proud enough. Then she laid before 
 Goody Pogue the reckless fact that she for her part in 
 tended to marry the man she loved : an announcement 
 which silenced that old lad} 7 , and set her face home 
 ward. For Goody was well known to be a late repent 
 ant sinner, and to have had high words with the late 
 Jeremiah concerning some passages of her youth. And 
 on Aunt Peters she turned with the fury of long-borne 
 exasperation : 
 
 "And I should like to know, Mis' Peters, what 
 earthly business 'tis of yours what my father's daughter
 
 128 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 does ? He can take care of me, I guess ! 'ncl yon aint 
 my aunt save and except out of civility " (Mrs. Peters 
 being the doctor's step-sister), "and I wouldn't bear 
 it if you was. So there ! " 
 
 With which Patty fled upstairs, slamming the door 
 behind her, feminine fashion, and leaving Aunt Peters 
 with upraised hands, pouring out vials of wrath not to 
 be exceeded by Mrs. Parker herself. 
 
 It was a hard time for Patty and Liverius both. It 
 is all very well to read about these things ; to be 
 deeply interested in the struggles and sufferings of the 
 poor lovers who are annually and by thousands 
 
 " Butchered to make a " reader's " holiday." 
 
 But when one comes to go through the agonies so 
 pleasant to hear, that is quite another matter. It is 
 far easier to grind than to be ground ; and no wonder 
 Patty's cheek lost its splendid glow, her eyes their 
 light, her voice its sweet ring ; or that Liverius also 
 became pale, stooping, dull of aspect, and weary al 
 ways. 
 
 When a storm has lasted long and drenched all 
 nature with dark, chill floods day after day, filled 
 heaven with sobbing winds and earth with turbid 
 streams, there conies sometimes a gust of thunder and 
 lightning and whirlwind, and " the old order changes, 
 giving place to new." It is true men are smitten some 
 times, houses levelled, forests mowed as by a reaper ; 
 but the long, cold storm is swept away, and the blue 
 sky lifts its benign arch again over a sweet, untroubled 
 world. 
 
 Such a thunderstroke burst on Patty, when, one 
 bitter December day, old Whitey jogged up to the door
 
 DOCTOR PARKER'S PATTY. 129 
 
 with Liverins Best driving, and a strange, prone burden 
 lying at length on the floor of the box sleigh. The 
 doctor had been down beyond Milking- Yard Hill to see 
 a patient, had done his office, and set out for home. 
 What further chanced no man could know. Liverius 
 had seen the sleigh standing still on the turnpike just 
 at the edge of the Dog's Misery intervale, and, 
 foreboding evil, gone on to investigate, and found, 
 still breathing, but utterly unconscious, poor Dr. 
 Parker. 
 
 It is hard to die : hard to the natural man, even 
 when friends gather, and loving tendance aids, and 
 there are kind and conscious words passing between 
 the living and the dying. But to die alone and 
 speechless ; to go out of life unshriven, unreconciled, 
 without one parting word, one tender look, one small 
 est token of love and peace, what must this be to the 
 departed? Alas ! what is it not to those who are left? 
 For such loss there is no compensation ; for such 
 wounds no healing. They will throb, and ache, and 
 burn, while time endures ; the soul will be haunted 
 and the heart wrung even in its deepest and most 
 utter submission to the will of God, and the only 
 utterance, even out of the Divine Book, that is left to 
 such survivor, is the despairing outer}' of Uz : 
 
 " Though he slay me, yet will I trust in Him." 
 
 In all Patty's after life, happy as it was, she never 
 forgot or ceased to mourn her father, for he " died and 
 gave no sign." 
 
 Not that he died at once, for day, and night, and 
 still another day, went by, and there he lay, dead to 
 every appeal of love or pity, dead to every sense ; 
 dead to thought and feeling, but alive in gasping
 
 130 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 breath ; a terror to those who stood about him, perhaps 
 an agony to himself ; but of that who shall tell ? Patty 
 was stunned by the shock. The voluble grief of her 
 mother fell idly on her ear. The talk of the neighbors, 
 the intruding sympathy of relatives, the exhortations 
 of Parson Hyde, assailed on her heedless sense like 
 the babble of children. She could not feel ; she could 
 not weep ; she could do what was to be done, with her 
 ordinary aspect and usual deftness of touch and execu 
 tive talent ; but her heart slept while her brain woke. 
 A man in her place would have given way, perhaps ; 
 made his auaijlj moan, stirred up the ready sympa 
 thies of friends, and been set down forever as a tender 
 and profound mourner ; but Patty passed as unfeeling. 
 She was called hard-hearted, even, by the old women 
 she had routed when they came to exhort her, and 
 supposed (audibly) to cherish resentment against her 
 dead father for interfering with her love affair ; when 
 in fact she was simply stunned by a blow she had not 
 foreseen. 
 
 When the funeral was over, and that cheery life-long 
 presence gone forever, Patty gave way, and a slow 
 fever beset her, a fever so slow that it made no haste 
 to leave her, and for nine long weeks she lay somewhere 
 near death's door, and not much aided or comforted by 
 the draughts and leeches of old Dr. Potter from Meri- 
 den, who was called to her help as soon as might be. 
 But 3'outh and a good constitution are sometimes too 
 much even for a doctor. Spring drew near, and Patty 
 began to mend. Liverius had been like one beside 
 himself all these weeks. He grew thin, hectic, irri 
 table ; sleep did not rest him or food nourish him. 
 Patty was or might be dying, and he could not even see
 
 DOCTOR PARKER'S PATTY. 131 
 
 her ! His only comfort was to waylay the doctor, and 
 torment him with inquiries. But, when Patty began at 
 last to mend, Liverius took heart again. The " meet 
 ing" had let him alone of late, though his father was 
 still severe and contemptuous, and his mother sad to 
 dreariness. He had at least time to possess his soul in 
 patience, and he had thought much and deeply in that 
 solitude. There was a firm set to his lips and a steady 
 light in his eye unknown before, and a certain deter 
 minate energy moved his axe and saw that might have 
 told their story to the acute observer. 
 
 When Patty was well again and able to be down 
 stairs, though still weak and languid, Squire Morton 
 came to see her, to tell her about her father's will, 
 which she had neither known nor thought of all this 
 time. Poor Patty could have spared the information, 
 considerate as it was ; for to learn how carefully and 
 tenderly her father had provided for her future, even 
 while she was paining the very depths of his great, kind 
 heart, was like losing him over again, and set free all 
 the bitter floods that illness and stunned apprehension 
 had held so long in their fountains. Squire Morton had 
 not expected his tidings to be received with passionate 
 and profuse tears ; but he was an old man and a lawyer, 
 and had seen women before, so he only took an extra 
 pinch of snuff, and proceeded to impress on Patty the 
 fact that her mother was left a life-use of the homestead 
 and farm attached ; after that life-use, to revert to 
 Patty ; and that to the girl herself was left another and 
 larger farm in the neighboring township, with good 
 house and barns thereon, and also a certain store of 
 money, amounting to some five hundred pounds sterling, 
 now in the hands of Squire Morton, awaiting her orders.
 
 132 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 Patty took heart wonderfully in the next few weeks, 
 although her mother raved and raged worse than ever, 
 seeing that the heiress of such a portion was clean out 
 of her power and able to do what she would, a 
 fact the heiress began quickly to appreciate. 
 
 But of all this Liverius knew nothing. Out of sheer 
 love to Patty and conscious inability to endure his life 
 without her, he had resolved on sudden and stringent 
 measures ; and b} r some of those sly means known to 
 desperate lovers he conveyed to her a missive, begging, 
 nay, insisting, on a meeting. And after much suspense 
 and delay for Patty was spied upon and hindered 
 in a way he knew not of he received a tiny note to 
 tell him she should be in the graveyard an hour before 
 sunset on Wednesday. 
 
 Forlorn tryst! but its selection showed Patty's 
 feminine acuteness. Wednesday afternoon a quilting 
 was to be held at Mrs. Hall's, and nothing could have 
 kept the Widow Parker back from that decorous gath 
 ering, permitted, as so few social joys were, even to 
 recent widowhood. She did not dream that Patty 
 would or could leave the house, for as 3~et she had 
 made no such effort ; but she engaged old Moll Thun 
 der, the half-breed vagabond, who filled all gaps of 
 service in Tenterden (provided she could be found) 
 to stay in the house lest Patty should need something. 
 
 It was easy to calm Moll's vigilance and fix her by 
 the kitchen fire, if once her cider-pitcher and her 
 tobacco-pouch were full, and Patty replenished both 
 before she slipped on her levantine hood and sacque 
 and stole out of the door to meet Liverius. 
 
 The graveyard lay, according to Yankee fashion, on 
 a hill- side ; but it was not on any high road, and clumps
 
 DOCTOR PARKER'S PATTY. 133 
 
 of self-sown young white pines, fragrant and shadowy, 
 afforded shelter to such visitors as would avoid sun, 
 wind, rain, or, as in this case, detection. As soon as 
 Patty's trembling steps closed the rude gate behind 
 her Liverius appeared from one of these rustling, 
 sighing, odorous arbors, and, drawing her into the 
 shade, gave sweet, if silent, greeting to the scarlet lips 
 and tender eyes he had not seen for so long. 
 
 " Patty! " he said at last, with a long sigh, " I 
 never, never will lose sight of thee again ! We must 
 marry in spite of everything ! " 
 
 "But, dear," half sobbed Patty, "we can't! we 
 can't ! " for Patty's resolution failed her, and all her 
 old terrors returned as this dictatorial youth laid down 
 the law. 
 
 " I don't know why we can't," the man answered, 
 manfullj-. 
 
 " O Liverius, it will be so wicked ! I can't possibly 
 turn Friend, and you won't come to our meeting?" 
 
 This was half a question, and it was quickly 
 answered. 
 
 " Come to thy meeting? Fellowship those who 
 have hunted thee like a partridge upon the mountains? 
 Never ! I will never sit down with them who have 
 made thee and me wretched, because we loved one 
 another, even as the Book commandeth. Patty, is thee 
 afraid to be poor with me ? " 
 
 Liverius's handsome face glowed with resolute 
 passion and pride, as he asked the question. But 
 wicked Patty answered it with a little giggle ; for 
 well she knew there was no poverty in question, and it 
 tickled her secret soul to think Liverius did not know 
 it. But she saw his face darken at her ill-timed mirth ;,
 
 134 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 he was in as deadly earnest as ever Luther, going into 
 the councils of his foes. So she constrained herself to 
 whisper : 
 
 " No, /aint afraid." 
 
 " Then my mind is resolved, and thee will come with 
 me. We will break away from this godless slavery 
 that holds us in unreasonable bonds. I will give up 
 my religion, and thee shall give up thine. We will 
 marry, and go into the Church of England, and go to 
 the devil together ! " 
 
 "Oh!" shrieked Patty. 
 
 But the veracious chronicler who recorded the above 
 story adds : 
 
 " And they fulfilled their resolution, soe farre as 
 goeing intoe the churche, and inarrieing, and abyding 
 there for lyfe." 
 
 And if the testimony of descendants, who followed 
 the footsteps of Liverius Best, and Patty his wife, 
 down into these present years, still possessing the 
 farm where this happy pair settled after Priest Punderson 
 married them, is of any worth beyond mere legendary 
 lore, then Liverius and Patty went no further ; for 
 they are still told of as blessings to their neighbors, 
 kindly, hospitable, charitable, as the most devoted 
 parents and faithful friends. 
 
 Mrs. Parker never forgave Patty, and Goody Pogue 
 spoke evil of her always. But Friend Elizabeth, after 
 her husband's sudden death, came to live with them, 
 and her last days were gilded with serenest sunshine. 
 Several of their children returned to the Presbyterian 
 fold, with their parents' full consent, having been led 
 thither by strong affection for some youth or maiden of 
 that flock. Patty, the second, seceded to Quakerism,
 
 DOCTOR PARKER'S PATTY. 135 
 
 beguiled by a second cousin, who had taken the Dog's 
 Misery Farm. 
 
 " Are you glad, granny? " she said to Friend Eliza 
 beth, now an old angel of fourscore, just ready for 
 her homeward flight, when she told her of her inten 
 tion. 
 
 " I am glad thee is happy, my child," said the sweet, 
 old, tremulous voice. " I am too near to the General 
 Assembly and Church of the First-Boru to care by 
 which road n^ beloved hasten thither. My spirit was 
 once sore unto death over thy father and mother lead 
 ing into Episcopal meeting ; but the Lord halh taught 
 me better, Patty. I know now that all nations, and 
 people, and kindred, and tongues shall come into one 
 habitation, but that Christ is all, and is in all ! For I 
 am persuaded that no sect or form of worship of man's 
 contriving, ' neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor 
 principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor 
 things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other 
 creature, shall be able to separate us from the love 
 of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord ! ' ' 
 
 " Amen ! " solemnly answered Liverius, who had 
 waited at the open door till his mother's testimony 
 finished.
 
 136 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 DOOM AND DAN. 
 
 MOSES DYER was a Quaker ; one of the straitest sort. 
 In him strong natural passion, keen enthusiasm, deep 
 feeling, had all been repressed and compressed by 
 creed and training ; under his calm and rigid exterior 
 lay sleeping fires ready to desolate his life, but, being 
 yet young and strong when he comes into our vision, 
 these fires within, like steam at high pressure, only 
 served to impel him in all the activities of life, and 
 make of him a hard-working, thrifty, quietly energetic 
 young man, whose deep, dark eyes now and then flashed 
 but never flamed, whose crisp, dark hair defied in its 
 abundant rings even the shears of the village barber, 
 and whose stalwart form displayed strength, vigor, and 
 symmetry that would have served Praxiteles as a model. 
 The few old men of his sect in the near neighborhood 
 of Dorset, where he was born, shook their gray heads 
 over his probable life. 
 
 " There is a hard wrastle for Moses, I expect," said 
 old Jacob Morris ; " thee will see, Friend Harding, the 
 youth will have much to strive with before he can enter 
 into quietness ; the flesh and the devil will be pecooliar 
 hard on him, appears to me." 
 
 " It may be so, Jacob ; thee knows Moses better 
 than I do. I should say that he will make a man of 
 mark among the brethren. I trust he will be guided
 
 DOOM AND DAN. 137 
 
 in the choice of a partner in life. I am free to believe 
 that will be a turning-point with the youth." 
 
 A faint glimmer of chastened humor played over 
 Jacob's face. 
 
 " I think thee may be right, Friend Harding ; I feel 
 to be grateful that Divine Providence did not place the 
 guiding of the youth in my hands." 
 
 " I think thee has much to be thankful for," dryly 
 replied Friend Harding ; for, being an older man than 
 Jacob, and once a power in u meeting," before Quaker 
 ism had dwindled to the mere handful now left in 
 Dorset, he had been through a wider experience of 
 human nature than this placid old man, whoso home 
 high on White Mountain had been a sort of hermit's 
 cell all his life, and saved him from that knowledge of 
 good and evil which destroys as often as it educates. 
 
 Moses Dyer was indeed left to no direction but that 
 of the Divine leading now, for his father and mother, 
 both rigid devotees of their faith, died within six 
 months of each other, soon after he was twenty-one, 
 and even the small brown house in Dorset street, which 
 he remembered all his life as an ideal of a Friend's 
 dwelling, so spotless was its purity, so stern its order, 
 so fixed its routine, had been burned to the ground the 
 next year, and ever since, Moses had boarded with 
 Friend Morris up on White Mountain, and come down 
 every day to his grist-mill on Black river, his dinner- 
 pail on his arm. With all their peculiarities of doctrine 
 and living the Friends are a thrifty tribe, and old Sol 
 omon Dyer had done the milling for a circle of twenty 
 miles' diameter a great many years, laid up store of 
 money in Rutland bank, and held mortgages on many 
 a goodly farm in Dorset ; all of these worldly posses-
 
 138 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 sions coming into his son's hands, since he was an only 
 child ; but Moses still kept to " plain" customs. Friend 
 Ilarding's good wishes for Moses did not seem near of 
 fulfilment, for there were few maidens of the faith 
 about that part of the country now, and none of these 
 were comely and pleasant enough to attract Moses 
 Dyer. It was out of his own experience that John 
 Harding had spoken ; he knew in his heart that his own 
 anchor to peace and patience was his wife Susannah, 
 whose face was still as smooth, as placid, and almost 
 as fair, beneath the gleaming silver of her parted hair, 
 as when they t-.vo stood up in meeting together, two 
 pallid statues, timidity and emotion sending her soft 
 color and his ruddy blood into banishment, and filling 
 her tender eyes with shyness and tears. 
 
 But for her, he very well knew what his life would 
 have been, for this man's nature, too, was stormy ; but 
 this gentle voice, this soft touch, guided him past all 
 quicksands, and kept him in the Friends' fellowship till 
 he attained to being a minister among them ; the agita 
 tions of his youth were laid to rest forever, and his 
 home became a foretaste of the world that now lay so 
 close before him. 
 
 For Moses no such angel waited, at least in Dorset ; 
 so he plodded on his daily way, grinding and bolting, 
 taking toll, filling barrels and emptying bags, taking 
 his pleasure only in a keen delight in nature, a delight 
 that was his secret treasure ; for he knew that Dorset 
 people considered that a man who would climb a hill to 
 see the sun set was a fool or a lunatic, and would pass 
 the same judgment on him if he dared to hint at the 
 beauty of a field strewn white with ox-eyed daisies, 
 swayed by ever}' gentle wind, following the sun with
 
 DOOM AND DAN 139 
 
 fair faces from east to west, drooping their light stems 
 with graceful spring and rebound under each swift 
 drop of summer rain, when they were only weeds, and 
 "pesky weeds" at that. 
 
 It almost seemed to him that he had found one of 
 these, incarnate, when, one May morning, as he opened 
 the mill door, he looked across the little river and saw 
 on a gray rock, that jutted out into the stream just be 
 low, a slight girl's figure, with a fishing-rod in hand, 
 balancing it above the water with unpractised fingers. 
 " A slip of a girl" an Irishman would have said, yet 
 Moses stared at her as if she were a heavenly vision ; 
 her wide hat had fallen off, and hanging at the back of 
 her head made an oval black background for the tender 
 face flushed with the keen freshness of the hour ; her 
 light brown hair had fallen, too,* and the sun-rays 
 touched it with golden lights. Her clear, gray eyes and 
 dark lashes gave a peculiar interest to the almost 
 childish features and delicate, languid lips half parted 
 above her white teeth. Dress did not enhance this 
 loveliness. Nelly Wood was clothed upon with nothing 
 more elegant than a clean, cheap calico ; only a little 
 blue silk handkerchief tied about her throat gave the 
 one touch of color to the picture ; but Moses never for 
 got that picture to his dying day. 
 
 He looked and looked, with his soul in his eyes, 
 standing as if palsied on the threshold of his mill till a 
 eharp old voice called, "Nelly! Nell}'!" and the 
 vision turned, dropped the rod, and sprang down the 
 rock. 
 
 He knew that voice very well. Orlando "Wood kept 
 the Dorset tavern and dispensed in its dirty, noisy bar 
 room half the misery in the township under the names
 
 140 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 of cider, brandy and rum. He was a drunken, dis 
 reputable old miscreant himself, and despised by Moses 
 in that hearty way that consciously moral and upright 
 people do despise disreputable sinners. 
 
 But, for all that, the daisy face and swaying figure 
 haunted the miller all day ; he saw it when he inspected 
 the dark and dripping wheel, appearing and disap 
 pearing between the buckets ; it seemed to hover over 
 the hopper and hide behind the great, upright beams of 
 the mill, and as he jogged up White Mountain the soft 
 gray beech trunks, brocaded with velvety black moss, 
 the tall pine boles reddened by the sinking sun, all 
 seemed to him possible haunt and shelter for the slight 
 shape that had eluded his gaze so soon when Orlando 
 Wood's sharp voice called her. 
 
 "Ay, that's the rub," was the thought of his heart, 
 but he thrust it aside ; for once his self-control did 
 evil service to him ; when he should have thought he 
 would not think. He gave rather free rein to passion 
 hitherto kept so firmly in hand, and, refusing inwardly 
 to perceive the unfitness of yielding to a moment's 
 fancy, gave himself up to the wild reign of a dream ; 
 human nature can master even a Quaker. 
 
 Yet whom does it not master ? 
 
 " Breathes there a man with soul so dead" 
 
 that the delirium of primeval love never possessed and 
 overwhelmed, and illuminated him? that he never tasted 
 the divine, uplifting, transforming rapture that in its 
 fresh beginning is the one exponent of heaven to the 
 most earthly soul? Perhaps there is, but that man 
 was not Moses Dyer ; all the more for his monotonous 
 past, his denied and restrained life, his full and power-
 
 DOOM AND DAN. 141 
 
 ful manhood with all its sternly repressed emotions 
 and longings, did he come under the sway of this 
 sceptre which rules now and forever in " the court, the 
 camp, the grove." Like a mountain torrent which the 
 strong, sweet sun sets free from its winter prison, he 
 swept on toward his goal with a swiftness and power 
 that startled all the neighborhood. 
 
 In spite of warning and remonstrance, of advice 
 and entreaty, knowing that he lost caste with all the 
 town in seeking out and adoring the niece of a man 
 like Orlando Wood, and that he would be turned out of 
 meeting in Rutland for marrying one of the world's 
 people, he not only made Nelly Wood's acquaintance, 
 but in one short month thereafter asked her to marry 
 him. 
 
 Poor little Nelly ! she was a gentle, silly, lov 
 ing creature, with small education. An orphan, and 
 almost friendless, she earned her scant living by tend 
 ing at the counter of a milliner's shop in Boston till 
 her health failed entirely, and in despair she wrote a 
 pitiful letter to her uncle, whom she knew to be a 
 reprobate, but who was, after all, her only kin, asking 
 him to let her come to Dorset and rest. He had let 
 her come, for he was kindly enough when he was 
 sober, and his laz}' wife hoped to get a little help about 
 the house, or save the wages of a table-girl. But 
 Nelly found here more than she dreamed of ; as wan 
 and frail as any daisy, she found her sun, and both 
 light and life in him. As long as those great gray 63 - es 
 lifted their dark fringes and looked into his with utter 
 love, as long as the full, languid lips trembled under his 
 kisses, and those clinging arms hung about his bended 
 neck, Moses Dyer did not care the wing of a midge for
 
 142 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 all the tongues of men or penalties of the church ; the 
 earth might have yawned under his feet and the floods 
 poured about him from an angry heaven, if he could 
 clasp that slight shape close to his heart and know that 
 it was his own in life or death. 
 
 Yet, to other eyes, to all outward appearance he was 
 even more rigid than ever ; there was no observer in 
 Dorset keen enough to interpret the dark, steady flush 
 on his cheek, the deep gleam of his eyes, or the con 
 trolled depths of his voice, held in tight leash, lest it 
 should tremble with the passion that possessed him, 
 and betray the sweet madness rioting in his veins. 
 Friend Harding alone refrained from word or sign of 
 remonstrance, though he alone understood even par 
 tially the state of things. 
 
 "I wouldn't, if I was thee, William, say much tc 
 Moses," Susannah had incidentally remarked, when 
 William told her of Moses's infatuation, and what the 
 Meeting in Rutland thought about it, they having asked 
 him to deal with Moses with a view to his restoration. 
 
 " Thee knows Moses is strong in spirit, and cleaves 
 to the girl mightily ; it is not clear to me that thee can 
 mend the matter. Men-folks are not to be moved like 
 saplings ; and the dealings of Providence are, I some 
 times think, like the ark of the Lord, which may not be 
 touched by man, even to help." 
 
 " I had not designed to speak with him, Susannah ; 
 I had no leading to do this business for the Meeting. 
 Thee knows I do not mean to be guided by man ; and 
 it is possible that I have a deeper sense of the youth's 
 nature than some have. I surely do not think it is the 
 part of wisdom to hold speech with him on this occa 
 sion."
 
 DOOM AND DAN. 143 
 
 And he looked at his fair old wife with eyes that 
 told, could she have read their language, how ill it 
 would have fared with Meeting or man who had dared 
 to intermeddle with his love for her ! 
 
 So Moses Dyer, in spite of all the town and all his 
 brethren in the faith, went on triumphantly in his course 
 of true love ; and a mortgage falling in about this time 
 on one of the finest farms in Dorset, whose owner had 
 borrowed the money on it to go to California, and died 
 there, making no provision to redeem the property, 
 Moses resolved to build a house on that portion of the 
 land nearest the mill ; so before the end of July, when 
 he and Nelly were married, the frame of a stately man 
 sion, for those days and that place, was raised, and the 
 barn in its rear completed in season to house the hay 
 crop. 
 
 To say that Moses was happy is a weak phrase ; it 
 did not concern him at all that he had to be married by 
 a " hireling ministry," or that the Quaker brethren eyed 
 him with disfavor and the sisters with disgust. He was 
 beyond these things forever ; the whole force of his 
 nature, free for the first time, flowed on with abounding 
 exultation through a land goodly as Eden. The very 
 weaknesses and wants of his wife opened strange springs 
 of tenderness within him, a pain of pity and love, a very 
 passion of devotion, that lapped her in a care and in 
 dulgence so great and so infinite in detail that sh-s 
 thrived as a rose does, long prisoned in a cellar, when 
 the spring sunshine and the fervent air at last bathe 
 and caress it, and draw forth verdant leaves, abundant 
 buds, and fragrant opening blossoms. Nothing that 
 his hands could do or his money buy failed to be lav 
 ished on Nelly ; a long kiss, a love-look from those
 
 144 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 lovely eyes, a happy sigh, more than repaid him ; and 
 when in the early winter his house was finished and 
 furnished, by Nelly's experience in observation and his 
 own native taste, with all the soft, bright stuffs and 
 luxurious furniture his purse could command, though, 
 in obedience to his early training, no pictures adorned 
 the tinted walls, and no musical instruments tempted 
 Nelly's little fingers, there was not so pleasant a house 
 in the country as Moses D3 - er's. 
 
 Pictures, indeed, were needless ; the house stood on a 
 slight rise of ground, in the midst of a green field itself 
 high above the road through Dorset, and every window 
 showed a landscape be3'ond the genius of man to repro 
 duce. White Mountain rose fair and mighty to the 
 east, clothed with foliage to the foot of the great lime 
 stone rock on its summit ; to the north the picturesque 
 old mill and flashing river met the eye ; southward lay 
 the lovely Dorset valley, with Equinox Mountain on 
 the right ; and westward the Ledge, an abrupt preci 
 pice fringed with cedars, hung over the placid waters 
 of Bright Lake. What more could one ask for the 
 delight of the eye than all this changing loveliness ? 
 
 So the winter went on for these lovers in a fulness 
 of bliss such as love only knows, a surfeit of happiness 
 that of its own fulness grows precarious in its hold, 
 and Moses began to fear the tender promise of the 
 future, which dropped Nelly's white lids and added a 
 soft pallor to her hitherto blooming face, might be 
 only a blow of fate in store for him. It is the iron}' 
 of life that our purest bliss frightens us, so weak are 
 we in joy, so distrustful of God, while sorrow arms us 
 with sharp weapons and drives us into the lists. 
 
 The first hot days of May came in about its second
 
 DOOM AND DAN. 145 
 
 week, and ended in a furious thunder-storm ; hail 
 rushed down from the lurid cloud that hung over 
 Dorset, though the Mill farm only received the edge of 
 the tempest and escaped the broken windows of the 
 village ; but while the rain was at its fiercest a bolt sped 
 from the blackness above, and in one moment Moses 
 Dyer's barn burst into quivering flame. Nelly had 
 hidden her head on his shoulder and his arms were 
 clasped about her when the clap came, and with a 
 stifled shriek she fainted and slipped from his hold to 
 the floor. Little did he care for the howling storm or 
 blazing barn. He laid her gently on the sofa, called 
 Amanda, the hired girl, a stout and faithful Yankee, 
 from the kitchen, and, catching his horse, fortunately 
 for him at pasture in the home lot, he rode right out, 
 through hail and rain, after the Dorset doctor. 
 
 " Let it blaze ! " he said to hurrying neighbors who 
 met him, on their way to save the barn or see it burn ; 
 " my wife's dying!" 
 
 Astounded neighbors ! Not a man of them all but 
 would have left wife or child at the last gasp to save 
 their own barns. They stared and laughed, and stood 
 about with their hands in their pockets till the last 
 rafter tumbled in. But Nelly was not dying ; she had 
 fainted, and the shock had somewhat hastened im 
 pending events. Before morning a stout, hearty baby 
 lay in her bosom, and she smiled faintly as Moses bent 
 over her, not at all to see the child, who was an atom 
 in the balance compared with Nelly, but to assure him 
 self that his wife lived and loved still. 
 
 Things went on smoothly again, now. Nelly and the 
 baby grew and strengthened daily ; soon she was about 
 again, crooning sleep songs to her dark-eyed daughter,
 
 146 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 the very image of Moses, if, indeed, one could imagine 
 him in long white frock and pink ribbons ; making 
 dainty garments for her live doll ; waiting for Moses 
 at the window with baby in her arms, or drawing 
 the child about the garden after the dews were 
 dried. 
 
 So summer passed ; the new barn was filled with 
 hay, two good horses put in the ample stables, and 
 Tulip, the black cow, was munching a forkful of ha}-, 
 one September day just at twilight, when another storm 
 came hurrying up, and another bolt fell and lit up the 
 new barn with destroying blaze. 
 
 This time the loss was heavier far ; but Moses could 
 bear it, his worldly goods had increased ; and he only 
 thanked God that the house had not been struck, built 
 his new barn on the other side of the rise where it first 
 stood, a good deal lower down, and took up his life 
 where it was before, a daily round of accustomed hap 
 piness and prosperit}'. Summer came again, and in 
 July another child entered this twice-blessed family, 
 this time a boy. Little Love, the dark-eyed baby, had 
 been sent to Dr. Strong's for a while, till Nelly could 
 bear the burden of two babies in the house a little 
 better, and one morning the nurse rose early to make 
 some posset for the child who had cried too much 
 through the night. As she went out from the down 
 stairs bedroom into the hall a low growl of thunder 
 met her ear, and, looking from the window of the 
 kitchen, she saw a low and lurid cloud hanging above 
 the Ledge, a cloud so peculiar in its greenish dark 
 ness that she always remembered it ; but Dorset people 
 are used to thunder in summer, and Aunt Nancy went on 
 to make her mess at the kitchen stove where she had
 
 DOOM AND DAN. 147 
 
 kindled a fire, not at all observant of the rapidly ris 
 ing gloom. 
 
 " Is there going to be a storm ? " said Nelly, as the 
 nurse came back. 
 
 "Looks mighty like it!" said the woman. "I 
 shouldn't wonder if we ketched a smart rain-spell ; 
 you know the say in', 
 
 " ' Thunder in the mornin', 
 Sailors take warnin' ! ' " 
 
 "Oh, dear! just hear that!" said the poor little 
 mother, clasping her baby to her bosom, as a low, deep 
 growl smote the air, heavy and threatening as a menace 
 of battle among the Powers of air. 
 
 "Please, Aunt Nancy, go and fetch Moses, I'm so 
 scared with thunder. I guess he's gone to the barn to 
 turn out the stock. I heard him come down before 
 you went into the kitchen." 
 
 " Wh} r , you blessed creetur ! you aint afeared, be 
 you ? I never did ! Shan't I set on the bed besides of 
 ye ? He'll be in in a minnit ! " 
 
 " Oh, no ! no ! Do call Moses ! " said the trembling, 
 terrified Nelly ; " he always comes when I'm scared ; " 
 and the good-natured old woman flung a shawl over 
 her head and trotted out to the barn, where Moses had 
 just unfastened the stanchions and driven out the last of 
 his cows ; the horses were already flying across the 
 pasture, wild with sudden freedom and the roaring 
 storm. 
 
 Moses scarce stayed to shut the door, but hastened 
 toward the house, with the woman at his heels, when a 
 flash of supernal light blazed in their faces, and a sim 
 ultaneous roar, as if heaven and earth were rent
 
 148 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 asunder, stunned their ears. Alas ! it had severed 
 heaven from earth for Moses Dyer. When, blinded 
 and reeling, he staggered through the house, now 
 full of smoke and hissing with fire, he beheld the 
 blackened corpses of wife and child stretched on their 
 flaming bed, and fell senseless. If the nurse had not 
 followed closely, and been a gaunt and powerful woman, 
 he would have perished with them ; but, in the strength 
 of desperation, she pulled him out of a near door into 
 the yard, and the man at the mill came hurrying and 
 breathless in time to help her place him out of reach of 
 the falling timbers. When Moses Dyer awoke from 
 that long unconsciousness, wife, child, house, were all 
 in ashes. For weeks and months he was incapable of 
 business ; his heart was broken as far as a strong 
 man's heart can be. That full and rapturous life that 
 had satisfied his soul was suddenly ended ; he stood 
 like a man who sees the verdurous and waving moun 
 tain-side open at his feet and thunder into the valley, 
 leaving him alone on the edge of a precipice whose 
 front is ruin, whose outlook despair. 
 
 It was a long year before he could do anything at 
 the mill ; happily for him he had a trustworthy man 
 there, who could supervise the business and, with a 
 little help, carry it on. Moses, from sheer force of 
 habit, fed his "creatures," slept in his barn on the 
 old hay, took his rare meals at the village tavern, and 
 never went near his child, who seemed to be forgotten. 
 Dr. Strong's wife, however, was glad to shelter the 
 little creature, knowing well that time would awaken 
 her father's affection at last, knowing, also, that he was 
 incapable now of caring for such a mere baby. 
 
 But time went on, and all that seemed to interest
 
 DOOM AND DAN. 149 
 
 Moses Dyer was his daily pacing about the ruins of his 
 home ; so complete had been the consuming power of 
 the flames that not a trace of the mother or child had 
 remained ; a heap of ashes only lay in that crumbling 
 cellar, and these he had gathered reverently and with 
 his own hands into a coffin, and buried beside the 
 green mounds where his parents lay. Gloomy, dark, 
 speechless, he went his way, and the first thing that 
 aroused him was a whisper in the village, he overheard 
 accidentally, to the effect that his house was doomed. 
 This curled his lip with a sneer. Moses Dyer did not 
 believe in fate ; in all his woful trouble he still be 
 lieved that God sent it, but he was furiously angry 
 with him for the infliction. 
 
 He had been somewhat roused by the scorn the 
 village belief awakened in him, when the Meeting in 
 Rutland thought fit to send one of the brethren to deal 
 with him, to restore him if possible, but at any rate to 
 strive with him for his good. 
 
 Barzillai Guest accordingly sought him out one 
 wintry morning in the second November after Nelly's 
 death, and, being a simple, conceited, moderate sort of 
 man, delivered to the silent Moses quite a little address 
 on his sin in marrying out of Meeting, and the evident 
 judgment of God for such sin displayed in the repeated 
 strokes he had experienced ; ending with what Barzillai 
 thought an affecting appeal to him to repent and return 
 into the arms of Meeting again. 
 
 Moses Dj - er's face blackened ominously. 
 
 " Stop right there ! Friend Guest," he said. "Thee 
 has said a plenty. Shall I repent that I married my 
 wife? Not if the heavens fall upon me now and here ! 
 If, as thee says, it is a judgment upon me that fire
 
 150 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 carne down and consumed my life, it is well : does thee 
 think I put faith in any God who so judged me for lov 
 ing my wife ? If it is the voice of the Meeting that I 
 have been a sinner above all other sinners, then I hold 
 no longer with Meeting. Thee says I am judged ; the 
 fools in the village say my house was doomed. Does 
 thee know I have got a living child money in the 
 bank and a goodly farm ? Thee can go back to Meet 
 ing, and say I do not repent of my life. I did well to 
 love my wife. I do well to be angry with that Power 
 which blasted my life. And while life lasts, such as it 
 is, I will never hold with men that suffer such talk. I 
 had rather be of this world, since thee believes the next 
 is so hard upon me. I will build my house over again, 
 and fetch my child back, and till my ground till it be 
 time to die." 
 
 Friend Guest reported Moses Dyer to be a hardened 
 and irreclaimable brother, and the Meeting meddled 
 with him no more. He was as good as his word, and 
 before another year was over a new house, as like the 
 first in every detail as his memory could reproduce it, 
 rose in place of the other ; but long before it could be 
 furnished, even while the plaster was wet on the walls, 
 another bolt pierced the roof and floors ; but, owing to 
 the heav} r rain and the open condition of the building, 
 that admitted it freely as it drove through unglazed 
 windows and gaping door-frames, the boards were only 
 shattered and scorched, and with grim resolution 
 Moses had them replaced and went on to complete the 
 structure. 
 
 In vain the carpenters remonstrated. 
 
 " Do you think the lightnin' strikes three times in 
 one spot? Go on with your work, the risk is mine. I
 
 DOOM AND DAN. 151 
 
 take it ! " he answered, words long remembered in 
 Dorset. 
 
 However the house was safely finished, and when it 
 was ready for habitation Moses chose for his own 
 occupation the lower bedroom, and recalled his child, a 
 rosy, grave, intelligent little maid of four. It was 
 difficult to get a house-keeper, for everybody in Dorset 
 knew the Dyer place was doomed, and no woman from 
 the village would think of living there ; but at last 
 Moses found a widow in Rutland, who came the more 
 willingly because she was poor, and not strong enough 
 for factory work or sewing. 
 
 For two or three years there was peace in the new 
 house, if not happiness. Time had its healing effect on 
 Moses Dyer, as it has on all of us ; he even took a sort 
 of grievous pleasure when he shut the bedroom door 
 on himself at night in recalling the gentle creature who 
 dwelt in that room before. He longed with the awful 
 hunger of loss for one touch of her lips, one look from 
 her tender eyes ; and, so far from being terrified at the 
 idea of her returning spirit, he would have given his 
 life to have even her phantom semblance hovering 
 about his pillow. The only sign of weakness he showed 
 was his extreme nervous excitement in thunder-storms, 
 a thing not to be wondered at after his past experience ; 
 for other people still felt an unwillingness to take 
 shelter in the Dyer house during such storms, however 
 drenched they might become before reaching the village. 
 It was only after three years had elapsed with no acci 
 dent of the sort that Lemuel Hough, who was the mill 
 man, consented to board at Moses Dyer's, though 
 Moses himself urged it, not only as a matter of econ 
 omy, but with an unconfessed feeling of anxiety lest
 
 152 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 something should again happen and he be helpless as 
 before. 
 
 Love was eight }-ears old, and had grown to be the 
 only dear thing on earth to her father, and Lena had 
 lived in the house about a year, when, one October 
 night, after a day sultry as in August, a violent storm 
 came up suddenly while all the inmates of the Dyer 
 house were sound asleep. Love was upstairs in a 
 room next to Hannah Smith's ; Lem in the back- 
 chamber, whose window opened out on a shed roof, 
 and Moses, as usual, downstairs. A simultaneous 
 crack and blaze aroused them, and smoke rapidly filled 
 the house. Lemuel, who was a cool-headed Yankee, 
 hurried the woman and child through his room on to 
 the shed-roof, from which they easily slipped to the 
 ground, and, driven by terror, made their way to the 
 mill-shed. 
 
 Once having disposed of them Lemuel went round 
 outside to the bedroom door, and knocked it inward 
 with a heavy beetle fetched from the wood-house. 
 A ghastly vision met his eyes there : Moses Dyer sat 
 upright in his bed, staring straight before him ; the 
 partition opposite burst into licking tongues of flame 
 as the fallen door admitted air, and the suffocating 
 smoke rolled outward. Lemuel seized the stricken 
 man by the shoulders and dragged him from the bed, 
 helpless as a child of days, right out into the pouring 
 rain ; it was not till his suspended senses returned that 
 it was discovered he was a helpless cripple, both legs 
 paralyzed by the bolt that had fired the house. The 
 red light of the fire called out all Dorset to help, but 
 help was in vain ; as the angry tempest rolled away its 
 black hosts to the southward, and the tranquil hunter's
 
 DOOM AND DAN. 153 
 
 moon rose fair and still above the crest of White 
 Mountain, her light shone on a heap of smoking ruins, 
 a helpless, hopeless man, and a frightened child cling 
 ing, sobbing, to bis neck. 
 
 The villagers looked at one another with wise eyes 
 and nodding heads. 
 
 " I told you so ! " mumbled old Aunt Nancy. " I 
 wouldn't ha' gone there to live for half Dorset. My 
 sakes ! he wanted me to, the wust kind ; but money 
 wouldn't count for that puppus. It's a doomed house 
 if ever there was one, and I guess he'll have to own 
 up to't now, whether or no ! " 
 
 But it was a long time before Dorset people arrived 
 at Moses Dyer's thought on this matter. He was now 
 in a condition that reversed all his former life and ex 
 perience ; in one instant from the full strength of 
 unusually vigorous manhood he had become helpless as 
 a feeble old man. The shock to his whole system had 
 been severe, and for weeks he lay on his bed unable 
 to lift his hands or his head. Gradually strength 
 came back so far that he could sit up and be moved 
 into a chair ; but the best medical advice in the country, 
 called to his aid by Dr. Strong, who was determined to 
 spare nothing in his behalf, pronounced the paralysis 
 of his lower limbs hopeless ; he might live for years, 
 but he would never walk again. 
 
 Think what a doom this was to a man in the prime 
 of his life, accustomed to be in the open air constantly, 
 striding abroad over his possessions, or riding up and 
 down the wild mountain roads enjoying every aspect of 
 nature, every draught of the keen, pure air that filled 
 him with fresh life ! Now he was to pass his lingering 
 existence under a roof between four walls ; his proud
 
 154 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 and independent spirit bent in bitter humiliation, his 
 purposes broken off, the only staff left to him the love 
 of a child. 
 
 At this juncture Friend Harding, who had hitherto 
 kept silence toward Moses, though his heart ached with 
 compassionate pity over all his trials, stepped forward 
 to help. He possessed one of those great, old-fashioned 
 houses once common in New England, with four rooms 
 on a floor, a wide hall running between them both above 
 and below stairs, and making so complete a separation 
 that often two families inhabit now where one alone 
 formerly lived. It was Susannah who planned, and 
 William who proposed, that Moses Dyer should hire 
 half their house, which would accommodate him well 
 with Love and Hannah. 
 
 Moses considered the proposal with dim eyes ; he 
 had been carried to the tavern when he was first pulled 
 from his bed, and the low, dirty rooms, the noise, the 
 vulgar guests who alone came to the old place, made it 
 unpleasant for him and unfit for Love. At last, as 
 William Harding sat waiting for an answer, a grim 
 smile flickered across Moses Dyer's face. 
 
 '" Isn't thee afraid the lightning will follow me, 
 Friend Harding?" he said. 
 
 " No," answered William, steadily. "I do not so 
 apprehend the dealings of the Lord. I think he is one 
 who loveth mercy rather than judgment. If thee has 
 sinned, other men also have done the like. ' Suppose 
 ye that these Galileans were sinners above all Gali 
 leans, because they suffered such things ? ' I know not 
 why thy house was so stricken. ' Lo, these are parts 
 of his ways,' only ; I can trust him to do right, Moses. 
 I think thee will in time."
 
 DOOM AND DAN. 155 
 
 Moses lay back on his pillow with a groan. Would 
 it ever seem to him right that he was bereaved and 
 crippled ? 
 
 He did not, however, dispute the matter with Friend 
 Harding ; the man's calm trust gave even Moses Dyer 
 a sort of awe ; but he did accept the kindly offer of 
 house-room, and was glad to divert Love from her sad 
 contemplation of his helplessness by sending her to 
 Rutland with Susannah Harding to make purchases of 
 furniture for the new dwelling ; for, though his house 
 was burnt, he was still a rich man, and the mill ground 
 awa} 7 as merrily as ever under Lemuel's charge. So it 
 came about that the next ten years of Love's life and 
 Moses Dyer's existence were spent under the roof of 
 William Harding, and with Susannah's gentle guidance, 
 added to such education as the village academy 
 afforded, Love Dyer grew up into a beautiful, stately 
 girl, adding to her mother's grace her father's deep 
 coloring and abundant health. Her thick, soft hair 
 crowned a shapely head with rich plaits ; her great, dark 
 eyes, grave as her father's, were far sweeter than his 
 had ever been, and could flash from their dusky depths 
 with fun as his had never done ; her lips were full and 
 red, and under her clear, olive skin shone a crimson 
 color that told of native vigor and a strong constitu 
 tion. The young men in Dorset had already found out 
 what a beauty dwelt among them ; but Moses Dyer was 
 as jealous of his solitary possession as any father could 
 be, and his post was always at the front window, where 
 he could watch the village street and see if any man 
 dared to attend Love's walks or come to call on her. 
 Ten years had not materially altered his nature ; he 
 had grown outwardly more patient, for habit is strong
 
 156 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 in us, and the things that are inevitable have to be 
 accepted. In his helplessness he had begun to take a 
 sort of morbid pride ; he dwelt in thought much on the 
 fact, at last obvious even to him, that he was a sort of 
 moral target for the arrows of the Almighty. It was 
 a kind of balm to his pride to think he had been so 
 singled out from his fellows by a divine hand ; a cer 
 tificate of weight to his own character that it should 
 need such special visitations to be amended. He took 
 to reading the Bible, as we most of us read it, to find 
 his peculiar case either depicted or provided for, and 
 in the Old Testament found ample vindications of his 
 theory. He was almost gratified to have strangers in 
 Dorset brought by the house where he now lived, and 
 to see that he was pointed out to them as the hero of a 
 spiritual tragedy. The burnt house on the farm had 
 never been rebuilt ; the barn had gone with it ; the 
 home-lot was a wilderness of unpruned trees and 
 neglected grass, and the garden a tangle of half -dead 
 roses, clambering briers, tall, rank yellow lilies and 
 straggling peonies. The farm he sold soon after he 
 became unable to manage it, but no one would buy the 
 honse-site and the three acres about it ; it was known 
 all through Dorset as the Doomed House, and not a 
 man in the township would have taken it for a gift if a 
 palace had been erected there, and the gift been con 
 ditioned with its use as a residence. 
 
 His life from day to day had only the alleviations of 
 this conscious dignity and the affection which Love 
 showered upon him. She superintended his comfort 
 in every way ; read to him, sang to him, waited on 
 him, and sat at his bedside every night till he slept ; for 
 his nervous system seemed to have been startled into
 
 DOOM AND DAN. 157 
 
 abnormal vivacity of action by the very shock that 
 paralyzed him physically. Under the sweet influences 
 of Susannah Harding, Love had grown to be lovely as 
 well as beautiful ; she was like life and breath to her 
 father ; her tender voice, her deft fingers, her loving 
 eyes, were all that fate had left him. He who had so 
 loved every trick and tracery of nature was shut in 
 now to the space of four walls, the outlook of a village 
 street ; but it may be that he was in reality more con 
 tent than ever before ; his sense of personal dignity 
 was increased rather than diminished, and a certain 
 regal consciousness attached itself to his isolation and 
 its one ministering spirit. 
 
 However, Moses Dyer had not yet learned his lesson. 
 "When Love was about eighteen Lemuel Hough took it 
 into his head to emigrate to California, and among the 
 candidates for his place in the mill there appeared a 
 far-away cousin of the Dyer tribe, from Connecticut, 
 Daniel Dyer, a young fellow of the best Yankee type. 
 Cool-headed, energetic, cheerful, with a certain audac 
 ity that gave force to his energy, he was one of those 
 people who never expect to fail, and, for that very rea 
 son, always succeed. His honest, resolute face, not quite 
 handsome, yet what all Dorset called " good-looking," 
 prepossessed Moses Dyer in his favor; those keen, 
 gray eyes were hawk-like in their outlook, and the 
 crisp, light curls above them gave a sort of character to 
 the square forehead, that might have been too solid but 
 for this ornamentation, which meant quick temper, and 
 implied fire behind the machine. 
 
 Moses Dyer was not a physiognomist, consciously, 
 but he could give no better reason for selecting this 
 man to run his mill than that he liked his looks.
 
 158 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 Others had as good recommendations ; some he knew 
 from childhood ; but he " took " to Dan Dyer at once, 
 and when Lemuel Hough went away from Dorset he 
 left behind him a substitute whom men allowed very 
 soon more than filled his place. 
 
 Everybodj- liked the new-comer ; he had a kind word, 
 a hearty greeting, a joke for everybody. He was as 
 eager at his work as a boy at play, but equally ready 
 for play in its time. Nobody could husk as much corn 
 or pare as many apples at bees as Dan Dyer, and 
 nobody could tell such funny stories. He sang a fine 
 tenor, and installed himself in the village choir at once, 
 becoming its chorister before the year was out, and 
 drilling that somewhat idle and desultory group of 
 singers into the best choir of the county. He skated 
 as if skates had grown on his feet from bis birth, 
 and fished great trout out of brooks in which nobody 
 else had ever discovered a fin of that sort ; and, above 
 all, he made some wonderful improvement in the mill 
 machinery that brought him into frequent association 
 with the mill-owner, and crowned all his well-doing 
 with one great folly ; for the poor fellow fell over head 
 and ears in love with Love Dyer ! 
 
 And Love, brought for the first time into contact 
 with a nature at once sunny, fearless, and victorious, 
 what other result could be expected than that she 
 should strike her colors directly? 
 
 Her education had been such as to make her simple 
 in heart and life, with that simplicity Fenelon paints 
 and praises ; she had lived under the shadow of a 
 cloud all her days, and here was pure sunshine ; why 
 should she not open her heart to it ? Dan Dyer came 
 and went day after day, in and out of Moses Dyer's
 
 DOOM AND DAN. 159 
 
 room, talking of cogs and bands and bolt-cloths, of 
 wheels and buckets, beams to be renewed, floors to re 
 pair, trap-doors to be put here and a shoot to be built 
 there ; but all the time he talked he saw Love's soft, 
 dark eyes and beautiful face instead of her father's 
 grim visage and gray locks, and she sat by in breath 
 less interest. If he had talked of Sanscrit verbs or 
 Hebrew points it would have interested her as much, 
 for his voice had a speech of its own older than the 
 confusion of tongues, and his face a legend open as the 
 stars in heaven. Yet it was a great while before 
 Moses Dyer's eyes were opened to the fact which every 
 woman in Dorset knew long ago ; which Love's mother, 
 had she lived, would have known before the lovers 
 knew it ; but, to Moses Dyer, Love was still a child, 
 and his wrath was full of contempt when Hannah, with 
 the conscious smirk of a willing gossip, hinted one day, 
 when Love had gone out, " That there Dan Dyer sets 
 a heap by Lovey, don't he?" 
 
 " Thee is a fool, Hannah ! " sharply answered Moses, 
 his face darkening as he spoke. 
 
 " Be I?" she snapped back ; " then Dorset's full on 
 'em ; everybody's a-snickerin' V a-giggliu' about it, all 
 over. I should ha' thought your eyes would ha' seen 
 what was right afore 'em. I shouldn't ha' peeped nor 
 muttered about it if I hedn't supposed you was privy 
 to't quite a spell back." 
 
 "What does thee mean, woman? Can't thee curb 
 thy silly tongue better than this? Love is a child; 
 does thee think a grown man, with his head full of 
 wheels and such like, has it turned after little girls? " 
 And yet as he spoke he remembered how long he 
 had watched Love's comings and goings from his
 
 160 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 front window lest some such catastrophe should hap 
 pen. 
 
 " Well, I don't call nineteen year old no child's 
 age!" sniffed Hannah. "Fust you know you'll lose 
 her slap off,' n' then I guess you'll sorter figger up 
 better on folkses age ! " 
 
 Moses Dyer groaned ; he was inwardly furious, and 
 now that his eyes were opened a thousand tiny recollec 
 tions pressed upon him, driving the unwelcome truth 
 home. Why had Dan come in so unnecessarily often 
 to consult him on the most trivial matters? Why had 
 Love always stayed by and seemed so interested in the 
 mill business? How she lingered of late in her daily 
 walks, and brought home ferns, mosses, and berries, 
 that grew only on the river edges ! Well, he would 
 put an end to it at once ; that was all. Dan was 
 coming up to-night ; there were plain words enough in 
 the English language, and he would not spare them. 
 But to Love when she came in, blooming, yet pensive, 
 her hands full of the pink arbutus blossoms that grew 
 so rosy only on that pine-shaded bank just below the 
 mill, he said nothing, only just before Dan appeared 
 he asked her gently to go in and sit a while with Su 
 sannah, for he had private business that evening with 
 a visitor. 
 
 Dan came in whistling, his face alight and his heart 
 buoyant ; but Moses was like a black bar of thunder 
 cloud. Scarcely was the guest seated before his host 
 accused him in no measured terms of coming there on 
 false pretences, to ensnare his daughter's heart and 
 beguile her away. 
 
 "You Ihink I come here like a sneak, do you?" 
 retorted Dan, his eyes glowing; "you know better
 
 DOOM AND DAN. 1G1 
 
 than that, Moses Dyer ! You know I've had reg'lar 
 business every time ; if you say to the contrary, why, 
 then you say what aint so. As for your girl" and 
 here his voice fell " I don't deny but what I think a 
 heap of her ; why shouldn't I ? She's as han'some as a 
 picture and as good as gold ! "Why shouldn't I like her? 
 Wa'n't you never young yourself?" 
 
 Moses put out his hand to check him, for he could 
 not speak ; there rose up before him that rock by the 
 river-side, the fair, young face, the glittering hair, and 
 then the short years of rapture ; it almost seemed to 
 him for a moment that those clinging arms were about 
 his neck once more, those fragrant lips pressed to his, 
 those tender eyes looking up to him as a bird from its 
 nest looks to the sky. His face darkened with emotion. 
 Dan saw his opportunity and went on : 
 
 " Yes, I do love her ; more'n tongue can tell, I love 
 her. If I aint good enough for her I know it jest as 
 well as you do, but I don't know anybody that is ; and 
 I expect I love her enough to make up the goodness 
 that's wanting. I haven't never spoke one word to her 
 about the matter, for I wa'n't ready to, not yet. But I 
 tell you, Squire Dyer, I mean to marry her, whether or 
 no!" 
 
 There was something about Dan's very frank speech 
 that touched a kindred chord in the old man ; this de 
 termination was an echo of his own nature, yet all the 
 more for that it enraged him. 
 
 "Thee is a presumptuous fool, Daniel Dyer!" he 
 answered. "Does thee think nothing of taking my 
 girl into poverty, she that has known no want of this 
 world's goods in all her life ? " 
 
 " Squire, I aiut one of the poor sort ! I own up that
 
 162 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 I haint got no great of cash in hand now, but I've got 
 my health, and I'm strong, and I aint no fool, if you do 
 say so ; but I'm willing to overlook that, for I see you're 
 riled a mite. No, sir ! If I live, I'll be the best-off 
 man in Dorset, and if Love is willing to take me she 
 won't ever want for a thing, I say for't ! " 
 
 Moses Dyer began to feel cowed by this persistent 
 audacity ; he fell back on his rights. 
 
 "Thee does not know my daughter ; she is a dutiful 
 child. Thee could not persuade her to leave her father 
 contrary to his wish." 
 
 " I don't know about that, Squire Dyer. "Women 
 folks are kind of queer ; they'll mostly foller their incli 
 nations, I've observed." There was an exasperating 
 truth in this statement that crushed Moses. 
 
 "What does thee want to come here and take her 
 away for? " he cried, in sudden grief, " all that is left 
 to me, a man doomed to suffer from the arrows of the 
 Almighty ? Does thee think I will spare my ewe-lamb 
 to such as thee?" 
 
 " I wouldn't take her away from you for nothing," 
 generously exclaimed Dan. "You have had a lot of 
 affliction, and you aint like to be any smarter nor any 
 chircker than you be now ; rather the contrary, I ex 
 pect ; and I'd take care of you myself as good as she 
 can. I'd be helpful as though I belonged to you, 
 Squire. You'd get a son and you wouldn't lose your 
 daughter." 
 
 Sublime egotism of youth and passion ! But it had no 
 sublime effect on Moses Dyer. Trembling with passion 
 he leaned forward in his chair. 
 
 " Look here, young man," he said, in a broken voice ; 
 " thee drives me to the edge. Love Dyer shall never
 
 DOOM AND DAN. 163 
 
 marry thee till thee can give her a good home and 
 twenty thousand dollars in the bank. Thee has got no 
 feelings I can move. I shall try the facts of filth} 7 
 lucre ; may be thy pocket will comprehend. I will 
 drive the girl out from before my face to starve if she 
 dares to many thee before I say Amen. Yea, I will 
 curse her as the Lord hath cursed me for my sin ! " 
 
 Dan looked at the old man steadily. " I'll take you 
 up at that, Squire Dyer. I'll engage, swear to't if 
 you say so, never to ask her till I've got that amount." 
 
 Moses Dyer stared. "Was this fellow crazy? At 
 any rate, in or out of his senses, the agreement would 
 keep him away from Love ; so they struck hands on it, 
 and from that time on Dan's visits ceased at the Hard 
 ing house, and though Love's fresh color paled, her 
 eyes grew sad, and her voice plaintive rather than gay, 
 with the bitter selfishness of age and his nature Moses 
 Dyer did not relent. He would not spare Love to 
 her lover, for her own pleasure or peace, because he 
 wanted her care, her tendance, her affection, all for 
 himself ! 
 
 Hannah, in the next room, had overheard all this 
 interview, and her tongue was never tied. Dorset 
 people were soon possessed of the situation, and with 
 one accord pitied the lovers and blamed the cruel 
 father ; but pity did not console Love, and Dan's 
 brain seemed to be suddenly turned, for early the next 
 autumn it was declared by the wise ones of the town 
 that he had bought the old ruins of the Dyer house, 
 the home- lot, and all of the farm, about ten acres, 
 lying between the house and the mill. 
 
 Nobody believed it at first, for that land had been a 
 drug in the market, owing to its past history as well as
 
 164 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 to the fact that more than once since the last catas 
 trophe somebody or other had seen lightning strike on 
 that knoll, though nothing stood there capable of 
 injury. But examination of recent records showed the 
 tale to be true ; the land had sold for a song, or at least 
 for a note, and that only two hundred dollars ; and 
 soon Dan left the mill, hired a man to help him, and began 
 to clear out the cellar of its rubbish. Even Moses Dyer 
 was full of astonishment and a sort of horror ; it seemed 
 to him he ought to warn any man who tried to rebuild 
 that house of its doom and its past experience ; but he 
 knew Dan must be aware of this, and as days went on 
 and no frame was set up, but certain strange men with 
 little bags and small hammers came to Dorset, visited 
 that cellar, and went away smiling, Dorset people 
 were more and more perplexed. Before winter set in 
 Dan had put up a shanty in the home-lot, and heaps 
 of earth, like the preparations for a railway embank 
 ment, lay piled all about the old cellar. The mystery 
 leaked out at last. Under the Dyer house had lain a 
 mine of the best sort of iron ; wide and deep, it had 
 attracted the electric fluid with compelling force, and 
 the shrewd sense of one Yankee, who, looking at the 
 events which other people called Fate, had used his 
 reason, had found only a propitious Fact. 
 
 Certain capitalists were found ready and willing to 
 help Dan Dyer forward in his work of mining and 
 smelting, for the ore was extremely valuable, and 
 instead of lying in a " pocket," as much of the Vermont 
 ore does, proved to be a solid vein. A great furnace 
 was erected on the river bank, and lit up the water 
 with savage glow by night, sending wreaths of smoke 
 into the keen air by day, and Dan Dyer ruled over the
 
 DOOM AND DAN. 165 
 
 fiery confusion within, exultant and happ}' ; for before 
 bim lay a near prospect of the house and money that 
 should qualify him for Moses Dyer's daughter, and 
 Love's shy eyes had long ago given him all the encour 
 agement e} T es can give. 
 
 But Moses Dyer underwent a strange inward expe 
 rience. Here was the mystic doom which had set him 
 apart from and above his fellows reduced to a simple 
 matter of mineralogy. He thought it was Providence, 
 and it proved to be iron ! The visitation of God had 
 not humbled him when he accepted it as a visitation ; 
 but the facts of nature did. The throne of his spiritual 
 pride was abased forever, and he was only a man like 
 other men ; rather less than other men, in that he had 
 not seen for himself the open fact that electricity is 
 not the wrath of God, but the law of nature ; that 
 lightning does not strike over and over in one place 
 without a reason any more than water flows uphill. 
 He was helpless, useless, bereaved, from his own fault, 
 his defiant pride ; and, as he brooded day after day over 
 this new insight into his Maker and himself, he was 
 forced to put his band on his mouth and his mouth in 
 the dust, recognizing at last the Father, who does not 
 willingly afflict nor grieve us, but in wisdom, as well as 
 mercy, lets us find out for ourselves how good he is, 
 how weak and vain we are. 
 
 The heart of Moses Dyer melted within him and be 
 came as the heart of a little child. He sent for Dan, 
 and acknowledged his selfishness and his sin. 
 
 " If thee loves the child, Daniel," he said, " I will 
 not forbid thee to strive after her affections. I have 
 been a self-seeker, but the Lord hath opened my eyes."
 
 166 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 Dan's honest face changed and his keen eyes dropped 
 as he grasped the old man's hand. 
 
 " I don't know what to say, Squire ! " he answered. 
 " You're everlastin' clever to me. I do expect to make 
 consider'ble more than twenty thousand out of that mine, 
 fust and last ; but it'll be quite a while before I fetch it, 
 and I don't think a man's good for shucks without a 
 wife and a home. Besides, there's Love to ask yet ; 
 mabbe at the last she won't have me. But I can try ; 
 there's never any harm in trying. As for the mine, I 
 kinder suspected there was a wherefore to the why about 
 those thunder-bolts, so I figured on't. I haint any faith 
 in ' doom.' I b'lieve in the Lord, of course ; but I don't 
 think he goes about pitchin' into folks with lightnin' 
 to convert 'em. I guess he's converted you quite re 
 cent, and without strikin' of you, neither. When it 
 comes to talkin' about doom I'd rather b'lieve in Dan. 
 It works a heap better ! " 
 
 And Dan's brief creed has certainly vindicated itself, 
 for to-day a fair white house stands on the slope of the 
 hills just out of Dorset, and old Moses Dyer, looking 
 from its sunny windows down on the farm and the fur 
 nace with a face peaceful as the autumnal skies above 
 the Ledge, is waited on and caressed by a trio of small 
 Dyers, and guarded from their somewhat rampant affec 
 tions by a gentle, beautiful woman, who is now and 
 forever Dan Dyer's Love.
 
 ACCOUNT OF THOMAS TUCKER. 167 
 
 SOME ACCOUNT OF THOMAS 
 TUCKER. 
 
 " Whom now seekinge, O Diogenes ! have I found : ye Sunne's shine 
 Beinge more Discoverable untoe that whiche is Sunne-like, than Thy poore 
 Blinklnge Lanthorne." 
 
 Marriages of Ye Deade. 
 
 AMASA TCCKER and his wife lived on a lonely farm 
 in Vermont, remote from villages or neighbors. 
 Amasa's work was that -hardest of all work, forcing 
 from rocky and reluctant fields enough produce to feed 
 and clothe his family ; to do more, with the most stren 
 uous exertion, was impossible, and he did not expect 
 it. To him life was a brief and bitter pilgrimage 
 toward heaven. If it had amenities, they were snares ; 
 its pleasures were unknown to him. Rugged, stern, 
 hard as the granite rocks beneath the sward he tilled, 
 he found no consolations in the outer world, on which 
 he walked as they that have eyes and see not, ears and 
 hear not, nor even human interests to cloud their awed 
 and reverent look into the world which is to come. 
 Alone in his arid fields, Amasa Tucker revolved within 
 himself the vast problems of theology, free-will, 
 election, infant damnation, the origin of evil, and like 
 dogmas ; for to such thoughts had he been trained from 
 childhood by the widowed mother who owned and in 
 habited this solitary mountain farm. Duty was ground 
 into the very bone and sinew of his life. He walked
 
 168 TEE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 always between a dreadful hell and an awful heaven, 
 set aside from the ordinary temptations of life, and 
 taught to believe that every leaning toward transgres 
 sion was the whisper of an omnipresent devil, eager to 
 enlist him in his own service ; and learning to feel that 
 untruth, disobedience, a thought he could not utter to 
 his mother, or a wish that could not be uplifted to God, 
 were crimes of fatal and total depravity. 
 
 He ploughed the brown sod of the sad New England 
 hills under the full force of the primeval curse ; uncom 
 plaining, because Adam had sinned for him, and he must 
 bear the doom ; and unquestioning, because Job, under 
 a worse pressure of suffering, had taught him that he 
 who challenges the will of God does so in vain. 
 
 He saw the sun rise above the purple mountains, and 
 wheel its splendid way through the sky, life-giving and 
 wonderful, with only a sombre thought of that impend 
 ing day when the sun shall be turned into darkness and 
 the moon into blood, for which it behooved him to be 
 ready and waiting. The melancholy glory of the moon 
 and the keen sparkle of the starry heavens gave him no 
 joy : their story was alone of that creative and judging 
 Lord who should roll them away as a scroll. To him 
 the fear of God was not only the beginning of wisdom, 
 but its course and end ; the perfect love that casteth 
 out fear was strange to him as heaven ; he knew not its 
 soft steppings about him, nor its clear shining in the 
 beauty that beset his path. He lived only to prepare 
 for death, and to see that his kindred followed in that 
 straight way. 
 
 Philura, whom he had married from a sense of the fit 
 ness of things, was a meek, spiritless creature, with no 
 sentiment and little feeling ; always conscious that she
 
 ACCOUNT OF THOMAS TUCKER. 169 
 
 was an unprofitable servant, afraid to love her children 
 lest it should be idolatry, and struck with as keen a 
 pang as her slender nature could know, if her butter 
 was streaky or her cheese crumbled. 
 
 She considered her husband lord and head, after the 
 old-fashioned Scriptural order, and listened to his daily 
 prayers with deep reverence for such striking piety, 
 though she knew very well that Amasa was a hard man, 
 gathering where he had not strewed, and reaping where 
 he had not sown, and a tyrant where a man can be 
 tyrannical in safety, in his own home. 
 
 Two children out of ten survived to this pair. Abun 
 dant dosing, insufficient food, and a neglected sink- 
 drain had killed all the others who outlived their earli 
 est infancy ; but these two evaded the doom that had 
 fallen on their brothers and sisters, by the fate which 
 modern science calls the survival of the fittest, and 
 spindled up among the mullein-stalks of their stone- 
 strewn pastures as gray, lank, dry, and forlorn as the 
 mulleins themselves ; with pale eyes, straight white hair, 
 sallow faces, and the shy aspect of creatures who live 
 in the woods, and are startled at a strange footstep. 
 
 They were taught to work as soon as they could 
 walk, to consider sin and holiness the only things worth 
 consideration, to attend meeting as a necessity, and 
 take deserved punishment in silence. To obedience and 
 endurance their physical training, or want of training, 
 conduced also ; alternate pie and pork are not an en 
 livening diet to soul or body, and play was an unknown 
 factor in their dreary existence. Keziah grew up a 
 repetition of her mother, dull, simple, and dutiful ; but 
 Thomas, from the moment he entered the little red 
 school-house, two miles awaj", to complete the education
 
 170 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 which his father had begun by the evening fire at 
 home, showed a hunger for books and knowledge that 
 amounted to a passion. 
 
 Not a particle did he care for the girls who laughed 
 at him, or the boys who tried to torment him. His soul 
 was filled with the joy of the born student, to whom 
 every fresh study is a rapture that never palls, every 
 new book a possession outvaluing gold ; to whom the 
 daily needs and pangs of life are as a tale that is 
 told. 
 
 It was but a very little while before Thomas knew 
 all his teacher could impart, far better than the teacher 
 herself knew it ; but his thirst was scarcely appeased. 
 He longed for ampler opportunity, for better instruc 
 tion, as earnestly as Amasa longed for the kingdom of 
 heaven, and at last plucked up shamefaced courage 
 enough to beg his father that he might go to the 
 academy at Bantam, ten miles down the valley. 
 
 If one of his oxen had made a like request Amasa 
 Tucker could not have been more astounded. What 
 his boy could want with more education than sufficed 
 himself was past his imagining. To farm an upland in 
 Vermont, after the hereditary fashion of those lonely 
 hills, did not seem to him to require any special 
 science. Hard work, perpetual battle with the ele 
 ments and the soil, primarily doomed to bear thorns 
 and thistles, surely this could be carried on with no 
 higher education ! 
 
 Yet, though he neither answered the boy's request 
 nor the entreating look in his eyes, his inmost heart 
 softened with pride in his sou. No genuine New Eng- 
 lander ever despises a desire for knowledge, or sneers 
 at learning without an inward feeling of having been
 
 ACCOUNT OF THOMAS TUCKER. 171 
 
 profane ; and Amasa Tucker was a typical New Eng- 
 lander of the old sort, now so fast passing away. 
 
 When Thomas turned back to his work, in that habit 
 of dumb obedience which is stronger than nature, he 
 did not know that he had dropped into his father's 
 mind a seed that would take root and grow as surely 
 as the corn he had just dropped into the furrow, or that 
 the harvest of its planting would be for him ; and it 
 was not till that corn had sprouted, grown to rustling, 
 glittering blades, tasselled out, ripened, been husked, 
 and heaped in shining golden ears in the corn-house, 
 till the apples were brought in to their long bins, and 
 purple-streaked turnips and yellow carrots stored in the 
 barn-cellar, that the boy knew how this other grain had 
 at last come to the full ear. 
 
 One Saturday night, as they put the last cow into 
 the stanchions after milking was done, his father said 
 grimly : 
 
 " Thomas, ef you want more edication than what you 
 have had, and can pay your way to go to Bantam 
 'cademy this winter, why, I'll give ye your time." 
 
 Thomas was not demonstrative ; the dark blood 
 rushed up to his face, and it seemed to him as if the 
 sudden joy seized him by the throat ; but he only 
 answered, "I'll try." 
 
 So the next week he walked down to Bantam, 
 applied at once to Parson Lathrop for advice, and, 
 arriving at the nick of time, when Semanthy Pratt, the 
 parson's old house-keeper, was threatened with her 
 annual attack of " rheumatiz," he was taken at once 
 into the minister's house to "do chores " for his board. 
 His schooling was free, since he lived in the county 
 of which Bantam was the shire town ; for Parsons
 
 172 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 Academy was an endowed school, and only pupils 
 from other counties paid for instruction ; and there 
 were many such, for the school had a wide reputation. 
 
 Perhaps Thomas was not the best chore-boy in the 
 world. Absorbed in pure mathematics, Greek roots, 
 or the proportions' and problems of chemistry, he too 
 often forgot the kindlings, or neglected to comb and 
 curry the old white horse. But then he never went 
 out nights ; no husking, or apple-bee, or quilting frolic, 
 no sleigh-ride or turkey-shoot, tempted him from his 
 beloved books. 
 
 If anybody complained of him it was Semanthy, 
 who declared to her cronies, " Well, he's good enough, 
 for 't I know. He don't find fault with his vittles, nor 
 yet he don't set by 'em no great. He's as big a dreamer 
 as Joseph in the Bible. I don't more'n half believe he 
 knows what he doos eat. But land ! he aint no com 
 pany ; you might as well set down along of a rake- 
 tail, an' tr} f to visit with it ; he's dumber'n a dumb 
 critter, for they do make a sound. I say, mabbe, 
 ' Come, Thomas, you fetch me in a pail o' water, real 
 spry ; and take that air squash off 'n the hooks, and 
 get me a piggin o' soft soap down sullar." Well, he'll 
 lay down his book, and fetch them things slow as 
 molasses, not a peep nor mutter, and smack right 
 to ag'in at that book o' hisn, and peg away at it till 
 bed-time. I do mistrust he takes it to bed along with 
 him ; he would ef I'd let him have a taller dip ! I'd 
 jest as lives have old Bose around, as fur as talkin' 
 goes ; p'r'aps ruther, for he does wag his tail real 
 knowin', jest as though he'd speak ef he could ; but 
 Thomas, he wouldn't ef he could, now I tell ye ! " 
 
 Parson Lathrop grew interested in the lad, because
 
 ACCOUNT OF THOMAS TUCKER. 173 
 
 he was such a student, for there was nothing lovable 
 about Thomas. His aspect was more ungainly than 
 ever, since age had added to his height without round 
 ing or filling out his lank and angular figure ; and by 
 long study in imperfect light for Semanthy's " taller 
 dips " served for little more than to show the darkness 
 he had become very near-sighted, winking and blink 
 ing like an owl when he looked away from his book, 
 and wearing the perpetual anxious frown of imperfect 
 vision. In the summer he returned to his work on the 
 farm, more dull than ever to the outer world's beauty 
 and joy. One thing alone possessed his soul, an 
 eager longing for winter and his return to the precious 
 opportunities of Bantam ; regardless entirely of Seman 
 thy's scorn, the laughter of his companions, or an}" lack 
 or discomfort in his daily existence, if he could resume 
 the study that was his delight and life. Before the 
 second winter was over, Parson Lathrop, observing the 
 boy as he had done from day to day, made up his mind 
 as to Thomas's vocation, and determined to come up 
 to his aid in fulfilling so marked and earnest a call. So 
 one day he had the old white horse put into the high- 
 backed sleigh, bundled himself up in his fox-skin coat, 
 put in a hot brick to set his feet upon, tied his otter 
 cap close about his ears, drew on his double-knit 
 mittens, and, tucking a big buffalo robe closely about 
 him, set off for the Tucker farm. 
 
 It is a great strain on a man's benevolence to drive 
 an old horse ten miles of an uphill country road, with 
 the thermometer below zero ; but Parson Lathrop was 
 one of the uncanonized saints who used to glorify the 
 waste places of New England, and of whom the world 
 was not worthy. It was enough for him that he was
 
 174 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 about his Master's work ; in that, he did not consider 
 himself or his inconveniences. 
 
 It was " borne in upon his mind," as he phrased it, 
 that Thomas Tucker's devotion to study was an open 
 indication of Providence concerning his future career, 
 and therefore he must talk with his father about it. 
 Amasa had met the parson now and then, when busi 
 ness took him to Bantam, so they were not strangers. 
 He laid down the axe with which he was chopping 
 wood when the parson drove into the yard, and went 
 out to meet him. A man of softer nature and less 
 faith might have feared that this visit meant some 
 harm had happened to his bo}', but Amasa's soul was 
 firm in a confidence that was half nature and half 
 grace ; he was not afraid. 
 
 " 'Mazin' cold weather, Parson Lathrop," was his 
 greeting ; and after hospitably stabling the old horse 
 he followed the minister into the house, where, before 
 the blazing kitchen fire, and over a mighty mug of 
 steaming flip, still hissing from its hot guest the poker, 
 the two " reasoned high " as the recalcitrant spirits of 
 hell, and on the same themes, until the parson, at 
 last, wearied of mystic theological doctrine, and came 
 to the point of his errand. He set down the blue and 
 yellow mug, and opened the subject abruptly : " Well, 
 Brother Tucker, I came up especially to say to you that 
 I believe your son Thomas hath a call to minister in 
 divine things." 
 
 " I dono ! " said Amasa. Thomas was as yet his 
 boy ; he could not look upon him in any other light 
 without further experience. 
 
 " I think it is even so," went on the parson. " He 
 is like Samuel of old in that he was earlv called ; I
 
 ACCOUNT OF THOMAS TUCKER. 175 
 
 have found him a close walker, strict in attention to 
 ordinances, well grounded in Scripture ; not given to 
 foolishness, such as youths are too apt to seek after, 
 but one that studies to be quiet. And such a lover of 
 knowledge, such a hungerer after learning, I have 
 scarce ever met with." 
 
 " Well, Parson Lathrop, I should as lieves take 
 your judgment as any man's. I had calc'lated on 
 Thomas's keepin' right along here, and cultivatin' the 
 
 tairth in the sweat of his brow, same as I do, and his 
 grandsir' did afore me. I don't wan't to stand in the 
 way ef he's got a call to the ministn r , though. I 
 wouldn't hold him back from the Lord's work, no 
 way ; but yet I aint clear in my mind, I'm free to con 
 fess, how to fetch it. This farm has gi'n me and mine 
 a livin', no more ; it's ' sows, an' grows, and goes,' as 
 the sayin' is ; but I have striv' always, bavin* food and 
 raiment, therewith to be content, but I haint laid up a 
 cent, nor I aint in debt nuther. I didn't rightly 
 know how to spare Thomas to the 'cademy ; I couldn't, 
 only that he paid his way; and I don't know how he 
 can get through college. Seems as though there was 
 a lion in the path, don't there?" 
 
 " I foresaw this, Brother Tucker," answered the 
 parson, gently. " It has been a trial to me that in that 
 day I cannot say to the Master, ' Lo, here am I, and 
 the children that thou gavest me.' I have a silent 
 house. My beloved wife was under a weary dispensa 
 tion of bodily ailment all her days, and it pleased the 
 Lord to deny us offspring. It was the last drop in her 
 bitter cup of suffering that she had to leave me, 
 humanly speaking, alone ; and I have always purposed 
 to use the small portion of earthly riches she left
 
 176 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 behind her for the good of those who had the blessing 
 I wanted, and needed the gifts I had. If so be you can 
 spare Thomas, I will help him to his desired education ; 
 not so that he shall cease from self-help, I would not 
 have him weighted with a sense of utter dependence. I 
 propose to have him teach a school when his academic 
 course is over, and remain with me till I can fit him for 
 college myself. He will have laid up something then, 
 and can further teach in vacations. I will see that his 
 funds do not come short. All this if you consent." 
 
 Amasa pushed back his chair with a sharp, creaking 
 scrape, his face set, his eyes cold and stern as ever. 
 The most acute observer could not have seen one soft 
 ening quiver, one tremulous line, to indicate gratitude 
 or assent ; yet the heart within him glowed, chill and 
 rayless as it seemed. " I'm obleeged to ye," he said 
 at last, in the dryest fashion, tilting his chair back 
 against the wall and clearing his throat, as if that said 
 all. But Parson Lathrop knew the man and the race ; 
 nor was he himself one of those uneasy souls who exact 
 their pound of effusive gratitude for every ounce of good 
 expended on their fellows. His left hand did not know 
 nor inquire what his right hand did, nor even shake that 
 comrade palm in self-congratulation. He had obtained 
 the father's consent to take care of Thomas ; now he 
 would go home and do it. So, with a kindly farewell, 
 the good man replaced his wraps, and took his way 
 down the mountain, meditating on heavenly things, 
 an unconscious saint, if indeed saints ever are con 
 scious ! 
 
 Thomas Tucker's school-teaching, however, did not 
 prove efficient. Wrapped up in his studies, he was so 
 absent-minded that he lacked that modified omniscience
 
 ACCOUNT OF THOMAS TUCKER. 177 
 
 which is the sine qua non of a country school-teacher. 
 The boys played marbles under his very nose, and he 
 did not see them ; they told him the most audacious 
 lies, and he believed them, because he had never told 
 a lie himself; they filched his pens and spilt his ink ; 
 they put burrs in the crown of his hat, and smeared 
 his mittens with pitch scraped from the pine-logs in 
 the open fireplace ; they ate his dinner, and tied his 
 comforter into knots. But he endured it all with 
 amazement and patience, never thinking his pupils 
 could or would be hard at heart. Then they began to 
 serenade him with the old nursery rhymes of Little 
 Tommy Tucker ; to draw pictures of him on the slate, 
 with that vivacious legend attached ; and in short to 
 learn so little and misbehave so much that after one 
 term Thomas was " advised to resign," and Parson 
 Luthrop saw that his prottg& would never earn even the 
 clothes needful to his college course. But the good man 
 had counted the cost when he set out to build this 
 tower of learning, and he sent Thomas at once to the 
 nearest college ; becoming answerable for all his 
 expenses, which were somewhat lessened by the fact 
 that a brother clergyman at Deerford gave Thomas his 
 board on condition that he did the "chores" of the 
 family and took care of the horse. 
 
 During his first year in this institution the mountain 
 farm where he was born, always, heretofore, consid 
 ered beyond the reach of fevers such as haunted the 
 lowlands, was suddenly stricken. Amasa Tucker and 
 his wife both fell ill with one of those malignant dis 
 eases that were once regarded with a mystical horror 
 as " visitations of God," but are now referred to con 
 taminated \vells and neglected drainage. Amasa came
 
 178 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 in from the woods where he was chopping, one after 
 noon, livid and ghastly with pain, exclaiming, like the 
 child of the Shuuammite woman, "My head! my 
 head ! " and fell upon the bed senseless. He lay there 
 unconscious all night, and the next morning Keziah 
 set out at dawn to walk two miles to the nearest neigh 
 bor, and send him to Bantam for a doctor. He went 
 at once, but when she got home her father was still 
 senseless, and her mother sat by his side, with both 
 hands clasped about her own head, and her face 
 scarcely less changed than her husband's. Amasa 
 was dead when Dr. Knight arrived, and in twenty-four 
 hours Philura had followed him ; both d} T ing speechless, 
 without one parting word or look for their bereft 
 daughter, and before Thomas could come from Deer- 
 ford. It was a strange, sad funeral at which Parson 
 Lathrop officiated, early on a sweet spring day, the air 
 fragrant with the new buds and fresh scent of the up 
 turned earth, birds twittering among the lofty pine- 
 trees, that set the north winds at defiance on two sides 
 of that quiet graveyard, and the tiny lake below 
 repeating the fair blue heaven above. A divine peace 
 seemed to fill that solitude among the sheltering 
 mountains, and as the good man looked about him he 
 reverently removed his hat, and, before the dead were 
 laid among their kindred dust, he burst involuntarily 
 into the sublime cadences of that psalm so fitted for 
 the time and place : 
 
 " Lord ! Thou hast been our dwelling-place in all generations. 
 Before the mountains were brought forth, 
 Or ever Thou hadst formed the earth and the world, 
 Even from everlasting to everlasting, 
 Thou art God."
 
 ACCOUNT OF THOMAS TUCKER. 179 
 
 But the triumphant submission, the lofty ascription, 
 awoke no thrill in Thomas's heart. He stood by the 
 double grave like one in a dream ; no tear dimmed his 
 eye, no quiver moved his set lips. He knew well that 
 these deaths were no real loss to him, and he was too 
 vitally and thoroughly honest to put on any outward 
 aspect of mourning. Neither father nor mother had 
 ever tried to awaken in their children one spark of 
 affection. Duty, grim, hard duty, had been the spring 
 of Amasa Tucker's life toward God and man. He had 
 toiled, and prayed, and striven to fulfil his tale of 
 debt toward One whom he knew only as an exacting 
 Master, and to " set loose by the things of this world,". 
 as he expressed it, le-t he might not be ready for the 
 summons to another ; and from him Keziah had learned 
 to dread the indulgence of natural affection as idolatry 
 and a weakness of the carnal heart, which was always 
 "at enmit3 r with God." Consequently the children 
 had grown up unloving, because the}' were unloved. 
 There were no tender recollections to wring their souls 
 to-day ; no unspeakable longings for the hand that had 
 been ever ready to guide, or the voice always eager 
 to cheer. Even Parson Lathrop was astonished and 
 grieved to see that prim composure of the one and 
 dreamy indifference of the other, and forbore to pray 
 that God would bind up the broken in heart, being too 
 honest to be conventional. 
 
 Happily for Keziah, Parson Lathrop's widowed 
 sister had come to Bantam to " make it home with 
 him," as the country phrase is; and, never weary in 
 well-doing, the good man took Keziah home, and sent 
 her to Parsons Academy ; and in due time she became 
 a school-teacher, more successful than Thomas, for she
 
 180 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 only attempted to teach little children, whom her dull, 
 quiet nature enabled her to drill in their earliest educa 
 tion with unwearied patience and smiling endurance. 
 
 Thomas himself went on in his college course utterly 
 unmoved by the tricks of sophomores or the contempt 
 of seniors. He was called "Little Tommy Tucker" 
 through the recurring terms in every tone of scorn, 
 amusement, and disgust, without seeming to know 
 that it was not his proper title. Nothing interested 
 him but his books. Society was a meaningless waste 
 of time in his eyes, and he respected holidays only 
 because he could spend them undisturbed in the college 
 library, without need to stir for any purpose save the 
 necessities of food and rest, always at their mimimum 
 with him. He went to the end of the career here with 
 absolute success as far as learning goes, graduated with 
 the highest honors, and passed on into the theo 
 logical seminary in Hartland, an epitome of learning, 
 but without a single friend. 
 
 Here he revelled in Greek and Hebrew ; became 
 still more lank, bent, pale, and introverted than ever ; 
 and when he was at last through with his divinity 
 course knew more of his studies and less of his fellow- 
 creatures than any other man of his class. He was tem 
 porarily placed in charge of the college chapel when he 
 returned to Deerford, its pulpitbeing vacant for the time ; 
 and he preached to the students before him such dis 
 courses as might have edified a body of old Puritan di 
 vines, erudite, doctrinal, logical, orthodox, but without 
 one spark of human sympathy or divine love. The eager 
 crowd refused such husks, and expressed their disgust, 
 as a crowd of boys will ; but Thomas Tucker took no 
 more notice of their scuffling feet, their laughter, their
 
 ACCOUNT OF THOMAS TUCKER. 181 
 
 feigned sleep, or their simultaneous attacks of cold in 
 the head or distressing cough than he took of the 
 wintry winds without that dashed the elm-tree boughs 
 against the lofty chapel windows, or the streaming rain 
 that pattered on its roof. He was there to preach, and 
 preach he did ; gladly, however, retiring from the office 
 when the clergyman for whom he had been locum tenens 
 arrived. It was evident to those who knew him best 
 in the city that it was not his vocation to preach ; and 
 as he was respected among those learned men for his 
 devotion to study and his vast acquisition of knowledge 
 for so young a man, and as the professor of ancient 
 languages was about to resign his position, and his life 
 too, it was brought about that Thomas Tucker should 
 be offered his place. It was true, he was comparatively 
 young ; but there was no real youth about him. He 
 went his way with the absorption of a sexagenarian, 
 only that his were the cares of learning and meditation 
 rather than of this world and declining years. 
 
 Soon after his acceptance of the professorship he 
 was sent for to say good-by to Parson Lathrop. For 
 this good man, who had been a real father to him in 
 the best fatherly sense, Thomas felt all the affection in 
 his power ; and as he stood by his death-bed, the 
 dreamy, deep-set eyes sparkled with unshed tears, 
 and the melancholy lips trembled. He could not 
 speak ; he could only grasp the emaciated and burning 
 hand held out to him, and see through a dim haze the 
 faint, sweet smile on the old man's face. 
 
 " I am going home, my son," whispered the parson. 
 " I sent for you to say it is best now that you should 
 take Keziah to be with you. Sister Keery has gone 
 before me, having had an abundant entrance into the
 
 182 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 kingdom." Here he paused, and Keziah gave him a 
 sip of restorative. " My tongue is parched, even, as 
 the tongue of Dives, but I am not afraid of his fate. I 
 know in whom I have believed. Thomas, as I said, 
 take Keziah home with you. Well sayeth the Apoc 
 rypha, though it be not with inspiration, ' Without 
 women cannot men live.' It is better for you, in this 
 new honor that hath come to you, to have the dignity 
 of a home, and it is best that she should have its 
 comfort. ' He setteth the solitary in families,' and 
 what better earthly thing could he do for them ? " 
 
 " I will ! " said Thomas, as solemnly as if this were 
 a marriage ceremony. 
 
 The parson smiled, but the wandering of death was 
 on him. It seemed as if his will had controlled the 
 fluttering of the spirit, eager to break its chr} 7 salis and 
 soar, until he had finished his good work on earth ; 
 now he ceased from his labors, but his heart yet beat, 
 and his disordered mind babbled on those clay-cold 
 lips. 
 
 "They're all in the yard, Celia," he said; " and 
 the sun isn't down yet ; it's above Saltash ; and I 
 cocked all the hay on the lower meadow. Tell Se- 
 manthy to fetch the milk-pails." Then he muttered 
 something the} 7 could not hear. Celia was his wife's 
 name, and that recurred audibly over and over. Sud 
 denly his look changed, his eyes opened, a radiant 
 gleam broke across the pallid face, and, lifting one 
 hand upward, he said, "Why, Celia! Come! rise! 
 let us be going ; the Master calleth for thee ; " so he 
 went as bidden. 
 
 Thomas and Keziah walked behind the coffin, when 
 Parson Lathrop's funeral train wound its way along the
 
 ACCOUNT OF THOMAS TUCKER. 183 
 
 shore of the tranquil lake to the same lonely grave 
 yard where their parents lay, feeling in their hearts that 
 here and now they buried a nearer and dearer friend 
 than either father or mother had been ; and the silent 
 crowd who followed them were all alike mourners, for 
 the"parsou had been a power and a presence of good 
 ness in their midst for many a long year. They 
 stayed, too, after they had lain the worn-out body to 
 sleep in the tender shadow of the hills he loved, to 
 hear his funeral sermon, preached by a neighboring 
 brother, who was in such pathetic earnest that his 
 misuse of speech could not stir a smile in the attentive 
 audience, even when he said, in describing the good 
 man's last hours, that " a heavenly smile eradicated 
 his countenance." 
 
 Then the brother and sister went back to Deerford, 
 and, hiring a small house, began their life together. 
 Parson Lathrop had left his little property to Keziah, 
 and these few thousands, added to the yearly rental of 
 the old farm and the house in Bantam, kept her inde 
 pendent soul from feeling that she was a burden upon 
 Thomas, and his salary was more than sufficient for 
 their daily needs. So for a year or two they lived in 
 peace, until Satan, or some lesser minion of evil, put 
 it into the head of a student, whose mischief always 
 over-rode his manners, to play a joke upon "Old 
 Tommy." 
 
 Professor Tucker, throughout his college life, had 
 never been known to address the least attention, scarcely 
 the least civility, to any woman ; he avoided all society 
 but that of his books, refused all invitations, and lived 
 in his room like a hermit in his cell. But when his 
 sister arrived, and he became a householder, the maids
 
 184 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 and matrons collateral to the faculty of which he was a 
 member at once felt it their duty to call on Keziah,and 
 welcome her to their social enjoyments. But she was 
 as shy as her brother, and proved impracticable to 
 almost every one. Her nearest neighbor alone, a 
 maiden lady of good family and fine, cheerful presence, 
 well-to-do, and having the courageous aplomb that all 
 these gifts bestow on a woman, made some headway in 
 the good graces of the quiet rustic spinster. Miss 
 Eleanor Yale would, welcomed or not, invade Keziah's 
 solitude now and then, insist on driving her out to show 
 her the beautiful environs of Hartland, send her flowers 
 f rom her own elaborate garden and fruit from her peach 
 and pear trees, all out of the most frank and free 
 benevolence ; for she pitied the solitary creature, know 
 ing in her own heart how forlorn loneliness is to any 
 woman, though all the other good things of life be 
 poured out abundantly into her hands. Miss Keziah 
 had a heart, somewhat torpid for want of exercise, 
 perhaps, but still a heart, and she felt Miss Yale's 
 kindness, without finding words to express it to that 
 lady ; but she spoke of her so often to the professor 
 that he learned to know her name, and thereby pre 
 cipitated a certain impending catastrophe, set in motion 
 by Jack Mason, the aforesaid student. On Valentine's 
 day a day of which Thomas Tucker was no more 
 conscious and no better informed than Confucius or 
 Aristotle he received by mail a flowing ditty, of the 
 most tender sort, written in a woman's hand, and 
 signed " Eleanor." The professor stood aghast. 
 Poetry had no charms for him ; he had not the remot 
 est idea of its figurative speech, its license, or its 
 u tricks and manners ; " to him it was merely curiously
 
 ACCOUNT OF THOMAS TUCKER. 185 
 
 arranged prose, and this devoted and tender valentine 
 seemed neither more nor less than an offer of marriage. 
 His hair fairly stood on end, and his forehead was knit 
 with perplexity. Who could have done this thing? 
 Suddenly he remembered that Eleanor was the name of 
 his sister's friend, and even on his learned and ab 
 stracted soul dawned a glimmer of the man's instinctive 
 contempt for women, as he bethought himself how this 
 woman had sought his sister's friendship and done her 
 such kindnesses all for his sake. Still, being an excep 
 tional man, he was moved rather to pity than scorn, on 
 further reflection, thinking of all this wasted trouble 
 and useless feeling on the lady's part. There was but 
 one thing to be done. He did not want to marry any 
 one ; he had not planned or intended any such thing ; 
 his life and love were all centred in his studies, his 
 books, his profession. And was not Keziah able and 
 willing to do for him all those services which some men 
 had no sisters to attend to, and therefore were obliged 
 to marry? 
 
 But this poor woman, she must not be deluded 
 with so futile a hope. It was unpleasant to contem 
 plate, but Thomas Tucker never shrank from duty ; he 
 must be honest or die. So he put on his hat and coat, 
 and, presenting himself at Miss Yale's door, asked to 
 see that lady. Miss Yale was astonished, but she re 
 ceived the professor a little more kindly because she 
 was astonished, and afraid she should not put him 
 entirely at his ease. But he was more formal, more 
 awkward, more stiff than ever before. He sat down on 
 the highest chair in the room, and, drawing the luckless 
 missive from his breast-pocket, plunged at once into 
 the middle of things.
 
 186 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 " Madam ! " he began, sternly, " I have received 
 this epistle, bearing your name in superscription, which 
 donbtless you recognize. I thank you for the regard 
 herein expressed ; but as an honest man, and one who 
 is in bonds to the truth, I come to say to you that mar 
 riage has not entered into my plans at any time, nor is 
 there any likelihood that it will." 
 
 Miss Yale looked at him with wide eyes. " What? " 
 she cried, in amazement. 
 
 " I refer to this letter you have sent me, couched in 
 the mode of verse," replied the professor, grim as a 
 lion on a sign-post of old time, and full as wooden. 
 
 " Give me the letter, if you please," said Miss Yale, 
 her color rising, and her eyes full of a dangerous glow. 
 But the professor knew nothing of the sex and its 
 ways, except theoretically ; he handed her the docu 
 ment, without any fear of its explosive tendencies. 
 Miss Yale read it through, and looked up at him. He 
 was already lost in some problem, or evolving some 
 theory ; but her voice roused him. 
 
 " Do you think I sent 3*011 this?" she asked, in a 
 very quiet voice, altogether too quiet to be reassur 
 ing. 
 
 "Is not that your given name by which it is 
 signed ? " returned the professor. 
 
 " Yes. But I want to understand what you consid 
 ered this letter to mean," she went on, with the same 
 ominous quietness of manner, holding herself in leash, 
 as it were, till the time for a spring. 
 
 " I think it has but one meaning, which he that runs 
 may read : that you are desirous of entering the state 
 o-f matrimom'." 
 
 "With vou?"
 
 ACCOUNT OF THOMAS TUCKER. 187 
 
 "With me," responded Thomas Tucker, with curt 
 and ghastly honesty. 
 
 Miss Yale rose to her feet, and her clear eyes flashed. 
 The professor felt danger ; he shrank visibly into him 
 self, yet fixed an undaunted gaze upon her. She 
 looked at him a moment, and, with the vivid speed of 
 thought, remembered herself, her position, his nature 
 and his habits. Her anger died ; she threw herself 
 back on the sofa, and laughed till the tears rolled down 
 her fair face. 
 
 The professor was entirely speechless ; he knew not 
 what to say, but at last, in honest indignation, opened 
 his mouth, much like his Scriptural prototype, to the 
 angel in the path : 
 
 " It seems, madam, unsavory subject for mirth. I 
 am in earnest." 
 
 "And so am I," said Miss Yale, drj-ing her bedewed 
 cheeks, and trying to be sober. " Professor Tucker, I 
 did not write that letter. Some sill}' and impertinent 
 boy sent it to you to deceive and disturb you. If I 
 wished to marry you I should not take that method of 
 obtaining my wish. I am a woman and a lady : good 
 women and true ladies do not do such things." 
 
 She looked directly at him as she said this, and her 
 eyes sparkled. Some manly shame stirred in the pro 
 fessor's bosom ; he extracted a great red and yellow 
 handkerchief, with much contortion, from his coat-tail 
 pocket, and used it sonorously. 
 
 Miss Yale's lips quivered a little, and a sudden dim 
 ple flashed in her cheek ; but she went on, certain, 
 with her own perfect tact, that this man must be treated 
 with absolute truth, like his own : " Moreover, in order 
 to show you convincingly that I had no such intention,
 
 188 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 beside not having written that letter, I will tell you, in 
 confidence, a trust I feel will be safe in ycur bauds, 
 that I have promised to marry President Wiuthrop 
 some time next summer." 
 
 As Professor Tucker looked at the warm flush that 
 covered the fine face of Eleanor Yale, and perceived 
 the soft glow of her eyes, he thought that the widowed 
 president was a happy man, but he did not say so. 
 " Madam, I ask your pardon," he said, humbly. "And 
 for that son of Belial, who hath made me his music, 
 I trust due punishment is somewhere reserved," he 
 gloomily added, and departed in a shambling fashion, 
 that once more provoked Miss Yale's dimples and set 
 her eyes dancing. And alas for the feminine malice, 
 of which a grain lurks in the best woman's heart ! that 
 very night President Winthrop was entertained with a 
 resume of her afternoon's experience ; and that genial 
 gentleman roared and rolled with laughter, for he knew 
 Thomas Tucker far better than Miss Yale did, and 
 could more thoroughly enjoy the situation. 
 
 After this occurrence, which Hebrew points and 
 crabbed S}Tiac idioms soon drove from the professor's 
 mind, he went his way for a while quite undisturbed ; 
 but he was so unsuccessful as a teacher that, on some 
 excellent pretext, it pleased the trustees of the college 
 to remove him from his position. They recommended 
 him to a church in the city, seeking for a clergyman to 
 fill its pulpit, and then advised him to accept the call. 
 It was at first an irksome employment for the professor, 
 but he did not love teaching ; it was far easier for him 
 to produce two sermons a week, in the seclusion of his 
 study, than to face daily a class of youths, more or less 
 refractory, if they were students, and try to beat into
 
 ACCOUNT OF THOMAS TUCKER. 189 
 
 them the beauties and intricacies of the dead lan 
 guages. 
 
 The social duties of a settled clergyman might have 
 pressed on him onerously ; but, as if Providence saw 
 that he was best fitted for a life of solitude, jnst as the 
 Green Street church had listened to their learned and 
 pious pastor for the first time after his installation in 
 their pulpit, Keziah, his sister, was seized with a sudden 
 and dangerous illness. The kind women of the church 
 rallied around Thomas Tucker in this hour of his need, 
 and nursed Keziah with unremitting kindness ; but all 
 in vain. She dropped out of life as silently and 
 patient!}* as she had endured living, and it remained 
 only to say that the place which knew her should now 
 know her no more ; for she left behind her no dear 
 friend but her brother, and not an enemy. Even 
 Thomas missed her rather ns a convenience than a com 
 panion ; profiting in a certain sense by her death, as it 
 aroused keenly the sympathy of the church for his loss 
 and loneliness, and attached them to him by those links 
 of pity that are proverbially almost as strong as love. 
 In any other circumstances the Green Street church 
 would no doubt have discovered, early in their relation, 
 that Mr. Tucker was as unfit for any pastoral position 
 as he had been for that post in the college chapel ; but 
 much was forgiven him out of his people's abundant 
 kindness ; and their respect for his learning, his sim 
 plicity, and his sincere piety forbade their objecting at 
 first to his great deficiencies in those things considered 
 quite as needful to pulpit success as the power of 
 preaching and the abundance of knowledge. It hap 
 pened, soon after Keziah' s death, that Mr. Tucker was 
 called to officiate at the funeral of one of his wealthiest
 
 190 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 parishioners, a man who had just come back from 
 Europe, and been killed in a railroad accident on the 
 way to his home in Deerford. He was personally un 
 known to Thomas Tucker, but his character was noto 
 rious. He went to church, and bought an expensive 
 pew there, merely as a business speculation ; it gave 
 him weight in the eyes of his fellows to be outwardly 
 respectable as well as rich ; but he was niggardly to his 
 family, ostentatious, overreaching, and cruel as death 
 to the poor and struggling who crossed his path or came 
 into his employ. 
 
 The Reverend Mr. Tucker improved the occasion. 
 He took for the text of that funeral address, "What 
 shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world, and 
 lose his own soul?" and after a pungent comparison 
 between the goods of this world and the tortures of a 
 future state he laid down his spectacles, and wound 
 up with, " And now, beloved, I have laid before you 
 the two conditions. Think ye that to-day he whose 
 mortal part lieth before you would not utter a loud 
 Amen to my statement? Yea, if there be truth in the 
 word of God, he who hath left behind him the gain of 
 life and greed is now crying aloud for a drop of water 
 to cool his parched tongue, and longing for an hour of 
 probation wherein to cast off the fetters of ill-gotten gold 
 and sit with Lazarus gathering crumbs in the company 
 of dogs. Wherefore, seeing that God hath spoken 
 sharply to you all in the sudden requirement of this 
 rich man's soul, let his admonition sink into your 
 souls ; seek ye first the kingdom of God, and cast in 
 your lot with the poor of this world, rich in faith, and 
 be ready to answer joyfully when the Master calls." 
 
 Of course the community was outraged ; but for a
 
 ACCOUNT OF THOMAS TUCKER. 191 
 
 few kindly souls, who stood by the poor parson, and in 
 sisted that Keziah's death had unsettled his mind, and 
 not a few who felt that he had manfully told the truth, 
 without fear or favor, and could not help feeling a cer 
 tain respect for him, he would have been asked, forcibly, 
 to resign, that very week. As it was, the indignant 
 widow went over to another denomination without 
 delay. " I will never set foot in that church again ! " 
 she said. " How can one be safe where a man is al 
 lowed to say whatever he chooses in the pulpit? A 
 ritual never can be personal or insulting. I shall abide 
 by the Prayer-Book hereafter." 
 
 In due time this matter faded out of the popular 
 mind, as all things do in course of time, and nothing 
 came between pastor and people, except a gradual 
 sense on their part that Solomon was right when he 
 said, "Much study is a weariness to the flesh;" not 
 only the student's flesh, but also theirs who have to 
 hear ^reiterated all the dry outcome of such study. 
 
 But Parson Tucker's career was not to be monotonous. 
 His next astonishing performance was at a wedding. 
 A very pretty young girl, an orphan, living in the house 
 of a relative, equally poor but grasping and ambitious, 
 was about to mnrry a young man of great wealth and 
 thoroughly bad character : a man whom all men knew 
 to be a drunkard, a gambler, and a dissolute fellow, 
 though the only son of a cultivated and very aristo 
 cratic family. Poor Emily Manning had suffered all 
 those deprivations and mortifications which result from 
 living in a dependent condition, aware that her pres 
 ence was irksome and unwelcome, while her delicate 
 organization was overtaxed with work whose limits 
 were as indefinite as the food and clothing which were
 
 192 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 its only reward. She had entered into this engagement 
 in a sort of desperation, goaded on by the widowed 
 sister-in-law with whom she lived, and feeling that 
 nothing could be much worse than her present position. 
 Parson Tucker knew nothing of this, but he did know 
 the character of Roj'al Van Wyck ; and when he saw 
 the pallid, delicate, shrinking girl beside this already 
 worn-out, debased, bestial creature, ready to put her 
 self into his hands for life, the "daimon" laid hold 
 upon him, and spake again. He opened the service, 
 as was customary in Hartland, with a short address ; 
 but surely never did such a bridal exhortation enter the 
 ears of man and woman before. 
 
 " My friends," he began, "matrimony is not to be 
 lightly undertaken, as the matter of a day ; it is an 
 awful compact for life and death that ye enter into 
 here. Young man, if thou hast not within thyself the 
 full purpose to treat this woman with pure respect, 
 loyal service, and tender care ; to guard her soul's in 
 nocence as well as her bodily welfare ; to cleave to her 
 only, and keep thyself from evil thoughts and base in 
 dulgences for her sake, if thou art not fit, as well as 
 willing, to be priest and king of a clean household, 
 standing unto her in character and act in God's stead 
 so far as man may, draw back even now from thine in 
 tent ; for a lesser purpose is sacrilege here, and will be 
 damnable infamy hereafter/' 
 
 Royal Van Wyck opened his sallow green eyes with 
 an insolent stare. He would have sworn roundly had 
 not some poor instinct of propriety restrained him ; 
 as it was, he did not speak, but looked awa}'. He 
 could not bear the keen, deep-set eyes fixed upon him ; 
 and a certain gaunt majesty in the parson's outstretched
 
 ACCOUNT OF THOMAS TUCKER. 193 
 
 arm and severe countenance daunted him for the moment. 
 But Thomas Tucker saw that he had no intention of 
 acceptiug this good advice, so he turned to Emily. 
 
 "Daughter," he said, "if thou art about to enter 
 into this solemn relation, pause and consider. If thou 
 hast not such confidence in this man that thy heart 
 faileth not an iota at the prospect of a life-long com 
 panionship with him ; if thou canst not trust him 
 utterly, respect him as thy lord and head, yield him an 
 obedience joyful and secure next to that thou givest to 
 God ; if he is not to thee the one desirable friend and 
 lover ; if thou hast a thought so free of him that it is 
 possible for thee to imagine another man in his place 
 without a shudder ; if thou art not willing to give 
 thyself to him in the bonds of a life-long, inevitable 
 covenant of love and service ; if it is not the best and 
 sweetest thing earth can offer thee to be his wife and 
 the mother of his children, stop now ; stop at the very 
 horns of the altar, lest thou commit the worst sin of 
 woman, sell thy birthright for a mess of pottage, and 
 find no place for repentance, though thou seek it care 
 fully and with tears." 
 
 Carried away with his zeal for truth and righteous 
 ness, speaking as with the sudden inspiration of a 
 prophet, Parson Tucker did not see the terror and the 
 paleness deepening, as he spoke, on the bride's fair 
 countenance. As he extended his hand toward her 
 she fell in a dead faint at his feet. All was confusion 
 in an instant. The bridegroom swore and Mrs. Man 
 ning screamed, while the relations crowded about the 
 insensible girl, and tried to revive her. She was 
 taken at once upstairs to her room, and the wedding 
 put off till the next day, as Mrs. Manning announced.
 
 194 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 " And you won't officiate at it, old fellow ! I'll swear 
 to that ! " roared the baffled bridegroom, with a volley 
 of profane epithets, shaking his fist in the parson's 
 calm face. 
 
 " Having taken the sword, I am content to perish 
 thereby, even as Scripture saith," answered Thomas 
 Tucker, stalking out of the door. 
 
 That night, as he sat in his study, the door opened 
 softly, and Emily Manning came in and knelt at the 
 side of the parson's chair. " I have no place to go to, 
 sir," she whispered, with trembling lips. " You saved 
 me to-dny ; will you help me now? I was going to 
 sin, but I didn't know it till you told me." 
 
 "Then it was not sin, my child," said Parson 
 Tucker, gently. " Sin is conscious transgression, and 
 from that thou hast instantly departed." 
 
 " But what could I do?" she asked, her eyes full of 
 tears. " I have no home. Marcia is tired of me, and 
 I have no other friends. I wanted a home so much. 
 Oh, I was wrong, for I did not love him. And now I 
 have run away from Marcia, she was so dreadful, 
 and what shall I do ? " 
 
 " Poor child ! " he said, tenderly. " Sit here. I will 
 help. My old woman, in the kitchen below, shall 
 fetch thee to a chamber. Keziah brought her with us ; 
 she is kind, and will care for thee, while I go to bring 
 a friend." So saying, the parson rung his bell for old 
 Jane, gave the girl over to her care, and set out him 
 self for President Winthrop's house. 
 
 " I have brought you a good work," he said abruptly 
 to Mrs. Winthrop. "Come with me; there is a soul 
 in need at my house." 
 
 Mrs. Winthrop was used to this sort of summons
 
 ACCOUNT OF THOMAS TUCKER. 195 
 
 from the parson. They had been good friends ever 
 since the eccentric interview brought about by Jack 
 Mason's valentine, arid when charity was needed 
 Eleanor Winthrop's heart and hand were always ready 
 for service. She put on hat and shawl, and went with 
 the parson to his house, hearing on the way all the 
 story. 
 
 " Mr. Tucker," she said, as he finished the recital, 
 " aren't you going to make much trouble for yourself 
 by your aggressive honesty?" 
 
 Thomas looked at her, bewildered. 
 
 " But the truth is to be spoken ! " he replied, as if 
 that were the end of the controversy. And she was 
 silent, recognizing the fact that here conventions were 
 useless, and self-preservation not the first law of grace, 
 if it is of nature. 
 
 All Mrs. Winthrop's kindliness was aroused by the 
 pitiful condition of Emily Manning. She consoled and 
 counselled her like a mother, and soon after took her 
 into her household as governess to the little girls whom 
 Mr. Wiuthrop's first wife had left him ; making for the 
 grateful girl a happy home, which in after years she 
 left to become the wife of a good man, toward whom 
 she felt all that Parson Tucker had required of her on 
 that painful day which she hated now to remember. 
 And as the parson performed this ceremony he turned, 
 after the benediction, to Eleanor Winthrop, and said, 
 with a beam of noble triumph on his hollow visage, 
 " Blessed be the Lord ! I have saved a soul alive ! " 
 
 But long before this happy sequel came about he 
 had other opportunities to distinguish himself. There 
 came a Sunday when the service of infant baptism was 
 to be performed ; and when the fair, sweet babes, who
 
 196 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 had behaved with unusual decorum, were returned to 
 their mothers' arms, and the parson, according to 
 order, said, " Let us pray," he certainly offered the 
 most peculiar petition ever heard in the Green Street 
 church. After expressing the usual desire that the 
 baptized children might grow up in the nurture and 
 admonition of the Lord, he went on : " But if it please 
 thee, O Father, to recall these little ones to thyself in 
 the innocence of their infancy, we will rejoice and give 
 thanks, and sound thy praises upon the harp and 
 timbrel. Yea ! with the whole heart we will praise 
 thee ; for we know the tribulations and snares, the 
 evil and folly and anguish, of this life below ; and we 
 know that not one child of Adam, coming to man's 
 estate, is spared that bitter and woful cup that is 
 pressed out from the fruit of the knowledge of good 
 and evil, which our progenitors ate of in thy garden of 
 Paradise, and thereby sinned and fell, and bequeathed 
 to us their evil longings and habitual transgression. 
 They are the blessed who are taken away in their 
 infancy, and lie forever by green pastures and still 
 waters in the fields of heaven. We ask of thee no 
 greater or better gift for these lambs than early to be 
 folded where none shall hurt or destroy in all thy holy 
 mountain, and the love that is above all mother's love 
 shall cradle them throughout eternity. Amen ! " 
 
 Not a mother in that congregation failed to shiver 
 and tremble at this prayer, and tears fell fast and 
 thick on the babes who slumbered softly in the tender 
 arms that had gathered them home, after consecrating 
 them to that God whom yet they were so unwilling 
 should literally accept their offering. Fifty pairs of 
 eyes were turned on Parson Tucker with the look of a
 
 ACCOUNT OF THOMAS TUCKER. 197 
 
 bear robbed of its cubs ; but far more were drowned 
 in tears of memory and regret, poignant still, but 
 strangely soothed b} r this vivid presentation of the 
 blessedness wherein their loved and lost were safely 
 abiding. 
 
 Much comment was exchanged in the church porch, 
 after service, on the parson's prayer. 
 
 " We ought to hold a special meeting to pray that 
 the Lord will not answer such a petition ! " cried one 
 indignant mother, whose little flock were clinging 
 about her skirts, and who had left twin babies, } - et un- 
 baptized, at home. 
 
 "It is rather hard on you, aunty! " said graceless 
 Jack Mason, the speaker's nephew, now transformed 
 into an unpromising young lawyer in Hartland. 
 " You'd rather have your babies sin and suffer with 
 you than have 'em safe in their little graves, hadn't 
 you? I don't go with the parson myself. I didn't so 
 much mind his funeral gymnastic over old Baker, and 
 his disposition of that party's soul in Hades, because I 
 never before supposed Roosevelt Baker had a soul, 
 and it was quite reassuring to be cei'tain he met with 
 his dues somewhere ; but he's worse than Herod about 
 the babies ! " 
 
 However, the parson did not hear or know what was 
 said of him, and in an ignorance that was indeed bliss 
 continued to preach and minister to his people in strict 
 accordance with his own views of duty. His next 
 essay was a pastoral visit to one of his flock, recently 
 a widow, a woman weak in body and mind both ; 
 desirous above all things to be proper and like other 
 people, to weep where she must, smile when she 
 ought, wear clothes like the advance-guard of fashion,
 
 108 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 and do " the thing" to be done always, whether it was 
 the right and true thing or not. 
 
 Her husband had spent all her fortune in specu 
 lation, taken to drink as a refuge from folly and 
 reproach at home, and, under the influence of the con 
 soling fluid, had turned his wife out-of-doors whenever 
 he felt in the mood ; kicked her, beaten her, and 
 forced her, in fear of her life, over and over to steal 
 from her own house, and take refuge with the neigh 
 bors, and ask from them the food she was not allowed 
 at home. At last the end came. Parson Tucker was 
 sent for to see the widow and an-ange for funeral ser 
 vices. She had not been present at the Baker funeral, 
 or indeed been in Deerford for some years after that 
 occasion, so she adhered to the conventions ; and 
 when Parson Tucker. reached the house he was shown 
 into a darkened room, where the disconsolate woman 
 sat posed already in deep mourning, a widow's cap 
 perched upon her small head. A woman would have 
 inferred at once that Mrs. Spring had anticipated the 
 end of Joe's last attack of mania a potu, and pre 
 pared these funeral garments beforehand ; but Thomas 
 Tucker drew no such conclusions. He sat down silently 
 and griml}-, after shaking hands with Mrs. Spring, and 
 said nothing. She began the conversation : 
 
 " This is a dreadful affliction, Mr. Tucker. I don't 
 know how I shall live through it." 
 
 "It is terrible, indeed," said the parson. "I do 
 not wonder, madam, that you mourn to see your part 
 ner cut off in his sins, without time for repentance ; 
 but no doubt you feel with gratitude the goodness 
 which hath delivered you from so sore a burden." 
 
 ' ' What ! " screamed the widow.
 
 ACCOUNT OF THOMAS TUCKER. 199 
 
 ' ' I speak of God's mercy in removing from your house 
 one who made your life a terror, and your days full of 
 fear and suffering ; you might have been as others, be 
 reaved and desolate, and mourning to your life's end." 
 
 " I don't know what you mean, Parson Tucker," said 
 Mrs. Spring, sharply, removing a dry handkerchief 
 from unvvet eyes. " Poor, dear Joseph is taken away 
 from me, and I'm left a desolate widow, and you talk 
 in this way ! I'm sure he had the best of hearts that 
 ever was ; it was only, as } - ou may say, accidental to 
 him to be a little overcome at times, and I'm I'm 
 O-h!" 
 
 Here she gave a little hysterical scream, and did some 
 well-executed sobbing ; but the parson did not mind it. 
 He rose up before her, gaunt and gray. "Madam, 
 did not this man beat, and abuse, and insult, and starve 
 3 T ou, when he was living? Or have I been misin 
 formed ? " 
 
 " Well Oh, dear, what dreadful questions ! " 
 
 " Did he? " thundered the parson. 
 
 "He didn't mean to; he was excited, Mr. Tucker. 
 He"- 
 
 " He was drunk. And is that excuse? Not so, 
 madam. You know, and I know, that his death is a 
 relief and a release to you. I cannot condole with you 
 on that which is not a sorrow ; " and he walked rigidly 
 out of the door. 
 
 Is it necessary to say that Mr. Spring's funeral did 
 not take place in Deerford ? His widow suddenly re 
 membered that he had been born in a small town among 
 the hills of West Massachusetts, and she took his body 
 thither, to be " laid beside his dear payreuts," as she 
 expressed it.
 
 200 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 Things had now come to a bad pass for Parson 
 Tucker. The church committee had held more than one 
 conference over their duty toward him. It was obvi 
 ous that they had no real reason for dismissing him but 
 his ghastly honesty, and that hardly offers a decent 
 excuse to depose a minister of the gospel. They hardly 
 knew how to face the matter, and were in this state of 
 perplexity when Mr. Tucker announced, one Sunday, 
 after the sermon, that he would like to see the church 
 committee at his study on Tuesday night ; and accord 
 ingly they assembled there, and found President Win- 
 throp with the parson. 
 
 " Brethren," said Thomas Tucker, after the prelim 
 inary welcome had passed, "I have sent for you 
 to-night to say, that having now been settled over 
 your church eight years, I have found the salary you 
 pay me so much more than was needed for my bodily 
 support that I have laid by each year as the surplus 
 came to hand, that I might restore to you your goods. 
 The sum is now something over eight thousand dollars, 
 and is placed to the credit of your chairman, in the 
 First Deerford Bank." The committee stared at each 
 other as if each one were trying to arouse himself from 
 sleep. The chairman at last spoke : 
 
 u But, Mr. Tucker, this is unheard of ! The salary 
 is yours ; we do not desire to take it back ; we can't 
 do it." 
 
 " That which I have not earned, Brother Street, is 
 not mine. I am a solitary man ; my expenses are 
 light. It must be as I said. Moreover, I have to say 
 that I hereby withdraw from your pulpit, of necessitj*. 
 I have dealt with our best physicians concerning a 
 certain anguish of the breast, which seizes me at times
 
 ACCOUNT OF THOMAS TUCKER. 201 
 
 unawares, and they all concur that an evil disease 
 lieth upon me. I have not much time to live, and 
 I would fain withdraw from activities and duties 
 that are external, and prepare for the day that is at 
 hand." 
 
 The committee were pained as well as shocked. 
 They felt guilty to think how they had plotted this 
 very thing among themselves ; and they felt, too, a 
 certain awe and deep respect for this simple, unworldly 
 nature, this supernatural integrity. Mr. Street spoke 
 again ; his voice was husky : 
 
 "If this is so, Mr. Tucker, we must of course 
 accept your resignation ; but, my dear pastor, keep the 
 mone} 7 ! You will need care and comforts, now thia 
 trouble has come on you. We can't take it back." 
 
 Parson Tucker looked at him with a grave, sweet 
 smile. " I thank you, brother, but I have a private 
 store. My sister left her worldly goods to me, and 
 there is enough and to spare for my short sojourn,'' he 
 answered. 
 
 " But it isn't according to the fitness of things that 
 we should take your salary back, Parson Tucker," put 
 in bustling Mr. Taylor. " What upon earth should we 
 do with it?" 
 
 " Friend," said the parson, " the eternal fitness of 
 things is but the outcome of their eternal verity. I 
 have not, as I said, earned that wage, and I must 
 restore it : it is for you to decide what end it shall 
 serve in the church." 
 
 A few more words passed between them, and then 
 each wrung the parson's hand and left him, not all with 
 unmoved hearts or dry eyes. 
 
 " I don't wonder he's going to die ! " exclaimed Mr.
 
 202 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 Street, as the committee separated at a street corner. 
 " He's altogether too honest to live ! " 
 
 From that day Thomas Tucker sank quietly toward 
 his grave. Friends swarmed about him, and if delica 
 cies of food could have saved him the dainty stores 
 poured in upon him would have renewed his youth ; but 
 all was in vain. 
 
 President Winthrop sat by him, one summer day, 
 and, seeing a sad gleam in his sunken eye, asked gently, 
 " You are ready and willing to go, Brother Tucker?" 
 nothing doubting a glad assent. 
 
 But the parson was honest to the last. " No," he 
 said, " I do not want to die ; I am afraid. I do not 
 like strange and new things. I do not want to leave 
 my books and my study." 
 
 "But, dear brother," broke in the astonished presi 
 dent, " it is a going home, to your Father's house ! " 
 
 " I ki>ow not what a home is, friend, in the sense of 
 regret or longing for one. My early home was but as 
 the egg to the bird, a prison wherein I was born, from 
 which I fled ; nor was my knowledge of a father one 
 that commends itself as a type of good. I trust, 
 indeed, that the Master will take me by the hand, even 
 as he did Peter upon the water ; but the utterance of 
 my secret soul is even that of the apostle with the keys : 
 ' Lord, save, or I perish ! ' ' 
 
 " But you have been a power for good, and a close 
 follower of Peter's Lord," said Mr. Wiuthrop, alto 
 gether at a loss for the proper thing to say to this 
 peculiar man. 
 
 "One thing alone have I been enabled to do, Brother 
 Winthrop, for which I can with heart and soul thank 
 God, even at this hour. Yea, I thank him that I have 

 
 ACCOUNT OF THOMAS TUCKER. 203 
 
 been enabled to speak the truth even in the face of lies 
 and deceptions, through his upholding." A smile of 
 unearthly triumph filled every line of the wasted face, 
 and lit his eyes with a flash of divine light as he said 
 this. He grasped close the friendly hand he was hold 
 ing, turned his cheek to the pillow, and closed his eyes, 
 passing into that life of truth and love that awaited 
 him, even as a child that lies down in the darkness, 
 trembling, fearful, and weary, but awakes, in the dawn 
 of a new day, in the heart of home. 
 
 " Still," said President Winthrop to his wife, as they 
 walked home after the funeral, " I believe in the good 
 old proverb, Eleanor, that ' the truth is not to be spoken 
 at all times.' " 
 
 " And I never believed in it so little ! " she cried, 
 indignantly. " Think what a record he has left ; what 
 respect hangs about his memory ! Do we know how 
 many weak souls have relied on his example, and held 
 to the truth when it was hard, because he did and 
 could ? It is something to be heroic in these days, even 
 if it is unpopular ! " 
 
 The president shrugged his shoulders.
 
 204 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 THE FORGER'S BRIDE. 
 
 A VERY soft April day, now and then chilled by the 
 wind off snow-drifts that spotted the hills even after a 
 rainy morning, was about half over as Sally Tyler 
 came up from the village street to the red house where 
 she lived. She was extremely pretty : her features 
 delicate and straight, her dark eyes sweet, her blue- 
 black hair glossy ; and now a little wild-rose bloom on 
 her cheek, and a deeper crimson than usual on her 
 lips, made her look like a flower with a white hood 
 on. 
 
 She was evidently much engrossed by some new 
 thought or plan, for she did not stoop to pat the old 
 yellow dog who raised himself on his fore legs and 
 slobbered a welcome as he lay in the sunshine ; nor did 
 she notice the threatening scream of a hen-hawk that 
 circled high in air above her tiny brood of early 
 chickens ; or even look at the golden crocus that hnd 
 sprung from the black mould of her posy-bed, a cup of 
 sudden sunlight since last night ; but took her way 
 round to the back door, for nobody in New England 
 country villages uses the front door, except for wed 
 dings or funerals. Man}' a house have I seen whose 
 entire front half, with its darkened and musty parlors, 
 and its " spare chambers," smelling of ill-dried feathers, 
 fennel, and green mould, might have been sliced away
 
 THE FORGER'S BRIDE. 205 
 
 and carried off, nowise to the detriment, and perhaps 
 even without the knowledge, of the inhabitants behind. 
 
 So Sally followed the worn foot-track, past scraggy 
 lilacs and sprawling cinnamon rose-bushes, round the 
 house, and went in to the door of the back kitchen, 
 where at the sink her mother stood chopping some cold 
 potatoes. Sally was an only child, but her mother was 
 so haunted by the one fear of spoiling her that she 
 sometimes went too far the other way. The poor little 
 girl was " tutored," as she said, till she was weary and 
 aching, aching for a little of the deep, real love that 
 lay hidden away in her mother's heart, very much as 
 the best parlor and bedroom were shut up : there, no 
 doubt, but useless and unseen. To-day, as usual, the 
 first words were reproof : 
 
 "I told you there was too many pertaters biled 
 yesterday, Sally, 'n now I've got to chop 'em for dinner, 
 and chopped pertater aint real good 'long o' salt beef : 
 you'd ought to be more considerin'. Supposin* you 
 was to git married, and hev to see to the work your 
 self, I guess your husband'd come to woful want pretty 
 surprisin' quick." 
 
 Sally sighed a little, but said nothing. She had 
 learned how to hold her tongue at least, perhaps a 
 better preparation for marriage than the economizing 
 of potatoes. Nor did she blush at her mother's illus 
 tration of her discourse, for in Wingfield there was 
 nobody who could be called a beau for her : all the 
 well-to-do farmers' sons had emigrated from its bar 
 ren hill-sides, and the hired men were more often 
 Irish than any other, or, if Yankees, of the very lowest 
 class. 
 
 She waited a minute till the noise of the chopping-
 
 206 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 knife ceased and the potatoes were turned into the 
 spider, and then said, shyly : 
 
 " Mother, I went to the post-office after I'd carried 
 the eggs, and I got a letter from Cousin Jerushy." 
 
 " Do tell ! " said Mrs. Tyler, for a moment holding 
 the big iron spoon suspended from her hand. " Why, 
 we haint heerd from Jerushy quite a spell. How is all 
 her folks?" 
 
 " They're all well, she says ; only Grandmother Dyke 
 has had a long spell of rheumatiz. They've got a 
 bigger tenement now, and Jerushy wants me to come 
 and stay with her for a while." 
 
 Mrs. Tyler stirred the potatoes so vigorously that 
 Sally hardly dared to venture farther, but she did 
 whisper, half audibly : 
 
 " Can I go, mother?" 
 
 Mrs. Tyler was what the transcendentalists call 
 " antagonistic," and her neighbors, " dreadful arbi 
 trary." Her first impulse was to contradict every 
 assertion and refuse every request. Of course, con 
 venience and policy, and various other motives, better 
 or worse, obliged her to come round to assertions and 
 requests full half the time ; but it was a weary and 
 delayed victory that the opposite side gained, one of 
 those conquests almost as undesirable as a defeat. 
 Her husband, with a shrewdness men do not often 
 arrive at in dealing with this not uncommon t}'pe of 
 women, always took care to say and ask nothing im 
 portant if it could be helped, or otherwise to offer her 
 the exact converse of his wishes. True, like all ma 
 noeuvres, this sometimes worked its own defeat, from 
 her habit of giving in at last ; and then the squire 
 shook his grizzled head and muttered to himself, wind-
 
 THE FORGER'S BRIDE. 207 
 
 ing up with a whistled psalm-tune, generally his best 
 expression of doubt or consternation. 
 
 But to-day Mrs. Tyler was somewhat softened by 
 Sally's shy look and tone, though of course she put out 
 a sharp negative at first : 
 
 " No, you can't. I don't see how you can think 
 on't. Jest layin'-thne, 'n all them hens to look after, 
 'n set, 'n feed ; 'n two calves in the barn. Well, I 
 s'pose I might see to them things myself" (she always 
 would) ; " but he won't hear to't, I know. I don't know 
 but what I'd like to have ye go to see Jerushy ; she's 
 a smart woman, and a pretty woman as ever I see." 
 (Mrs. Jerusha Phelps had about as much beauty as a 
 chimpanzee, but " pretty " means only pleasant and 
 well-mannered in our vernacular.) u I guess you 
 might go ef you had two new gowns. You haint got 
 really nothing fit to stay a spell, 'u I expect he won't 
 want to give you no money. Well, it's nigh about 
 dinner-time, 'n you might step out to the barn 'n 
 call him it'll save me a-blowin' the horn and you 
 can settle it, maybe, 'fore you come in. I don't want 
 to have to jaw to the table : I like to eat 'n be done 
 with it." 
 
 In her secret heart Mrs. Tyler knew that she didn't 
 want to come into collision with the squire if he assented, 
 or to give up her reluctant willingness to fight it out 
 strenuously if he said no ; but, as Sally replaced her 
 hood and shawl and opened the outer door, her mother 
 called after her : 
 
 "Don't forget to tell him you've got to be fixed off 
 to go, child. I expect he'll growl some, but the tcr- 
 backer did real well last year, 'n he's a-packin' on't 
 now."
 
 208 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 There was a world of policy in this last remark, 
 quite lost on simple Sally ; so she trudged out to the 
 big barn on the hill-side, and, stepping in at the little 
 side door, threaded her way over milking-stools, pitch 
 forks, wisps of hay, and all the nameless litter of an 
 ill-kept barn, to the wide ha} T -floor, where her father 
 and Peter, the hired Irishman, sat packing tobacco. 
 Squire Tyler was a good specimen of an eldei^ly 
 Yankee farmer ; his fine head was covered with iron- 
 gray hair, curling all over it in spite of him ; his face 
 was wrinkled, but sagacious and kindly ; while all the 
 shrewdness ascribed to his race twinkled in the deep- 
 set eyes, half lost under their big, shaggy brows. He 
 was a quaint old creature, as far as his domestic life 
 went, but nobody made more acute bargains than he, 
 or understood better how to take the top wave of fluct 
 uating prices and come off with flying colors just 
 before his delaying neighbors lost all their ventures. 
 He loved Sally better than anything else, and his 
 Devon cows next ; his wife came somewhere lower 
 down in the scale, it is true, but that was her own 
 fault ; twenty years of persistent nagging and contra 
 dicting will somewhat stunt the growth even of a real 
 affection, and whatever of love still lingered in this 
 matrimonial tie had its balance altogether on the wife's 
 side. Now, as he looked up and saw Sally leaning 
 against the door, her white hood fallen off, and her 
 face glowing with her walk and her errand, all his 
 wrinkles and puckers vanished into a smile of welcome, 
 and the sharp eyes softened at once. 
 
 "Hullo, Sally!" shouted he: "what be you 
 after?" 
 
 " O father, please ! I had a letter from Cousin
 
 THE FORGER'S BRIDE. 209 
 
 Jerushy " Here she stopped a minute to take 
 breath. 
 
 " Well, that aint no great thing to hev, is it? I 
 thought mother was kind o' down on Jerushy, or you 
 was, or somethin' or 'nother." 
 
 " Oh, not me ! And, father, she wants me to come 
 to Westboro' and see her a spell ; and say, father, 
 can't I go?" 
 
 Sally gave these last words in the true coaxing 
 whine, and the squire looked up and laughed. 
 
 " You haint set your mind on't none, hev you, Sal?" 
 
 " I kinder have, father." 
 
 " What does mother saj' to't, eh?" 
 
 " Well, she said I couldn't, 'n then she said maybe 
 I could if I had some new things ; but I can't go 
 unless I do." 
 
 The squire was purse-bearer evidently, and he 
 began to tease Sally a bit. "Well, there's more'n 
 four new things around here 't you can hev if you 
 won't spile 'era ; there's a new halter in that stall, 'n 
 a new corn-basket ; 'n I've got a fire-new axe to 
 the house, 'f that'll help ye any " 
 
 "Why, father! 'taint those kind of things I want; 
 it's new gowns, and a hat, and " 
 
 " What'n thunder do you want a hat for? Can't 
 you wear a decent bunnet, 'n not put a tin pan with 
 streamers a-top of your head, like them darned fools 
 of Euckers?" 
 
 "Why, I don't mean such a hat as that; I mean a 
 big one' to keep the sun out of my eyes. I've just got 
 a new bunnet." 
 
 " Sun won't hurt your eyes none, they aint ever- 
 lastin' bright, anyway, but I guess you can hev
 
 210 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 1 things,' as you call 'em, 'nough to go to Westboro'. 
 An' seeing you can't get 'em without money, why, I 
 expect I'll hev to give ye some. I'm a dreadful near 
 old critter or'uarily, ye know, but this here terbacker 
 crop has kinder drawed out my heart, 'n I won't 
 grudge you some on't." 
 
 With which speech the squire unlatched his pocket- 
 book and fingered out from its capacious depths dirty 
 bills to the amount of twenty dollars, which he handed 
 to Sally, now drawn near enough to look over his 
 shoulder ; and was himself more astonished in his 
 turn than she by the hearty hug she gave him. 
 
 "Good land! what's that for, you young critter? 
 Haint been hugged so this forty year. Had to pay 
 for't, though, didn't I? Well! well! go 'long, gal, 
 when you git ready, and hev a first-rate time ; bat 
 don't you go to fetchin' any o' them young fellers out 
 of the iron- works home arter ye. I don't believe in 
 luggin' a gal through teethin," n measles, 'n all sorts 
 o' knot-holes, 'n hevin' the first sassy chap 't comes 
 along go 'n take her off, 'fore you've had a speck of 
 comfort out on her." 
 
 Luckily the horn blew at this moment both loud 
 and long, irate signal of a domestic tempest brewing 
 in the house, and drove her father's caution quite 
 out of Sally's head, innocent little head ! that had 
 not even remembered before that there were iron 
 works or workers in Westboro', much less young men. 
 
 "Whew!" involuntarily sputtered the squire, as 
 "the sound of that dread horn" fell upon his preter- 
 naturally sensitive ear. 
 
 Sally ran faster than his walk, but she stopped to wait 
 for him behind the great water-butt, and smiled to her-
 
 THE FORGER'S BRIDE. 211 
 
 self as she heard him whistling " Dundee" with great 
 earnestness. She was so happy she could afford to 
 smile, even at the objurgations that met them both, 
 little calculated as those sonorous remarks were to 
 sweeten the dinner. However, the meal, like all New 
 England penances of that sort, was soon over, and 
 nothing was said between the parents of Sally's pro 
 posed journey ; only that night, just as the squire was 
 ail but asleep, Mrs. Tyler suddenly came down upon 
 him. 
 
 " So you went and let Sally go to Westboro', arter 
 all, husband? " in a tone of mingled remonstrance and 
 surprise. 
 
 "She aint gone yit," growled the squire, " 'n I 
 don't care a darn if she goes or stays. I kind o' like 
 to hev her round sometimes, but if she's a mind to go, 
 wh}", I don't care, only I aint a-goin' to have no young 
 fellers a-follerin' on her home ; 'n you kin jest drop a 
 line to Jerushy and say so." 
 
 " I shan't do no such thing." 
 
 So the squire went to sleep, discreetly. 
 
 Sally was what some wise people would call foolishly 
 happy for the next week. I don't know how much 
 folly there was in her pleasure. I have seen rapture 
 that was- ingrain foolishness ; I have seen despair 
 quite as senseless ; and I have my doubts, after all, if 
 there is a much purer or simpler kind of happiness 
 extant than danced in this sweet little girl's eyes and 
 shone on her fair face in prospect of this first visit 
 and her wonderful preparations for it ; for she not only 
 had a new gray mousseline de laine and delicate 
 lilac calico, but her mother actually presented her with
 
 212 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 the dark green silk that had been her own wedding- 
 dress, fortunately plain and thick, but altogether too 
 strait for the goodly proportions of Mrs. Tyler now ; 
 requiring even every scrap of the long " cardinal" she 
 had worn with it to eke out a dress for Sally. Then 
 there were her white cambric dress and her old brown 
 gingham. What more could she need or want? But 
 the squire, going into Middletown to soil off some of 
 his young stock, brought home a parcel and flung it 
 into her lap. 
 
 "There ! " said he, " that's Juno's calf. 'Taint half 
 so good-lookin' as her shiny red skin ; but I guess you'd 
 ruther put it on your back, so I swapped." 
 
 Eager hands unrolled the parcel, and there lay a soft 
 white shawl and a handful of ribbons, delicate pink, 
 tender green, and shades of aster color, with one trail 
 of scarlet flashing through all. Sally was too happy to 
 speak. 
 
 Why can't we make people happy oftener when they 
 are young and simple enough to be made so? At forty, 
 what are gowns, or shawls, or ribbons? But what are 
 they not at sixteen ? 
 
 At last the old cowskin trunk was packed, and Sally 
 seated in the stage that was to take her over the hills 
 to the railway station. 
 
 " Good-by, mother ! Good-by, father ! " 
 
 Mrs. Tyler only nodded. 
 
 "Good-by, little gal!" shouted the squire, mutter 
 ing, as he turned away, " I shall kind o' hanker arter 
 her, I swow ! I guess I'll go 'u look arter that new 
 heifer." 
 
 So Sally went safely off, and after a short drive and 
 a long car-ride found herself at Westboro', and Cousin
 
 THE FORGER'S BRIDE. 213 
 
 JerusLnr all ready to receive her at the station, as well 
 as her husband, whom Sally had never seen, a tall, 
 serious-looking man, as quiet as his wife was gay. 
 As soon as our little friend became known in Westboro' 
 she also became, without knowing it, a social success : 
 she was so pretty and delicate and fresh, and Cousin 
 Jerushy always so popular, that a round of tea-parties 
 and picnics and drives set in directly, till Sally thought 
 she had never been in so delightful a place before. 
 
 Westboro' is a pretty village on a hill-side, beneath 
 which runs a bright river, all its shores below the dam, 
 on the village side, guarded by a huge rampart of 
 workshops, where the trip-hammers clanged all day, 
 and swarthy men with strong arms worked wonderful 
 results out of the dull masses of iron before them. 
 
 These " shops," as they called them, were a dreadful 
 institution to Sally : she was taken through them as the 
 proper thing to do, but the furnaces and the hammers 
 and the noise so confounded and frightened her that 
 she was glad to get away to the cool green hill-side 
 again and play with Jerushy 's children. But many an 
 admiring eye followed her progress among the forges ; 
 and that very evening no less than three spruce young 
 men all known to Mrs. Phelps, it is true, but not 
 usually so attentive called at her house. Sally did 
 not recognize the Vulcans she saw in the morning in 
 these washed and shaven and adorned youths ; she 
 only thought them very pleasant and kind. But after 
 that it was surprising to see how popular Mrs. Phelps 
 grew ; how many calls she had of an evening, while 
 her unconscious little cousin sat and smiled and talked, 
 and behaved herself as a wild-rose might, transmi 
 grated into a young woman.
 
 214 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 A great many drives and walks Sally had, but after 
 a while one gray horse seemed to her quite the best 
 and gentlest she had ever known ; and of all the \vild- 
 flowers given and sent her one basket of trailing arbu 
 tus surpassed all others. There were pinker clusters 
 and larger flowers and bigger bunches, but the birch- 
 bark basket, with its mossy covering, was so graceful, 
 and the flowers so fresh and so deftly arranged ; and 
 then they were all gathered in her favorite walk, a 
 path in the woods by the river-side, so shaded and 
 fresh, and sweet with such vernal odors as were never 
 known to the bare hills of Wingfield. 
 
 It was rather odd that this was Joe Dyer's favorite 
 walk also ; that he owned that gray horse and made 
 that birch basket. Perhaps it would have been odder 
 still if Sally had not liked him even better than his 
 gifts and belongings ; for he was a good-tempered, 
 handsome, gay young fellow, with overflowing spirits, 
 a quick temper, and a kind heart ; as lovable and hon 
 est as a child, yet with all a man's resolute will, 
 strength, and fidelity. And Joe liked Sally ; he had 
 flirted with a dozen of the village girls and loved none 
 of them. This shy, simple, sweet little country maiden 
 was altogether different from the romping, boisterous 
 creatures that are the growth of a manufacturing town ; 
 and, for a wonder, her voice, too, was sweet and low, 
 a thing rare enough among New England girls. 
 
 Under the circumstances it was hardly strange that 
 Joe's liking and Sally's, with no intrusive elements 
 about them, and the kindliest encouragement on 
 Jerushy's part, should have ripened into a real honest 
 love. Jerushy knew that Joe was a young fellow of 
 thoroughly good character, earning high wages, and
 
 THE FORGER'S BRIDE, 215 
 
 considered it a happy ordination of Providence that 
 brought him and Sully together ; and when it was time 
 for Sally to go, and Joe appeared at the cars, Jerushy 
 discreetly turned her head and appeared not to hear 
 that perfectly audible whisper: "Dearest Sally, may 
 I write you a letter?" 
 
 But I am afraid she heard, nevertheless, from the 
 very significant speech that followed her good-by kiss 
 of Sally's pensive, blushing face : 
 
 " I expect you won't stay away a dreadful long 
 while from Westboro', Sally ; and you'll be just as 
 welcome as summer-time when you do come back." 
 
 To which Sally only returned as an answer a deeper 
 blush and a dimpling smile. 
 
 It would be impertinent to inquire what were Sally's 
 meditations in the cars ; they are open to conjecture ; 
 but when she arrived at the station where her father 
 was to meet her, and, after a welcome, according to 
 his own chestnut-burr fashion, of a growl and a kiss, was 
 safely set beside him in the wagon, the squire looked 
 round at her with a piercing stare, and expressed his 
 opinion in the premises : 
 
 " Well, seems as if you'd growed kind o' good- 
 lookin', child. Had a good time?" 
 "" O father, perfectly splendid ! " 
 
 "I want to know! Any young fellers down to 
 Westboro' ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir," with a fresh blush, for her pure skin 
 showed the heart-beats underneath with a lovely but 
 annoying facility. 
 
 " Any on 'em ask ye to marry 'em? " 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 O Sally ! Sally ! was that the letter or the spirit of
 
 216 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 truth? Perhaps, after all, it was both, for she felt the 
 sudden scarlet burn all her face, from the very folds 
 of shining hair down to and through the white throat 
 below. 
 
 Happily the squire's critical eye surveyed at that 
 moment a piece of newly ploughed land, though he 
 went on with his conversation : 
 
 " Left your words behind, haint ye? Jerush' allers 
 was a master-hand to talk, 'n I expect you've larnt how 
 to keep still ; 'n that's fust principles for women-folks. 
 I never see furrows run like them on that hill-lot, 
 they're all cuterin'. Oughter be ashamed on't. "Well, 
 little cretur, be ye glad to get home? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, father ! " with a very genuine love-look 
 and smile. 
 
 " No desp'rit harm done, I guess." 
 
 " How's mother, father? and the chickens?" 
 
 " Mother's real well, 'n spry as ever. She's follered 
 up them old hens till they da'sn't call their souls their 
 own another minnit, 'n went to settin' like sixty, jest 
 to get rid on her. There's more'u six broods. Git up, 
 old hoss ! we must be a-joggin' ; " and in half an hour 
 more they were at home. 
 
 " Well, here ye be, Sally ! I'd kind o' gin ye up ; 
 thought you didn't mean to come at all, maybe." 
 
 "Why, mother! I'm sure you said I might stay 
 till this week." 
 
 " Well, if I did, I didn't lot on your stayin' till 
 Wednesday. Come, child, take off your things and 
 stir round ; it's 'most tea-time ; " and with a cold kiss, 
 that agreed well with her welcome, Mrs. Tyler returned 
 to her rag-piecing as if life and breath depended on it, 
 though her heart really glowed within her at the sight 

 
 THE FORGER'S BRIDE. 217 
 
 of her child's fair young face ; but she had held the 
 mother-love in fetters so long that it was too cramped 
 to assert its strength even on an occasion of special 
 demand like this. 
 
 Sally went upstairs with a wistful quiver on her lips. 
 What a pleasant time she had had at Westboro' ! How 
 kind everybody was ! how glad to see her ! And then, 
 there was that letter, a bright spot of sunshine in 
 the chilly dulness of home. Oh, when would it come? 
 The weapons Mrs. Tyler had so long been forming 
 against herself were to-day set in Sally's unconscious 
 grasp, and she used them. It is the young soul's 
 instinct to hunger after love, and bitterly are those to 
 blame more bitter is their punishment who starve 
 it at home and drive it out to wander after food. 
 
 If the postmaster at Wingfield had not been a deaf 
 and gruff old man, who had no curiosity left in his 
 wilted soul, he could not have failed to wonder at 
 Sally's persistent haunting of the " store " where his 
 pigeon-holes were fixed ; and Sally's ingenuity was 
 taxed for a week to find daily pretexts for her stroll 
 toward the few clustered houses that were the nucleus 
 of the village ; but at last she was rewarded. If Joe 
 had been dela} r ed by a sudden journey on business at 
 the express orders of his foreman, the letter was at 
 least worth waiting for: it was short, strong, and 
 earnest, a true man's letter ; and not the less precious 
 to Sail}' that she felt a sort of pride in it. But if her 
 joy had come, so came the trouble, hand in hand. As 
 she walked along the green path homeward, the little 
 white sun-bonnet shading her face, utterly absorbed in 
 reading and re-reading the blessed epistle, not having 
 the prudence or worldly wisdom to hide it in her pocket
 
 218 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 and read it at some other and more fit time, she felt a 
 hand laid on her shoulder, and there was her father. 
 Goodness ! how she colored ! 
 
 " What ye got there, so all-fired interesting Sally? 
 Jerushy ben a-writin' on ye some more ? " 
 
 " No, father." 
 
 " What be ye a-colorin' up for so, jest like our old 
 turkey? 'Taint none o' them Westboro' chaps ben 
 a-sendin' ye love-letters, be it?" 
 
 The squire spoke in jest, but his word was true. 
 
 "O father!" 
 
 " The Lord above ! Ef I haint hit the nail smack 
 on the head this time ! Come, Sally, let your old 
 father see it. I don't allow no fellers to go a-writin' to 
 my girl 'thout I know some thin' who they be, fust." 
 
 There was no place for Sally to escape ; disobey she 
 dare not. Her hand shook with apprehension as well 
 as emotion when she put the fair sheet in the squire's 
 hand, and her eyelids quivered with half-shed tears as 
 she watched his inflexible visage. 
 
 " Darn it all ! he's got brass enough for a meetin'- 
 house bell ! Wants to marry ye a'ready, 'n haint 
 known ye but about three weeks : shows he's a fool on 
 the face on't. Now I s'pose you think he's a real smart 
 chap. Why, Sally! a-cryin', my little gal? Don't 
 mean to tell me you like the critter so much ? Well, 
 well, well, I'll see about it. But I swan to man ! 
 there's your mother, 'n I don't know no more than 
 Pharaoh which road she'll turn up. Whe w ! " and 
 he took to whistling " China " five degrees worse than 
 " Dundee." Poor Sally's heart sank. 
 
 " Stop a minnit ! " said the squire, after the quavers 
 of the last bar subsided. "Let's whittle it a bit. I
 
 THE FORGER'S BRIDE. 219 
 
 guess you'd better show this here letter to her right 
 away, 'n not say nothin' about me. She won't never 
 surmise that I've come acrost ye ; and then you'll know 
 which way she's goin' to take, 'n let me know accordin'. 
 Or I don't know's I will ; I don't keer to be manoo- 
 verin' round. It's sure as moonshine she'll set her 
 face against it, jest as I'd oughter hev, 'n didn't." 
 
 Sally turned a face full of dew and bloom on her 
 father for reply. 
 
 " Come, take }'our hankercher and wipe up them 
 tears. I didn't eat ye, 'n maybe Mis' Tyler won't, 
 but there's small chances but what she'll try to." 
 
 The squire turned down a lane with a grin at his 
 daughter, thrown after her as a consolation. But, O 
 dear reader, did you ever go to a dentist? Do you 
 remember the sinking heart with which you forced 
 yourself over the threshold while every fibre of your 
 flesh recoiled ? I think it requires less courage to face 
 the flashing front of a battery, for there is a chance 
 about bullets. Much like this felt Sally as she quick 
 ened her steps almost to a run to have this matter 
 " over with." 
 
 Pale enough she was as she gasped, rather than 
 spoke : 
 
 " Mother, I've just got a letter from Westboro'." 
 
 Mrs. Tyler turned her cool gray eyes from the iron 
 ing-board and surveyed Sally, whose face certainly 
 accorded with her tone. 
 
 " You hev?" 
 
 " Yes'm ; here it is." 
 
 Her mother took the letter between her thumb and 
 finger and deliberately read it. 
 
 " Of all things ! Here's a pretty piece of business !
 
 220 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 I told yer father 't I was clear against your goin' to 
 Westboro', and now he'll see what comes on't. I 
 guess he'll hark to me next time. Many you, indeed ! 
 'n talks as though he was pretty consider'ble sure 
 you'd hev him ! " 
 
 Harmless fell this acute arrow. Sally did love Joe, 
 and knew he knew it. 
 
 " You kin jest answer that letter, Sally, 'n tell him 
 we don't want nobody round after you : me'n your 
 father can't spare ye. I aint a-goin' to hev no sech 
 talk, not this ten year yet, 'n mebbe not then. Ef you 
 know'd 's much 'bout the troubles o' matrimony 's I 
 do, I guess ye'd ruther live single, a sight." 
 
 " But, mother, I I I don't want to write such a 
 letter." 
 
 Sally burst into tears just as her father came in. 
 
 "Well, now, what is't, wife? What's broke loose 
 now?" 
 
 " Nothin' great, only Sally's a fool; and another 
 one o' the same sort, only a young feller, has ben a 
 comin' round 'n askin' her to marry him." 
 
 "You don't say so!" ejaculated the squire, as 
 naturally as possible. " That does beat all ! I never 
 did hear such brass ! One o' them Westboro' chaps, 1 
 s'pose." 
 
 "Now there }'ou go, right off the handle, slap! I 
 should like to know who gev her things, 'n money 'n all 
 to go to Westboro'? An' hevin' flung her at the poor 
 young man's head, so to speak, lo you now ! he turns 
 around and jaws at him for pickin' on her up ! That's 
 real man-fashion, I do declare ! " 
 
 " Goodness gracious ! ef that aint jumpin' the fence ! 
 Anyhow, Sally, you've got to give him the mitten
 
 THE FORGER'S BRIDE. 221 
 
 quick-step. I sba'n't hev it, 'n I won't, 'n I aint a-goin' 
 to!" 
 
 " There you be ag'in, husband ! How do you know 
 but what he's a real clever young man? An' Sally 
 seems to kind o' set her heart on't ; 'n I s'pose she'll 
 be a-gettin' married some time, anyhow." 
 
 " Thought you set your face ag'in matrimony, Miss 
 Tyler?" 
 
 "Well, I can't fix the world over ef I want to, and 
 folks will do so, whether or no. And ef he's got means, 
 and is pretty respectable, 'n goes to meetin',why, in five 
 or six } i ears or so might be brought to think on't." 
 
 " O mother!" 
 
 "Well, what?" 
 
 After that the battle raged, the squire opposing, 
 Mrs. Tyler consenting, till at last, after myriads of 
 words, Mrs. Tyler sat down to write Mrs. Phelps a 
 letter of inquiry into Joe Dyer's morals, means, 
 manners, etc. ; and in due time got this hardly satis 
 factory letter from Cousin Jerushy : 
 
 WESTBORO', June 3, 18 . 
 DEAR AUNT HULDAH : 
 
 I got your letter two days ago, but Sophrony and Mary Jane 
 are both down with measles, and I don't have much time. I 
 don't know anything about Joe Dyer but what's good. He hasn't 
 lived here a great while ; he comes from Springfield, where he 
 worked a good spell in the armory. He makes good wages here, 
 and we think to our house he's a real pretty young man, and I 
 guess a good one. Anyway, Uncle Tyler could write to the 
 head man up to the armory and find out all he wants to know. 
 I can't write much more, for the children have 'most got through 
 their nap. Give my love to uncle and Sally. 
 
 Your affectionate niece, 
 
 JERUSHA PHELPS.
 
 222 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 "Well! " groaned the squire, from the side of the 
 room behind his wife, giving Sally a look as full of 
 mischief as a boy's, " I wash my hands o' the hull 
 business. You've took it up, Miss Tyler, ag'inst my 
 feeliu's, 'n you can kerry it out." 
 
 " Jest as ef I should go 'n write a letter to that man 
 up to Springfield, husband! 'Taint my business; 
 men-folks never want women a-writin' to them about 
 sech things. I should make a mess ou't ; and reelly, 
 ef you do care about Sally's feelin's, you'd oughter do 
 it right off." 
 
 "Well, well!" groaned and grinned the squire, 
 " it's no use talkin' no more. Fetch me the paper, 
 Sally ; I'll go 'u do it now, if I've got ter." 
 
 So the squire indited the following epistle, peculiar 
 in more than its brevity : 
 
 JUNE 4, 18 . 
 MR. ADKINS, ESQ. : 
 
 SIR, I have heerd that a young man called Joseph Dyer 
 worked to your shops last year. What did he do and how did 
 he do it? Leastways, what kind of a feller is he? I put in a 
 stamp for answer, which will obleege 
 
 Yours to command, 
 
 TAPHRO TYLEB. 
 
 Nobody saw the letter before it went. In the mean 
 time, Joe Dyer, getting no answer from Sally, but 
 hearing through Jerushy that he had been inquired 
 about by Mrs. Tyler, and drawing favorable augury 
 from that fact, became desperately impatient, and 
 travelled off one fine day to Wiugfield to get a vicd- 
 voce answer to his proposal. It was the loveliest of 
 June twilights when he walked over from the station ;
 
 THE FORGER'S BRIDE. 223 
 
 the woods were full of that perfumed gloom that sum 
 mer distils through the soft and tranquil air of even 
 ing ; all the earth was quivering with vibrant whispers, 
 as if its great heart palpitated with new life and mur 
 mured in sleep ; myriads of blossoms drank the dew as 
 at a fairy revel, and sent breathing odors skyward ; 
 the unutterable thrill and rapture of spring just bloom 
 ing into summer pervaded even the worst places of 
 "YVingfield. Joe's heart was almost too accordant with 
 the season, and it beat harder than was pleasant as he 
 knocked at Squire Tyler's front door, standing open for 
 once in its life, and letting into the usually musty 
 parlor the whole breath of June and the delicate odor 
 of two great white rose-bushes that guarded the portal 
 on either hand, and trailed their wreaths of sunny 
 blossoms, whose hearts glowed with the saffron tints of 
 dawn, even across the quaint old lintel overhead. 
 
 Sometimes all powers are propitious to lovers, true 
 though they be, and to-night the hour and the pair 
 might have appeased the Eumeuides themselves. Mrs. 
 Tyler, dreaming of nothing less than Joe Dyer's vicin 
 ity, was in the farther barn coercing a refractory hen, 
 that had a will of her own and declined to accept the 
 situation ; the squire was at the post-office waiting 
 anxiously for the mail. So Sally herself appeared 
 through the soft dusk like a glimmering blossom, and 
 was stunned perhaps not disagreeably by finding 
 herself in Joe's arms. 
 
 "O Sally!" 
 
 "O Joe!" 
 
 And then the parlor sank into a moment's quiet as 
 they looked at each other and said no more. If 
 speech was given us to conceal our feelings they
 
 224 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 had very few to conceal, certainly ; and I am inclined 
 to think it was so. 
 
 But while they sat in this sweet silence, quite forget 
 ful of adverse fate possible to them as to all human 
 ity down the street came the squire, regret and con 
 sternation on his kind old face, holding a letter in one 
 hand and wiping the sweat from his troubled forehead ; 
 not that it was warm, but he was agitated. He 
 avoided the house, for he did not want to see Sally at 
 first, and, hearing the angry squawks of the hen with 
 which Mrs. Tyler was engaged in single combat, he 
 traced his wife to the barn, and arrived there just as 
 she emerged from the door, panting, but flushed with 
 victory. 
 
 "Well! I've sot her at last! Got her into a nail- 
 kag and put a milkin'-stool on top. I guess she'll stay 
 put till to-morrer, and then I'll fetch the good eggs 'n 
 put under her." 
 
 "Kind o' smother, won't she?" suggested the hu 
 mane squire. 
 
 " Law, no ! the hay aint up to the bung-hole. Got 
 a letter, hev ye, there in your hand? " 
 
 " Je-rus'lem ! I guess I hev ; 'n I wish Sally'd 
 stayed to hum, I tell ye. I'm dead beat, 'n I'd ruther 
 be hung this minnit than tell her on't. Come along 
 into the kitchen ; she aint there, is she ? " 
 
 " No ; she's upstairs, I 'xpect. She seems to favor 
 bein' alone considerable when the chores is done. I'm 
 'most allers sleepy, and you're up to the store, 'n there 
 aint no company for her. Wait a miniiit, 'n I'll light 
 the lamp." 
 
 " Oh, dear! " said the squire, unfolding the letter. 
 " It's a dreadful thing, wife dreadful ; but 'taint no
 
 THE FORGER'S BRIDE. 225 
 
 use to jaw about it beforehand. Here ! take 'n read 
 it; I can't." 
 
 The superintendent had evidently thought Mr. Ty 
 ler's first questions were the important ones, and 
 answered them in business fashion : 
 
 MR. 'PAPHKO TYLER : 
 
 SIR, Yours of the 4th came to hand this morning.' I have 
 recently come to this place, but find on inquiry that"* Joseph 
 Dyer worked here a year ago. He was a forger, and a good 
 workman ; of his personal character I know nothing. 
 
 Yours, etc., 
 
 T. Ai.iv INS. 
 
 " Goodness gracious ! " exclaimed Mrs. Tyler, drop 
 ping the letter in her lap and looking aghast at her 
 husband over her spectacles. "A forger! Why, it's 
 a hangin' business, aiut it?" 
 
 " I b'lieve 'taint now, but anywa}* it's State prison. 
 Jest to think on't ! " 
 
 " It's dreadful ! dreadful ! husband ; '11 we've got to 
 tell Sally! Well, she's had a great escape, 'n she'd 
 oughter be thankful for't." 
 
 " I guess that'll be the least part on't," growled the 
 squire, passing his hand across the shaggy eyebrows 
 as if to brush away a mist. " Fetch the lamp, wife; 
 the entry's mighty dark. I'll go 'n call her." 
 
 The squire opened the kitchen door, and Mrs. Tyler 
 followed, but their steps were arrested by a strange 
 sound in that house. From the parlor door flowed a 
 stream of low talk, sweet as the kissing whispers that 
 ripple behind a canoe silently paddled across silent 
 water, and broken here and there with bubbles of 
 laughter. The squire looked at his wife and advanced
 
 226 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 manfully, taking the light in his own hand. There, in 
 the flood of light the rising moon poured in at the 
 open windows, sat Sally and a young man, hand in 
 hand, on the settee, Sally blooming and dimpling 
 and blushing in the most unscrupulous and delightful 
 manner, and the "chap," as the squire mentally styled 
 him, so handsome and so happy that Mr. Tyler invol 
 untarily smiled. 
 
 " Father, this is Mr. Dyer. That is mother, Joe." 
 
 The squire fairly gasped with rage. 
 
 " How darst you come into this house, you raskil ! 
 a-grinnin' and imposin' round jest as though you 
 was as good as folks ! I know ye, 'n I'll hev ye 
 hauled up in State's prison pretty quick if there's law 
 in the land, 'nless you clear right off." 
 
 "O father ! " sobbed Sally ; " don't ! don't ! What 
 do you talk so for?" Joe being, as he afterward 
 expressed it, " dumb foundered." 
 
 ' ' Talk so ! Facts is facts ! I've found him out ; 
 he's ben and committed forgery, the everlastin' 
 scamp ! " 
 
 Joe found his tongue and blazed : 
 
 " That's an infernal lie, whoever says it ! " 
 
 "O Joe, don't!" interposed sobbing Sally; Mrs. 
 Tyler being, for a wonder, quite silent, confessing at 
 a later period of the evening that she " was so kind o' 
 choked up she hadn't a word to throw to a dog." 
 
 " But it is a lie, Sally, and I can't be slandered 
 so by any man, if he is your father." 
 
 " 'Taint no slander ! " thundered the squire ; " 'n if 
 it was, 'taint me that slandered ye. I suppose you 
 won't deny you worked to the Springfield armory a spell 
 back?"
 
 THE FORGER'S BRIDE. 227 
 
 " Why, no ; what should I deny it for?" 
 
 "Well, read that!" said the squire, charging down 
 upon the angry and astonished young man with the 
 letter. 
 
 Joe took the paper from the hand that brandished it, 
 and the squire held the lamp nearer. As Sally's lover 
 read the damnatory epistle a change passed over his 
 features (isn't that the way they say it in novels?) ; 
 but it wasn't livid, or pallid, or rigid, or purple, or 
 anything but a growing broader and broader, till, as 
 the last words were glanced at, Joe flung himself back 
 on the old settee and burst into a roar of laughter that 
 seemed utterly inextinguishable. He held his sides ; 
 he rolled and twisted ; he laughed so that the tears 
 made his ruddy cheeks shiny ; he could not speak, but 
 held out the letter to Sally. Was the girl bewitched ? 
 She, too, sat down in a chair and screamed with a 
 laughter that would not be appeased, while the squire 
 and Mrs. Tyler glared at them with wide-open mouths 
 and blank eyes, as if they had suddenly gone mad. 
 
 "Oh, dear! O Lord! O goodness! I shall split 
 I certainly shall!" wassail the explanation that 
 could be got from Joe. He could not talk ; but Sally, 
 not quite so tickled with the joke, because she had 
 been so scared to begin with, recovered her equilibrium 
 first, and, wiping her streaming eyes, began, as well as 
 she could for still-interrupting spasms of laughing, to 
 expound : 
 
 " Why, father ! Goodness oh, don't you know what 
 Mr. Adkins means? Oh, dear! I can't stop! Why, he 
 means Joe was a forger. Oh ! there it is again ! Well, 
 he is now. He works at a forge, and that's what they 
 call 'em / "
 
 228 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 Joe exploded again, and the parlor rang with the 
 squire's roars. Mrs. Tyler was the last to comprehend ; 
 but when she did she laughed too ; and when at length 
 the four, all red and shiny, had laughed themselves 
 out and were fairly gasping for breath, the squire 
 turned upon Joe : 
 
 " "Well, I haint hed sech a larf, not in twent}' year. 
 I can't do nothin' but shake hands with ye for the sake 
 on't. Got any folks in Wingfield? No? Well, ye 
 must stay here, there's room enough, and I shall 
 hev a better chance to see how I like ye ; 'n so'll Miss 
 Tyler. I don't know but what Sally's made up her 
 mind." 
 
 Sally had slipped away before Joe looked round. Is 
 it necessary to detail Joe's triumphant progress into 
 the hearts of the family ? Perhaps the best proof of it 
 is that on one October day, " expressly got up for the 
 occasion," as Joe said, when the hills were gorgeous 
 with color, the air transfused with sunshine, and the 
 river blue as the fringed gentians on its bank, Sally- 
 descended once more from the cars at Westboro' 
 station, her first appearance in the new and highly- 
 interesting character of "The Forger's Bride."
 
 TOO LATE. 229 
 
 TOO LATE. 
 
 " "Tis true 'tis pity! pity 'tis 'tis true! " 
 
 IN one of those scanty New England towns that fill 
 a stranger with the acutest sense of desolation, more 
 desolate than the desert itself, because there are human 
 inhabitants to suffer from its splitude and listlessness, 
 there stood, and still stands, a large red farm-house, 
 with sloping roof, and great chimney in the middle, 
 where David Blair lived. Perhaps Wingfield was not 
 so forlorn to him as to another, for he had Scotch 
 blood in his veins, and his shrewd thrift found full 
 exercise in redeeming the earth from thorns and briers, 
 and eating his bread under the full force of the prime 
 val curse. He was a " dour" man, with a long, grim 
 visage that would have become any Covenanter's con 
 venticle in his native land ; and his prayers were as 
 long and grim as his face. Of life's graces and ameni 
 ties he had no idea ; they would have been scouted as 
 profane vanities had they blossomed inside his thresh 
 old. Existence to him was a heavy and dreadful re 
 sponsibility ; a drear and doubtful working out of his 
 own salvation ; a perpetual fleeing from the wrath to 
 come, that seemed to dog his heels and rear threatening 
 heads at every turn. A cowardly man, with these ever- 
 present terrors, would have taken refuge in some sweet 
 and lulling sin or creed, some belief of a universal sal-
 
 230 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 vation, some epicurean " let us eat and drink, for to 
 morrow we die," or some idea in nothing beyond the 
 grave. 
 
 But David Blair was full of courage. Like some 
 knotty, twisted oak, that offers scant solace to the eye, 
 he endured, oak-like, all storms, and bent not an atom 
 to any fierce blast of nature or Providence ; for he made 
 a distinction between them. His wife was a neat, quiet, 
 subdued woman, who held her house and her husband 
 in as much reverence as a Feejee holds his idols. Like 
 most women, she had an instinctive love for grace and 
 beauty, but from long repression it was only a blind 
 and groping instinct. Her house was kept in a state 
 of spotless purity, but was bald as any vineless rock 
 within. Flies never intruded there ; spiders still less. 
 The windows of the "best room" were veiled and 
 double-veiled with green paper shades and snow-white 
 cotton curtains, and the ghastly light that strayed in 
 through these obstructions . revealed a speckless, but 
 hideous, homespun carpet, four straight-backed chairs, 
 with horse-hair seats, an equally black and shining sofa, 
 and a round mahogany table with a great Bible in the 
 midst. No vases, no shells, no ornament of useless 
 fashion stood on the white wooden mantel-piece over 
 the open fireplace ; no stencil border broke the monoto 
 nous whitewash of the walls. You could see your face 
 in a state of distortion and jaundice anywhere in the 
 andirons, so brilliant were their brassy columns ; and 
 the very bricks of the chimney were scraped and washed 
 from the soot of the rare fire. You could hardly imag 
 ine that even the leaping, laughing wood-fire could im 
 part any cheer to the funereal order of that chill and 
 musty apartment. Bedroom, kitchen, shed, wood-house,
 
 TOO LATE. 231 
 
 all shared this scrupulous array. The processes that 
 in other households are wont to give cheery tokens of 
 life, and bounty, and natural appetites and passions, 
 seemed here to be carried on under protest. No flour 
 was spilled when Thankful Blair made bread ; no milk 
 ever slopped from an overfull pail ; no shoe ever 
 brought in mud or sand across the mats that lay inside 
 and outside of every door. The very garret preserved 
 an aspect of serenity, since all its bundles of herbs hung 
 evenly side by side, and the stores of nuts had each 
 their separate boundaries, lest some jarring door or 
 intrusive mouse should scatter them. 
 
 In the midst of all this order there was yet a child, 
 if little Hannah Blair ever was a child in more than 
 name. From her babyhood she was the model of all 
 Wingfield babies : a child that never fretted ; that slept 
 nights through all the pangs and perils of teething ; 
 that had every childish disease with perfect decency 
 and patience ; was a child to be held up to every 
 mother's admiration. Poor little soul! the mother 
 love that crushed those other babies with kisses ; that 
 romped and laughed with them, when she was left 
 straight and solemn in her cradle ; that petted, and 
 slapped, and spoiled, and scolded all those common 
 children, Thankful Blair kept under lock and key in 
 her inmost heart. 
 
 " Beware of idols ! " was the stern warning that 
 had fallen on her first outburst of joy at the birth of 
 one living child at last, and from that time the whole 
 tenor of her husband's speech and prayer had been 
 that they both might be saved from the awful sin of 
 idolatry, and be enabled to bring up their child in the 
 fear of the Lord, a hater of sin and a follower of the
 
 232 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 Law : the gospel that a baby brought to light was not 
 yet theirs ! So Hannah grew to girlhood, a feminine 
 reproduction of her father. Keen, practical insight is 
 not the most softening trait for a woman to possess. 
 It is iron and steel in the soul that does not burn with 
 love might} 7 and outflowing enough to fuse all other 
 elements in its own glow, and as Hannah grew older 
 and read her mother's repressed nature through and 
 through, the tender heart, the timid conscience, the 
 longing after better and brighter things than life 
 offered to her, only moved her child to an unavowed 
 contempt for a soul so weak and so childish. la a 
 certain way Hannah Blair loved her mother, but it 
 was more as if she had been her child than her parent. 
 Toward her father her feelings were far different. 
 She respected him ; he was her model. She alone 
 knew, from a like experience, what reserved depth of 
 feeling lay unawakened under his rigid exterior ; she 
 knew, for there were times when her own granite 
 nature shuddered through and through with volcanic 
 forces ; when her only refuge against generous indigna 
 tion or mighty anger was in solitary prayer and griev 
 ous wrestlings of the flesh against the spirit as well as 
 the spirit against the flesh. So Hannah grew up to 
 womanhood. Tall and slight as any woodland sapling, 
 but without the native grace of a free growth, her erect 
 and alert figure pleased only by its alacrity and spot 
 less clothing. She was " dredful spry," as old 
 Moll Thunder, the half-breed Indian woman used to 
 say, " dredful spry ; most like squaw so still, so 
 straight ; blue eyes, most like ice. Ho ! Moll better 
 walk a chalk 'fore Miss Hanner ! " 
 
 And Moll spoke from bitter experience, for old Dea-
 
 TOO LATE. 233 
 
 con Campbell himself never gave her severer lectures on 
 her ungodly life and conversation than dropped with 
 cutting distinctness from those prim, thin, red lips. 
 Yet Hannah Blair was not without charms for the 
 youth of Wingfield. Spare as she was, her face had 
 the fresh bloom of youth upon its high, straight feat 
 ures ; her eyes were blue and bright ; her hair, smoothed 
 about her small head, glittered like fresh flax, and 
 made a heavy coil, that her slender white throat seemed 
 over-small to sustain. She was cool, serene, rather 
 unapproachable to lovers or love-makers ; but she was 
 David Blair's only child, and his farm lay fair and 
 wide on the high plains of Wingfield. She was well-to- 
 do and pious, charms which hold to this day potent 
 sway over the youth of her native soil, and after she 
 was eighteen no Sunday night passed in solitude in the 
 Blair keeping-room ; for young men of all sorts and 
 sizes ranged themselves against the wall, sometimes 
 four at once, tilted their chairs, twirled their thumbs, 
 crossed one foot and then the other over their alternate 
 knees, dropping sparse remarks about the corn, or 
 the weather, or the sermon, sometimes even the vil 
 lage politics ; but one and all stared at Hannah, as 
 she sat upright by the fireplace or the window, ar 
 rayed in a blue-stuff gown or a flowered chintz, as 
 the season might be, and sitting as serene, as cool, as 
 uninteresting as any cherub on a tombstone, till the 
 old Dutch clock struck nine, the meeting-house bell 
 tolled, and the young men, one and all, made their 
 awkward farewells and went home, uttering, no doubt, 
 a sigh of relief when the painful pleasure was over. 
 
 By and by the Wingfield store, long kept by Uncle 
 Gid May hew, began to have a look of new life, for the
 
 234 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 old man's only son, Charley Mayhew, had come home 
 from Boston, where he had been ten years in a dry- 
 goods shop, to take the business off his father's hands. 
 Just in time, too, for the store was scarce set to rights 
 in symmetrical fashion when Uncle Gid was struck 
 with paralysis and put to bed for the rest of his life, 
 a brief one at that. Wingfield gossips shook their 
 heads and muttered that the new order of things was 
 enough to kill him. After so many years of dust and 
 confusion, to see the pepper-corns, candy, and beeswax 
 sorted out into fresh, clean jars ; the shoes and ribbons, 
 cut nails and bar-soap, neatly disentangled and arranged ; 
 the ploughs, harrows, cheeses, hoes and bales of cotton 
 and calico divorced and placed at different ends of the 
 store ; the grim}* windows washed, and the dirty floor 
 cleaned and swept, was perhaps a shock to the old 
 man, but not enough to kill him. His eighty years of 
 vegetation sufficed for that ; but he left behind him this 
 son, so full of life, and spirit, and fun, so earnest at 
 work, so abounding in energy, but withal so given over 
 to frolic in its time, that it seemed as if even Wingfield 
 stagnation never could give him a proper dulness or 
 paralyze his handsome face and manly figure. Of 
 course Charley Mayhew fell in love with Hannah 
 Blair. 
 
 A mischievous desire at first to wake up those cold 
 blue eyes and flush that clear, set face with blushes 
 soon deepened into a very devoted affection. The 
 ranks of Sunday-night lovers began to look at him 
 with evil ej'es, for not even the formality of the best 
 parlor restrained his fun, or the impassive visage of 
 David Blair awed him into silence. Even Hannah 
 began to glow and vivify in his presence ; a warmer
 
 TOO LATE. 235 
 
 color flushed her cheeks, her thin lips relaxed in real 
 smiles ; her eyes shone with deeper and keener gleams 
 than the firelight lent them, and, worst of all, the 
 sheepish suitors themselves could not help an occa 
 sional giggle, a broad grin, or even a decided horse 
 laugh, at his sallies ; and when at last David Blair 
 himself relaxed into an audible laugh, and declared to 
 Charley he was " a master hand at telling stories," 
 the vexed ranks gave it up, allowed that the conquer 
 ing hero had come, and left Charley Mayhew a free 
 field thereafter, which of course he improved. But 
 even after Hannah Blair had promised in good, set 
 terms to be his wife, and David had given his slow 
 consent, it was doubtful to Charley if this treasure 
 was his merely out of his own determined persistence 
 or with any genuine feeling of her own, an}- real re 
 sponse of heart ; for the maiden was so inaccessible, 
 so chill, so proper, that his warm, impulsive nature 
 dashed against hers and recoiled as the wild sea from 
 a rocky coast. Yet after man}* days the rock does 
 show signs of yielding ; there are traces on its surface, 
 though it needs years to soften and disentegrate its 
 nature. They were a handsome couple, these two, 
 and admiring eyes followed them in their walks. 
 Never had Hannah's face mantled with so rich a color, 
 or her eyes shone with so deep and soft a blue ; the 
 stern, red lips relaxed into a serene content, and 
 here and there a tint of gayety about her dress a 
 fresh ribbon, a flower at her throat, a new frill told 
 of her shy blossom-time. She was one of those prim, 
 old-fashioned pinks, whose cold color, formal shape, 
 stiff growth, and dagger-shaped gra3'-green leaves, 
 stamp them the quaint old-maid sisterhood of flowers,
 
 236 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 yet which hold in their hearts a breath of passionate 
 spice, an odor of the glowing Orient or the sweet and 
 ardent South, that seems fitter for the open-breasted 
 roses, looking frankly and fervently up to the sun. 
 
 No, not even her lover knew the madness of Han 
 nah Blair's hungry heart, now for the first time fed, 
 a madness that filled her with sweet delirium, that she 
 regarded as nothing less than a direct Satanic impulse, 
 against which she fought and prayed, all in vain ; for 
 God was greater than her heart, and he had filled it 
 with that love which every wife and mother needs, 
 strong enough to endure all things, to be forever faith 
 ful and forever fresh. But no vine-planted and grass- 
 strewn volcano ever showed more placidly than Hannah 
 Blair. Her daily duties were done with such exactness 
 and patience, her lover's demands so coolly set aside 
 till those duties were attended to, her face kept so 
 calm even when the blood thrilled to her finger-tips at 
 the sound of his voice, that, long as her mother had 
 known her, she looked on with wonder, and admired 
 afar off the self-control she never could have exhibited. 
 For Hannah's wooing was carried on in no such style 
 as her mother's had been. Thankful Parsons had 
 accepted David Blair from a simple sense of duty, and 
 he had asked her because she was meek and pious, had 
 a good farm, and understood cows ; no troublesome 
 sentiment, no turbulent passion, disturbed their rather 
 dull courtship. A very different wooer was this hand 
 some, merry young fellow, with his dark curls and 
 keen, pleasant eyes, who came into the house like a 
 fresh, dancing breeze, and stirred its dusty stagnation 
 into absolute sparkle. Mrs. Blair loved him dearly 
 already ; her repressed heart opened to him all its
 
 TOO LATE. 237 
 
 motherly instincts. She cooked for him whatever she 
 observed he liked, with simple zeal and pleasure. She 
 unconsciously smiled to hear his voice. Deeply she 
 wondered at Hannah, who, day by day, stitched on her 
 quilt-, her sheets, her pillow-cases, and her napery, 
 with as diligent sternness as ever she applied to more 
 irksome tasks, and never once blushed or smiled over 
 the buying or shaping of her personal bridal gear, only 
 showing, if possible, a keener eye for business, a more 
 infallible judgment of goods and prices, wear and tear, 
 use and fitness, than ever before. 
 
 So the long winter wore away. Hannah's goods 
 lay piled in the " spare chamber," heaps of immac 
 ulate linen, homespun flannel, patchwork of gayest 
 hues, and towels woven and hemmed by her own 
 hands ; and in the clothes-press, whose deep drawers 
 were filled with her own garments in neat array, hung 
 the very wedding dress of dove-colored paduasoy, the 
 great Leghorn. bonnet, with white satin ribbons, and 
 the black silk cardinal. Hannah had foregone all the 
 amusements of the past months, at no time consonant 
 to her taste, in order to construct these treasures for 
 her new life. In vain had Charley coaxed her to share 
 in the sleighing frolics, the huskings, the quilting-bees 
 of the neighborhood. It did not once enter into his 
 mind that Hannah had rather be alone with the fulness 
 of her great joy than to have its sacred rapture intermed 
 dled with by the kindly or unkindly jokes and jeers of 
 other people. He never knew that her delight was full 
 even to oppression, when she sat by herself and sewed 
 like an automaton, setting with every stitch a hope or 
 a thought of her love and life. 
 
 It was spring now. The long, cold winter, had
 
 238 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 passed at last ; the woods began to bud, the pastures 
 grew green even in "Wingfield, and brave little blos 
 soms sprung up in the very moisture of the just melted 
 snow-drifts. May had brought the robins and the 
 swallows back ; here and there an oriole darted like a 
 flake of fire from one drooping elm to another ; the 
 stiff larches put out little crimson cones ; the gracious 
 elm boughs grew dusk and dense with swelling buds, 
 and the maple hung out its dancing yellow tassels high 
 in air. The swamps were transfigured with vivid ver 
 dure and lit with rank yellow blossoms, where 
 
 " The wild marsh marigold shone like fire," 
 
 the quaint, sad-colored trillium made its protest in 
 fence corners and by the low buttresses of granite on 
 the hills far and near, and the rough-leaved arbutus 
 nestled its baby faces of sweetest bloom deep in the 
 gray grass and stiff moss beds. The day drew near 
 for the wedding. It was to be the last Wednesday in 
 May. 
 
 " Darned unlucky ! " muttered Moll Thunder, drying 
 her ragged shoes before Mrs. Blair's kitchen fire, hav 
 ing just brought a fagot of herbs and roots for the 
 brewing of root-beer, even then a favorite beverage 
 in New England, as it is to-day. " Darned unluck}" ! 
 Married in May, repent alwa}*. Guess Hanner pretty 
 good like ter set up 'ginst ole debbil heself. No good, 
 no good ; debbil pretty good strong. Moll knows ! 
 He! he! he!" 
 
 Mrs. Blair shivered. She was superstitious, like all 
 women, and old Moll was a born witch, everybody 
 knew. But then her daughter's pure, fair, and reso 
 lute face rose up before her, and the superstitious fear
 
 TOO LATE. 239 
 
 flickered and went out. She thought Hannah alto 
 gether beyond the power of " ole debbil." At last the 
 last Wednesday came, a day as serene and lovely as 
 if new created ; flying masses of white cloud chased 
 each other through the azure sky, and cast quick shad 
 ows on the long, green range of hills that shut in 
 Wingfield on the west. Shine and shadow added an 
 exquisite grace of expression to the shades of tender 
 green veiling those cruel granite rocks ; a like flitting 
 grace at last transfigured Hannah Blair's cold-featured 
 face. The apple-trees blossomed everywhere with fes 
 tive garlands of faint pink bloom, and filled the air 
 with their bitter-sweet, subtle odor, clean and delicate, 
 yet the parent of that luscious, vinous, oppressive per 
 fume that autumn should bring from the heaps of gold 
 and crimson fruit, as yet unformed below those waxen 
 petals. 
 
 To-day at last Hannah had resolved to give her 
 beating heart one day of freedom, one long day of 
 unrestrained joy, if she could bear the freedom of 
 that ardent rapture, so long, so conscientiously re 
 pressed. For once in her life she sung about her 
 work ; psalm-tunes, indeed, but one can put a deal of 
 vitality into Mear and Bethesda ; and Cambridge, with 
 its glad, exultant repeat, has all the capacity of a love- 
 song. Mrs. Blair heard it from the kitchen where she 
 was watching the last pan of cake come to crisp per 
 fection in the brick oven. The old words had a curious 
 adaptation to the sweet, intense triumph of the air, and 
 Hannah carried the three parts of the tune as they 
 came in with a flexibility of voice new to her as to her 
 sole hearer :
 
 240 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 " 'Twas in the watches of the night 
 
 I thought upon thy power ; 
 
 I kept thy lovely face in sight 
 
 Amid the darkest hour ! " 
 
 "What a subdued ecstasy rose and fell in her voice as 
 she swept and garnished the old house. 
 
 " Amid the darkest hour ! " 
 
 Oh, there could never be a dark hour for her again, she 
 thought, never a doubt, or fear, or trouble. 
 
 " My beloved is mine and I am his," 
 
 rose to her lips from the oldest of all love-songs. 
 Half profane she seemed to herself ; but to-day her 
 deeper nature got the better of her deep prejudices ; 
 she was at heart, for once, a simple, love-smitten girl. 
 The quiet wedding was to be after tea. Nobody 
 was asked, for the few relatives David Blair possessed 
 were almost strangers to him, and lived far away. 
 His wife had been an only child, and Hannah had 
 made no girl friends in the village. The minister was 
 to come at eight o'clock, and the orthodox cake and 
 wine handed round after the ceremony. The young 
 couple were to go to their own house, and settle down 
 at once to the duties and cares of life. Charley had 
 been ordered not to appear till tea-time, and after the 
 dinner was eaten and everything put to rights Mrs. 
 Blair went to her room to plait a cap-ruffle, and Han 
 nah sat down in the spare room by herself, to rest, she 
 said ; really to dream, to hope, to bury her face in her 
 trembling hand, and let a mighty wave of rapture over 
 flow her whole entranced soul. The cap-ruffle troubled
 
 TOO LATE. 241 
 
 Mrs. Blair much. Twice it had to be taken from the 
 prim plaits and relaid, then to be sprinkled and ironed 
 out. This involved making a fresh fire to heat the 
 flat-iron, and it got to be well on in the afternoon, and 
 Mrs. Blair was tired. There was nobody to reflect on 
 her waste of time, so she lay down a moment on the 
 bed. David had gone to plough a lot on the furthest 
 part of the farm. He neglected work for no emer 
 gency. As a godless neighbor said once, " Dave 
 Blair would sow rye on the edge of hell if he thought 
 he could get the cattle there to plough it up ! " A 
 daughter's wedding-day was no excuse for idleness in 
 him. 80 Mrs. Blair was safe in her nap. 
 
 Meantime, as Hannah sat a little withdrawn from 
 the open window, where for once the afternoon sun 
 streamed in unguardedly, and the passionate warble of 
 the song-sparrows, and the indescribable odor of spring 
 followed too, she was suddenly half aware of an out 
 side shadow, and a letter skimmed through the window, 
 and fell at her feet. Scarce roused from her dream, 
 she looked at it fixedly a moment before she stooped 
 to pick it up. Its coming was so sudden, so startling, 
 it did not once occur to her to look out and see who 
 brought it. She hesitated before she broke the broad, 
 red seal, and swept her hand across her eyes as if to 
 brush away the dreams that had filled and clouded 
 them. But the first few words brought back to those 
 eyes their native steely glint, and, as she read on, life, 
 light, love, withdrew their tender glories from her face. 
 It settled into stone, into flint. Her mouth set in lines 
 of dreadful implacable portent, her cheek paled to the 
 whiteness of a marble monument, and the red lips 
 laded to pale, cold purple. What she read in that
 
 242 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 letter neither man nor woman save the writer and the 
 reader ever knew, for when it was read Hannah Blair 
 walked like an unrepentant conspirator to the stake, 
 fearless, careless, hopeless, out into the small, silent 
 kitchen, and laying that missive of evil on the 
 smouldering coals, stood by stark and stiff till every 
 ash was burned or floated up the chimney. Then she 
 turned, and said in the voice of one who calls from his 
 grave : 
 
 "Mother!" 
 
 Mrs. Blair sprung from her doze at the sound. Her 
 mother instinct was keen as the hen's who hears the 
 hawk scream in the sky, and knows her brood in dan 
 ger. She was on the threshold of the kitchen door 
 almost as soon as Hannah spoke ; and her heart sank 
 to its furthest depth when she saw the face before her. 
 Death would have left no such traces given her no 
 such shock. This was death in life, and it spoke, 
 slowly, deliberately, with an awful distinctness. 
 
 " Mother, when Charles May hew comes here to 
 night, you must tell him I will not marry him." 
 
 " What? " half screamed the terrified woman, doubt 
 ful of her own hearing. Again the cold, relentless 
 tones, in accents as clear and certain as the voice of 
 fate itself : 
 
 " When Charles May hew comes here to-night you 
 must see him, and tell him I will not marry him." 
 
 " Hanner, I can't ! I can't ! What for? What do 
 3*011 mean? Wlmt is it?" 
 
 The words syllabled themselves again, out of the 
 thin, rigid lips : 
 
 " I will not marry him." 
 
 "Oh, I can't tell him! he will die! I cannot, Han-
 
 TOO LATE. 243 
 
 ner. Yon must tell him yourself you must ! you 
 must ! " 
 
 Still the same answer, only the words lessening each 
 time : 
 
 "I will not!" 
 
 " But, Hanner, child, stop and think do. All 
 your things made ; you're published ; the minister's 
 spoke to. Why do you act so? You can't, Han 
 ner. Oh, I never can tell him! "What shall E say? 
 What will he do? Oh, dear! You must tell him 
 yourself; I can't I won't! I aint goin' to; you 
 must ! " 
 
 A shade of mortal weariness stole across the gray, 
 still face, most like the relaxation of the features after 
 death ; but that was all the shrill tirade produced, 
 except the dull, cold repetition : 
 
 "I will not!" 
 
 And then Hannah Blair turned and crept up the 
 narrow stairway to her bedroom ; her mother, stunned 
 with terror and amazement, still with a mother's alert 
 ear, heard the key grate in the lock, the window shut 
 quietly down, and heard no more. The house was 
 silent even to breathlessness. In her desperation Mrs. 
 Blair began to wish that David would come ; and then 
 the unconscious spur of life-long habit stung her into 
 action. It was five o'clock, and she must get tea ; for 
 tea must be prepared though the crack of doom were 
 impending. So she built the fire, filled the kettle, 
 hung it on the crane, laid the table, all with the 
 accuracy of habit, her ear strained to its utmost to 
 hear some voice, some sigh, some movement from that 
 bolted chamber above. All in vain. There might 
 have been a corpse there for any sound of life, and
 
 244 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 Mrs. Blair felt the awe of death creep over her as she 
 listened. For once it was glad relief to hear David 
 coming with the oxen ; to see them driven to their 
 shed ; to watch his gaunt, erect figure come up the 
 path to the back door ; but how hard it was to tell 
 him. He asked no question, he made no comment, 
 but the cold, gray eye quickened into fire like the 
 sudden glitter of lightning, and without a word he 
 strode up the stair to Hannah's room. 
 
 " Hannah ! " 
 
 There was no answer. David Blair was ill-used to 
 disobedience. His voice was sterner than ever as he 
 repeated the call : 
 
 " Hannah, open your door ! " 
 
 Slowly the key turned, slowly the door opened, and 
 the two faced each other. The strong man recoiled. 
 Was this his child, this gray, rigid masque, this old 
 woman ? But he had a duty to do. 
 
 " Hannah, why is this? " 
 
 " I cannot tell you, father." 
 
 " But you must see Charles Mayhew." 
 
 "I will not!" 
 
 Still calm, but inexpressibly bitter and determined, 
 like one repeating a dreadful lesson after some tyrant's 
 torture. David Blair could not speak. He stood still 
 on that threshold, without speech or motion, and softly 
 as it had opened, the door closed in his face, the key 
 turned, he was shut out, not merely from the cham 
 ber, but forever from the deepest recess of Hannah's 
 heart and life, if indeed he had ever, even in imagina 
 tion, entered there. He stood a moment in silent 
 amazement, and then went down into the kitchen 
 utterly speechless. He swallowed his supper median-
 
 TOO LATE. 245 
 
 ically, reached down his hat, but on the door-step 
 turned and said : 
 
 " Thankful, you must tell Charles Mayhew : Hannah 
 will not; I cannot. It is women's work yea, it was 
 a woman that first time in Paradise ! " 
 
 And with this scriptural sneer he kft his frightened 
 wife to do the thing he dared not. Not the first man 
 who has done so, nor the last. An hour later the jo}"- 
 fui bridegroom came in, his dark eyes full of happy 
 light, his handsome figure set off by a new suit of 
 clothes, the like of which Wingfield never had seen, 
 much less originated ; his face fairly radiant ; but it 
 clouded quickly as a storm-reflecting lake when he saw 
 the cold, wet face of Mrs. Blair, the reddened eyes, the 
 quivering lips, and felt the close, yet trembling pressure 
 of the kind old arms, for the first time clasped round 
 his neck as he stooped toward her. How Thankful 
 Blair contrived to tell him what she had to tell 
 she never knew. It was forced from her lips in 
 incoherent snatches ; it was received at first with 
 total incredulity, and she needed to repeat it again 
 and again ; to recall Hannah's words, to describe, 
 as she best might, her ghastly aspect, her hollow, 
 hoarse voice, her reply to her father. At last Charles 
 Mayhew began to believe to rave, to give way to 
 such passionate, angry grief that Thankful Blair 
 trembled, and longed for Parson Day to come, or for 
 David to return. But neither thing happened, for 
 David had warned the parson, and then hidden his own 
 distress and dismay as far as he could get from the 
 house in his own woodland, sitting on a log for hours, 
 lest in coming back to the house he should face the 
 man he could not but pity and fear both ; for what
 
 246 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 reason or shadow of excuse could be offer to him for 
 his daughter's cruel and mysterious conduct? So Mrs. 
 Blair had to bear the scene alone. At last the mad 
 dened man insisted on going upstairs to Hannah's 
 door ; but that her mother withstood. He should not 
 harass Hannah ; she would keep her from one more 
 anguish, if she stood in the door-way and resisted 
 physically. 
 
 "But I will see her! I will speak to her! I will 
 know myself what this means ! I am not a fool or a 
 dog, to be thrown aside for nothing ! " 
 
 And with this he rushed out of the kitchen door, 
 round the end of the house, to the grass-plat below 
 Hannah's window. Well he knew that little win 
 dow, with its white curtain, where he had so often 
 watched the light go out from the hill-side, where he 
 always lingered in his homeward walks. The curtain 
 was down now, and no ray of light quivered from be 
 hind it. 
 
 " Hannah ! Hannah ! my Hannah ! " he called, with 
 anguish in every tone. "Hannah, look at me! only 
 just look at me ! tell me one word ! " And then came 
 the fondest pleadings, the most passionate remon 
 strances all in vain. He might as well have agon 
 ized by her coffin side by her grass-grown grave. 
 Now a different mood inspired him, and he poured out 
 threats and comraanils till the cool moonlight air seemed 
 quivering with passion and rage. Still there was no 
 voice nor answer, nor any that replied. The calmness 
 of immortal repose lay upon this quiet dwelling, though 
 the torment and tumult without stormed like a tempest. 
 Was there, then, neither tumult nor torment within? 
 At last, when hours ages it seemed to the desperate
 
 TOO LATE, 247 
 
 man had passed by, nature could endure no more. 
 The apatlry of exhaustion stole over him ; he felt a 
 despair, that was partly bodily weariness, take entire 
 possession of him ; he ceased to adjure, to remonstrate, 
 to cry out. 
 
 " Good-by, Hannah ; good-by ! " he called at length. 
 The weak, sad accents beat like storm-weary birds 
 vainly against that blank, deaf window. Nothing 
 spoke to him, not even the worn-out and helpless 
 woman who sat on the kitchen door-step with her apron 
 over her head, veiling her hopeless distress, nor lifting 
 that homely screen to see a ruined man creep away 
 from his own grave, the grave of all his better nature, 
 to be seen there no more ; for from that hour no creature 
 in "Wingfield ever saw or heard of him again. 
 
 There was a mighty stir among the gossips of the 
 village for once. Not often did so piquant and 
 mysterious a bit of scandal regale them at sewing 
 societies, at tea-fights, even at prayer-meetings, for it 
 became a matter of certain religious interest, since all 
 the parties therein were church-members. But in vain 
 did all the gossips lay their heads together. Nothing 
 was known beyond the bare facts that at the last 
 minute Hannah Blair had " gi'n the mitten "to Charley 
 Mayhew, and he had then and there disappeared. His 
 store was sold to a new-comer from Grenville Centre, 
 who was not communicative, perhaps because he had 
 nothing to tell, and Charley dropped out of daily 
 talk before long, as one who is dead and buried far 
 away ; as we all do, after how brief a lime, how vanish 
 ing a grief. As for the Blairs, they endured in stoical 
 silence, and made no sign. Sunday saw both the old 
 people in their places early ; nobody looked for Hannah,
 
 248 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 but before the bell ceased its melancholy toll, just be 
 fore Parson Day ambled up the broad aisle, her slender 
 figure, straight and still as ever, came up to her seat in 
 the square pew. True her face was colorless ; the 
 shadow of death lingered there yet ; and though her 
 eyes shone with keener glitter than ever, and her lips 
 burned like a scarlet streak, an acute observer would 
 have seen upon her face traces of a dreadful conflict : 
 lines around the mouth that years of suffering might 
 have grown ; a relaxation of the muscles about the eye 
 and temple ; a look as of one who sees only something 
 afar off, who is absent from the body as far as con 
 sciousness goes. There she sat, through short prayer 
 and long prayer, hymn, psalm, and sermon, and the 
 battery of looks, both direct and furtive, that assailed 
 her, all unmoved. And at home it was the same, 
 utterly listless, cold, silent, she took up her life again ; 
 day by day did her weary round of household duties 
 with the same punctilious neatness and despatch ; 
 spun and knit, and turned cheeses ; for her mother had 
 been broken down visibly for a time by this strange 
 and sad catastrophe, and was more incapable than ever 
 in her life before of earnest work, so Hannah had her 
 place to supply in part as well as her own. We hear 
 of martyrs of the stake, the fagot, the arena, the 
 hunger-maddened beasts, Ihe rising tide, the rack, and 
 our souls shudder, our flesh creeps ; we wonder and 
 adore. I think the gladdest look of her life would 
 have illuminated Hannah Blair's face had it been possi 
 ble now to exchange her endurance for any of these 
 deaths ; but it is women who must endure ; for them 
 are those secret agonies no enthusiasm gilds, no hope 
 assuages, no sympathy consoles. God alone stoops to
 
 TOO LATE. 249 
 
 this anguish, and he not always ; for there is a stubborn 
 pride that will not lift its eyes to heaven lest it should 
 be a tacit acknowledgment that they were fixed once 
 upon poor earth. For these remains only the outlook 
 daily lessening to all of us, the outlook whose vista 
 ends in a grave. 
 
 But the unrelenting days stole on ; their dead march, 
 with monotonous tramp, left traces on even Hannah's 
 wretched, haughty soul. They trampled down the past 
 in thick dust ; it became ashes under their feet. Her 
 life from torture subsided into pain ; then into bitter 
 ness, stoicism, contempt, at last into a certain 
 treadmill of indifference ; only not indifference from 
 the strong, cruel grasp she still found it needful to keep 
 upon thought and memory : once let that iron hand 
 relax its pressure, and chaos threatened her again ; 
 she dared not. Lovers came no more to Hannah ; a 
 certain instinct of their sure fate kept them away ; the 
 store of linen and cotton she had gathered, her mother's 
 careful hands had packed away directly in the great 
 garret. The lavender silk, the cardinal, the big bonnet, 
 had been worn to church, year after year, in the same 
 spirit in which a Hindoo woman puts on her gorgeous 
 garments and her golden ornaments for suttee. Mrs. 
 Blair looked on in solemn wonder, but said not a word. 
 Nor were these bridal robes worn threadbare ten years 
 after, when another change came to Hannah's life ; 
 when Josiah Maxwell, a well-to-do bachelor from New- 
 field, the next village, was ''recommended" to her, 
 and came over to try his chance. Josiah was a per 
 sonable, hale, florid man of forty ; generous, warm 
 hearted, a little blustering perhaps, but thoroughly 
 good, and a rich man for those days. He had a tan-
 
 250 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 nery, a foundry, and a flourishing farm. Newfielcl 
 was a place of great water-privileges, sure to grow ; it 
 was pretty, bright, and successful ; the sleepy, mullein- 
 growing farms of Wingfield had in them no such cheer 
 or life. Hannah was thirty years old ; the matter was 
 set before her purely as a matter of business. Josiali 
 wanted a pious, capable wife. He had been too busy 
 to fall in love all his life ; now he was too sensible (he 
 thought) ; so he looked about him calmly, after royal 
 fashion, and, hearing good report of Hannah Blair, 
 proceeded to make her acquaintance and visit her. 
 She, too, was a rational woman ; feeling she had long 
 set aside as a weak indulgence of the flesh ; all these 
 long and lonely years had taught her a lesson more 
 than one. She had learned, that a nature as strong, 
 as dominant, as full of power and pride as hers must 
 have some outlet or burn itself out, and here was a 
 prospect offered that appealed to her native instincts, 
 save and except that one so long trodden under foot. 
 She accepted Mr. Maxwell ; listened to his desire for a 
 short engagement favorably ; took down the stores 
 prepared for a past occasion from the chests in the 
 garret, washed and bleached them with her own hands ; 
 and purchased once more her bridal attire, somewhat 
 graver, much more costly than before, a plum-colored 
 satin dress, a white merino shawl, a hat of chip with 
 rich white ribbons. Moll Thunder, who served as 
 chorus to this homely tragedy, was at hand with her 
 quaint, shrewd comment, as she brought Mrs. Blair her 
 yearly tribute of hickory nuts the week before the 
 wedding. 
 
 " He ! he ! She look pretty much fine ; same as cedar 
 tree out dere, all red vine all ober ; nobody tink him
 
 TOO LATE. 251 
 
 ole cedar been lightnin'-struck las' year. He ! he ! 
 Haint got no heart in him pretty much holler." 
 
 One bright October day Hannah was married. Par 
 son Day's successor performed the ceremony in the 
 afternoon, and the " happy couple " went home to 
 Newfield in a gig directly. Never was a calmer bride, 
 a more matter-of-fact wedding. Sentiment was at a 
 discount in the Blair family ; if David felt anything at 
 parting with his only child, he repressed its expression ; 
 and since that day her mother never could forget, 
 Hannah had wrought in poor Mrs. Blair's mind a sort 
 of terror toward her that actually made her absence a 
 relief, and the company of the little " bound girl" she 
 had taken to bring up a pleasant substitute for Han 
 nah's stern, quiet activity. Every bod} 7 was suited ; 
 it was almost a pleasure to Mrs. Maxwell to rule over 
 her sunny farm-house and become a model to all back 
 sliding house-keepers about her. Her butter always 
 " came ; " her bread never soured ; her hens laid and 
 set, her chickens hatched, in the most exemplary man 
 ner ; nobody had such a garden, such a loom and 
 wheel, such spotless linen, such shiny mahogany ; there 
 was never a hole in her husband's garments or a button 
 off his shirt ; the one thing that troubled her was that 
 her husband good, honest, tender man had during 
 their first year of married life fallen thoroughly in love 
 with her ; it was not in his genial nature to live in the 
 house a year with even a cat and not love it. Hannah 
 was a handsome woman, and his wife ; what could one 
 expect? But she did not expect it ; she was bored and 
 put out by his demonstrations ; almost felt a cold con 
 tempt for the love he lavished on her, icy and irrespon 
 sive as she was, though all the time ostensibly sub-
 
 252 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 missive. Josiah felt after a time that he had made a 
 mistake ; but he had the sense to adapt himself to it, 
 and to be content, like many another idolater, with 
 worship instead of response. Not even the little 
 daughter born in the second year of their marriage 
 thawed the heart so long frost-sealed in Hannah's 
 breast ; she had once worshipped a false god, and 
 endured the penalty ; henceforward she would be 
 warned. Baby was baptized Dorothy, after her father's 
 dead mother, and by every one but Hannah that quaint 
 style was softened into Dolly. Never was a child 
 better brought up, everybody said, a rosy, sturdy, 
 saucy little creature, doing credit to fresh air and plain 
 food ; a very romp in the barn and fields with her 
 father, whom she loved with all her warm, wayward 
 heart ; but, alas ! a child whose strong impulses, ardent 
 feeling, violent temper, and stormy will were never to 
 know the softening, tempering sweetness of real 
 mother love. She knew none of those tender hours of 
 caressing and confidence that even a very little child 
 enjoys in the warmth of any mother-heart, if not its 
 own mother's ; no loving arms clasped her to a mother's 
 bosom to soothe her baby-griefs, to rest her childish 
 weariness. There were even times when Hannah Max 
 well seemed to resent her existence ; to repel her affec 
 tion, though her duty kept her inexorably just to the 
 child. Dolly was never punished for what she had not 
 done, but always for nearly everything she did do, and 
 services were exacted from her that made her childhood 
 a painful memory to all her later life. Were there 
 butter or eggs wanted from Wingfield on any emer 
 gency, at five years old Dolly would be mounted on 
 the steady old horse that Josiah had owned fifteen
 
 TOO LATE. 253 
 
 years, and, with saddle-bags swinging on either side, 
 sent over to her grandfather's at Wingfield to bring 
 home the supplies, a long and lonely road of five 
 full-measured miles for the tiny creature to traverse ; 
 and one could scarce believe the story did it not come 
 direct to these pages from her own lips. In vain was 
 Josiah's remonstrance ; for by this time Hannah was 
 fully the head of the house, and the first principle of 
 her rule was silent obedience. All her husband could 
 do was to indulge and spoil Dolly in private, persist 
 ently and bravely. Alas for her, there was one day 
 in the week when even father could not interfere to 
 help his darling. Sunday was a sound of terror in her 
 ears : first the grim and silent breakfast, where nobody 
 dared smile, and where even a fixed routine of food, 
 not in itself enticing, became at last tasteless by mere 
 habit; codfish-cakes and tea, of these, "as of all 
 carnal pleasure, cometh satiety at the last," according 
 to the monk in " Hypatia ; " then, fixed in a high, stiff- 
 backed chair, the pretty little vagrant must be still, 
 and read her Bible till it was time to ride to church ; 
 till she was taken down and arrayed in spotlessness 
 and starch, and set bodkinwise into the gig beside her 
 silent mother and subdued father. 
 
 Once at meeting, began the weariest routine of all. 
 Through all the long services, her little fat legs swing 
 ing from the high seat, Dolly was expected to sit per 
 fectly quiet ; not a motion was allowed, not a whisper 
 permitted ; she dared not turn her head to watch a pro 
 fane butterfly or a jolly bumblebee wandering about 
 that great roof or tall window. Of course she did do 
 it instinctively, recovering herself with a start of terror 
 and a glance at her mother's cold blue eyes, always
 
 254 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 fixed on Parson Buck, but always aware of all going on 
 beside her, as Dolly knew too well. At noon, after a 
 hurried lunch of gingerbread and cheese, the child was 
 taken to the nearest house, there to sit through the 
 noon prayer-meeting, her weary legs swinging this time 
 off the edge of the high bed, and her wearier ears 
 dinned with long prayers. Then, as soon as the bell 
 tolled, off to the meeting-house to undergo another long 
 sermon, till, worn out mentally and physically, the last 
 hour of the seance became a struggle with sleep, painful 
 in the extreme, as well in present resistance as in cer 
 tainty of results ; for, soon as poor Dolly reached home, 
 after another silent drive, she was invariably t;iken into 
 the spare bedroom, and soundly whipped for being 
 restless in meeting. And, adding insult to injury, after 
 dinner, enjoyed with the eager appetite of a health} r 
 child used to three meals on a week-day, she was re 
 quired to repeat that theological torture, the Assem 
 bly's Catechism, from end to end. But in spite of 
 all this, partly because Sunday came only once a week, 
 partly because of her father's genial nature and de 
 voted affection for his girl, which grew deeper and 
 stronger constantly, Dolly did not miss of her life as 
 many a morbid character might have in her place. She 
 grew up a rosy, sunu} T , practical young woman, with a 
 dominant temper toward everybody but her mother. 
 Plump, healthy, and pretty, her cheerim-ss and useful 
 ness would have made her popular had she been a poor 
 man's daughter, and by this time Josiah Maxwell was 
 the richest man in the town ; so Dolly had plenty of 
 lovers, and in due time married a fine young fellow, and 
 settled down at home with her parents, who were almost 
 as much pleased with Mr. Henderson as was their
 
 TOO LATE. 255 
 
 daughter. But all this time Mrs. Maxwell preserved 
 the calm austerity of her manner, even to her child. 
 She did her duty by Doll}*. She prepared for her mar 
 riage with liberal hand and unerring judgment ; but no 
 caress, no sympathetic word, no slightest expression of 
 affection, soothed the girl's agitated heart or offered her 
 support in this tender, yet exciting, crisis of her life. 
 
 Hannah Maxwell made her life a matter of business, 
 it had been nothing else to her for years ; it was an 
 old habit at sixty ; and she was well over that age 
 when one day Dolly, rocking her first baby to sleep, 
 was startled to see her mother, who sat in her upright 
 chair reading the county paper, fall quietly to the floor 
 and lie there. Baby was left to fret while her mother 
 ran to the old lady and lifted her spare, thin shape to 
 the sofa; but she did not need to do more, for Mrs. 
 Maxwell's eyes opened and her hand clasped tight on 
 Dolly's. 
 
 " Do not call any one," she whispered faintly, and, 
 leaning on her daughter's shoulder, her whole body 
 shook with agonized sobs. At last that heart of granite 
 had broken in her breast ; lightning-struck so long ago, 
 now it crumbled. With her head still on Dolly's kind 
 arm, she told her then and there the whole story of her 
 one love, her solitar}* passion, and its fatal ending. 
 She still kept to herself the contents of that anonymous 
 letter, only declaring that she knew, and the writer 
 must have been aware she would know, from the hand 
 writing as well as the circumstances detailed, who wrote 
 it, and that the information it conveyed of certain lapses 
 from virtue on the part of Charles Mayhew must be 
 genuine. 
 
 " O Dolly ! " groaned the smitten woman, " when he
 
 256 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 stood under my window and called me I was wrung 
 to my heart's core. The pains of hell gat hold upon 
 me. I was upon the floor, with my arms wound about 
 the bed-rail and my teeth shut like a vice, lest I should 
 listen to the voice of nature, and, going to the window 
 to answer him, behold his face. Had I seen him I 
 must have gone down and done what I thought a sin ; 
 so I steeled myself to resist, although I thought flesh 
 would fail in the end ; but it did not. I conquered 
 then and after. Oh, how long it has been ! I meant to 
 do right, Dolly ; but to-day, when I saw in the paper 
 that he died last week in a barn over Goshen way, a 
 lonely, drunken pauper Dolly, my heart came out of 
 its grave and smote me. Had I been a meeker woman, 
 having mercy instead of judgment, I might have helped 
 him to right ways. I might have saved him I loved 
 him so." 
 
 The last words struck upon her hearer with the force 
 of a blow, so burning, so eager, so intense was the 
 emphasis : " I loved him so!" 
 
 Ah, who could ever kno\v the depths out of which 
 that regretful utterance sprang ! 
 
 "Dear mother, dear mother," sobbed Dolly, alto 
 gether overcome by this sudden revelation of gulfs she 
 had never dreamed of, a heart which, 1 >ng repressed, 
 convulsively burst at last, and revealed its bleeding 
 arteries. 
 
 "Dear, good mother, don't feel so don't! You 
 meant right. Try to forgive yourself. If you made 
 a mistake then, try to forget it now. Try to believe it 
 was all for the best do, dear." 
 
 But all she got for answer was " Dolly, it is too 
 late ! "
 
 Ml' THANKSGIVING. 257 
 
 MY THANKSGIVING. 
 
 " I MUST go, Annie ! " said Joe, speaking with a calm 
 resolution that I felt to be final and fatal ; all the 
 more so that he put his arm round me as he spoke, 
 and drew me to him in a clasp so close that it said 
 more than words. Granny looked up from the chim- 
 ne3*-corner where she sat, and said, in her feeble voice 
 and deliberate accent : 
 
 " Who died for us !" 
 
 These few words, so seemingly irrelevant, but 
 merely seeming so because they drew a deeper signifi 
 cance than from the shallow present alone, smote on 
 my ear like a knell. I looked up into Joe's face as it 
 bent over me, brown and stern and sad, and as I 
 looked, with all my life in the gaze, a cold shadow 
 stole across that living countenance : it grew cold, 
 rigid, ghastly ; the month parted over its set teeth ; 
 the eyelids closed ; it was a dead face. I involuntarily 
 uttered a little shriek ; and then for one second heard 
 a word breathed through Joe's lips, and knew that he 
 was not dead, but praying. 
 
 " What is it, Annie?" said he, gently. 
 
 " O Joe ! I cannot, cannot bear it ! " 
 
 " My child, you must. This is no time for a man 
 to be at home, no time for a woman to be a coward. 
 You must not make me weak, or send me away lonely ;
 
 258 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 for I should be doubly alone if I thought my my 
 wife, Annie, could not strike hand with me in this 
 good cause." 
 
 The words breathed a steady glow of strength into 
 me. I saw what I ought to do, what I must do for 
 him ; and from its broken deeps in my breaking heart 
 the old Puritan blood that trickled from Winslow's veins 
 down through mine answered to the appeal, and fired 
 my brain and steadied my voice with its firm pulses. 
 I pulled Joe's dark head down to mine and kissed his 
 lips. I was not his wife yet, perhaps now I never 
 should be ; but heart and soul we were indissolubly 
 bound, and I had a right to kiss him without blushes 
 or trembling. Hard, hard it was ! Myriads of us all 
 over this struggling, bleeding country know how hard ; 
 and know that even at this deadly crisis we could hold 
 open arms to rebel women, and weep with them in the 
 divine reconciliation of a mutual sorrow. Harder it 
 was to me because, just now, I knew for the first time 
 how utterly I loved Joe ; and to tell why, I must go 
 back a little into my past. 
 
 Granny Harding, who sat there in the fireplace 
 corner, was Joe's great-grandmother as well as mine, 
 though we were not even third cousins for all that. 
 Joe's grandfather was her own son, my grandmother 
 was her step-daughter ; the relationship was scarce 
 worth mentioning, nor would it have been recorded, 
 unless in the big Bible, except that all the Harding 
 race had always lived and died in Stoneboro. My 
 grandmother was the parson's wife there ; my father 
 succeeded his father in the office, and was called " the 
 minister" instead of "the parson." Father and 
 mother both died when I was nine years old, and
 
 MY THANKSGIVING. 259 
 
 Cousin Aristarchus Harding, Joe's father, was my 
 guardian. So I went to his house the old Harding 
 homestead to live, and found there Joe, three years 
 older than I, and Cordelia, of my own age. 
 
 Probably the reason I had never fallen in love, as 
 girls say, with Joe, was because I lived in the same 
 house with him. He was always kind, and good, and 
 considerate ; but I was romantic, and in some respects 
 a fool. I could not hang my ideal lover on the aspect 
 of a young man I saw eating and drinking, and mow 
 ing, and splitting wood, and making fires, and driving 
 oxen ; a man in his shirt-sleeves and an old hat. It 
 was impossible to find a sentimental and high-flown in 
 terest, such as Thaddeus of Warsaw would have ex 
 cited, in an ordinary farmer, who only did his duty 
 from day to day, and never talked about congeniality 
 of soul or magnetic sj-mpathies. Joe was not so hard 
 to please ; he began to love me very early ; every 
 thing I did was right and pleasant in his eyes. I 
 suited him exactly. My sauciness bewitched him ; my 
 prettiness, such as it was, pleased his taste. I always 
 knew what he thought, and understood what he meant 
 to say when he could not express it. I liked the things 
 he liked, and I teased his monotonous farm-life into 
 vitality. I was his romance ; and it cruelly smote Joe 
 when I fell in love with somebody else ! 
 
 "NVhy, in the name of common-sense, when I had 
 beside me this true, generous, gentle man, who was as 
 much devoted to me as a man can be, I threw myself 
 away on a hard, cool, selfish, imperious nature that 
 only gave me the careless affection one bestows on a 
 pretty child they have no time to love, Heaven only 
 knows ! It is a part of the mysteries we live in, that
 
 260 TI1E SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 women have done, do, and -will do so till time shall be 
 no more ; and there must be some good purpose of 
 compensation or discipline in it ; but it is a deadly ex 
 perience, and where it is not mortal leaves frightful 
 scars on heart and mind. I am inclined to think those 
 whose ties of this kind culminate in marriage suffer 
 more than those who escape before it ; in either case it 
 is bad enough. I was eighteen when I met this man, 
 whose name I have no desire to recall ; ten of my 
 life's best years he wasted. In those ten years I loved 
 him with the eager, faithful passion of youth and 
 womanhood, grew slowly to know him, ruminated over 
 this bitter herb of knowledge till my life was burnt 
 with its acrid essence into pale ashes. For five years 
 he made love to me, taught me to love, to doubt, to 
 dread him ; then, tired of his toy, he left me and 
 Stoneboro, and for five years more I was broken in 
 health and spirit down to the very dust. People in 
 Stoneboro said I was "disappointed." So I was. 
 
 In the meantime Cordelia married and moved away. 
 I did not miss her particularly. She was a good, 
 placid, amiable creature, mildly pious and very common 
 place. I should have loved- her better if I had not 
 been absorbed in my own affairs. The first thing that 
 roused me from my self-absorbed misery was Cousin 
 Martha Harding's falling into a severe illness. If I 
 loved anybody then better than myself, which I doubt, 
 it was Cousin Martha. She was the sweetest of sweet 
 women ; not with the super-saccharine manner of 
 fashion and society, no more like that suave and 
 popular sweetness than maple-sugar is like Maillard's 
 confectionery ; but her nature was as fragrant and satis 
 fying as wild honey. The homely flavor of a New Eug-
 
 THANKSGIVING. 261 
 
 land farm-life touched all she said with a certain quaint- 
 ness, and her serene, bat trenchant, common-sense 
 and acute insight kept her unfailing good-nature from 
 insipidity. She was quite deaf ; a loss which added to 
 her manner the exquisite gentleness rarely found except 
 in the deaf, and very rarely among them ; for it takes, 
 as old Parson Winslow, my grandfather, used to say, 
 " grace and gifts too " to bear such a deprivation with 
 patience till it blossoms into a beauty. And this lovely, 
 loving woman, who had been my mother in a certain 
 imperfect sense, fell into a wasting consumption ; and 
 when I knew it I put aside my long repining, or rather 
 it crept away before the face of so vital and inevitable 
 a sorrow. 
 
 But all this long time Joe, though I did not see it, 
 had watched me with the tenderest care, his heart 
 had been scarce less wrung with my trouble than my 
 own, but had given no sign to vex me. He had been 
 my protector against rude tongues and the pangs that 
 careless ones can inflict. He had tried with all his 
 might to allay my physical suffering, and patiently 
 striven to heal my mind ; but in vain. I had adopted 
 fully the girl's idea that constancy is a virtue instead 
 of a fact ; and long after I knew thoroughly how ill- 
 placed my love had been, what sure and life-long 
 misery I had lost in losing that love, I still clung to its 
 ghost with dreary strenuousness, cherished its memory, 
 dwelt on its frail souvenirs, recalled its raptures, and 
 spent sleepless nights and long days in persuading my 
 self that my heart was dead in my breast, that I had 
 loved once for all, and lived my life out. All this Joe 
 saw ; but, with a fidelity that shamed my pretence to it, 
 he really loved me still. He did not grieve, or fret, or
 
 262 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 give up his time and health, but, like the true man he 
 was, only threw himself into harder work, and fed his 
 self-denying love with such considerate care, such 
 tender thought, such unflagging service for me, that he 
 was almost happy in his pure self-devotion. 
 
 He grew gray, it is true, in those ten years ; his dark 
 curls were full of silver threads ; the gay, bright face, 
 scarce handsome, but full of intellect, and as gracious 
 as summer in its smile, was thinner than it should have 
 been, deep-lined about its grave lips, and serious even 
 to sadness ; but he went about his life's business so 
 earnestly, with such energy and cheer, was so helpful 
 to everybody, so kind, so strong, that nobody knew 
 what he felt, or how he suffered, but Cousin Martha. 
 To her he told every thought of his heart ; and it was 
 the very bitterness of death to Joe, when he at length 
 was forced to see that mortal disease had fastened on 
 that mother, dearer even than I. 
 
 Three long years life flashed and faded, and flashed 
 again, in that racked frame, till it could bear no longer 
 those terrible alternations. Consumption has in it a 
 certain practical sarcasm that is hard to bear ; it makes 
 a mock of weakness with its sudden, but false, strength ; 
 it fires the eye, and paints the cheek, and sends 
 vivid fever through the leaping pulse, till immortal 
 youth and strength seem to defy death, and riot in 
 their splendors ; then comes the recoil of mortal weak 
 ness, a sunken cheek, a colorless lip, a dim and glazing 
 eye, coughs that rend the panting breast, pains like the 
 torture of rack and wheel in every wasted limb, the 
 dreadful gush of scarlet blood, the utter prostration of 
 arterial life, the passive sinking of nerve, and excite 
 ment of brain ; and then again, reeling from the very
 
 MY THANKSGIVING. 263 
 
 abyss of death, the tormented prey of this vulture rises 
 to life, blooms, brightens, exults, till another hour 
 turns the descending scale. Three long years Joe and 
 I watched and waited together. Cordelia was in 
 Minnesota with a flock of little children, and we had 
 Cousin Martha all to ourselves ; for granny was now 
 ninety-three, and could not help us, except that she 
 was able, with very little aid, to take care of herself. 
 And Cousin Aristarchus was no help ; his great, slow- 
 beating heart knew but one intense passion, and that 
 was for his wife, and now he suffered accordingly. 
 He would come into the room where she lay, stand and 
 look at her with such an expression in his rough face, 
 reddened with summer sun and winter frost through 
 fifty-five years of a farmer's hardships, that I could 
 not look at him. It was a dull, uncomprehending 
 anguish at first, like the look of an animal in mortal 
 pain ; but deepening, as days went on, into the extrem- 
 it}' of human suffering, heightened by wild conflict with 
 the inevitable Will that could alone save, but offered 
 here neither help nor hope. If she opened her large, 
 languid eyes to look at him, or smiled, as she could 
 sometimes smile, with a look that was almost super 
 natural in its triumph of love, pity, and patience over 
 the extremity of pain, he turned at once and went 
 away where, nobody knew. I happened once to be 
 in the barn, looking for a fresh egg, when he rushed by, 
 without seeing me at all, and, flinging himself at length 
 on the hay, groaned, and sobbed, and writhed, and cried 
 out so bitterly, that it was terrible to see or hear. I 
 crept away silently, awed and sick at heart. I had not 
 supposed such feeling was possible in a man. I had 
 judged them all with warped judgment, from the one
 
 264 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 I knew best. I had no faith in them ; but this was 
 real. What could life offer to a woman better than 
 such a mighty love as this ? My unconscious egotism 
 prompted one little question : would Joe ever love like 
 his father? 
 
 So, as I said, Mr. Harding could not share our care ; 
 he felt too much, and no discipline of life had ever 
 taught him self-control. But we had no need of aid. 
 Joe was one of those rare men who have a woman's 
 perception as well as a man's strength, and with his 
 aid Cousin Martha needed no other nurse than me. 
 
 At last she kept her bed ; she could not sit up even 
 for an hour ; but still her cheerful voice, her unselfish 
 regard for our strength and comfort, her patience in 
 pain, her upholding religion, triumphed over these 
 terrors and pangs of mortality. I could not understand 
 her. To die ; to be exiled forever from this body and 
 this dear earth ; to tempt an utterly untried existence, 
 to lose that locality of place and time that the trem 
 bling soul lays hold of when it shudders at its own 
 eternity and infinite capacities ; to enter the cold new 
 ness of another world, austere from its very strange 
 ness, with such simple courage, such certainty, such 
 calm faith, surprised me all the time; it seemed in 
 credible. But Joe also partook of this vital belief. 
 He talked calmly of that near and unseen world, and of 
 his mother's passage thither. In the midst of his ten- 
 derest cares he had lips overflowing with the trumpet- 
 blasts of the gospel ; his face kindled with victory, his 
 voice thrilled with assurance for her, even while the 
 depth of settled sorrow in his eye showed no stir, no 
 spark ; it was for himself he had to grieve, and he for 
 got himself ; for her he was triumphant. If I had
 
 MY THANKSGIVING. 265 
 
 stopped to look into my own heart I should have seen 
 how effectually it was laying hold upon another love, 
 as different from my first as the yellow wheat ear is 
 from the springing blade. 
 
 But while day after day I drew nearer to Joe in feel 
 ing, and regarded him with such a quiet sense of safety 
 and repose, I did not, could not, stop to dream of love. 
 I was learning a new lesson, learning to believe. The 
 feeble emotional pretext I had called religion, and pro 
 fessed as such, that had crumbled away in the convul 
 sive grasp of sorrow and left me unsupported, was 
 being gradually replaced by a living faith. Blessed is 
 the woman who loves a man better than she is ! It is 
 not often so ; but it is the sure seal of that marriage 
 that God ordained, and typified by his love for the 
 Church, when King and Priest reign and minister in 
 the sacred cloisters of home, and give themselves, 
 even as he gave himself, for the love and teaching of 
 the weaker. I did not know where I was, till one day, 
 about a month before Cousin Martha died, I observed 
 her look follow Joe wistfully out of the room, and then 
 turn to me with a curious expression of regret and 
 longing. Involuntarily I said : 
 
 "What is it, dear?" 
 
 " Come here, Annie," said she. So I went and 
 kneeled down by the bedside. 
 
 "I want to tell you something, my child: Joe 
 loves you dearly." 
 
 "O cousin, you don't know! He doesn't; how 
 could he?" 
 
 " But he does ; and has for this fourteen years." 
 
 " Love me ! I am not fit for Joe to love." 
 
 " Annie, I don't believe dying wishes are more to be
 
 266 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 regarded than living ones ; they are all liable to be 
 short-sighted and selfish. You must promise not to 
 feel bound by any desire of mine ; but I must tell you 
 how happy it would make me if you could love Joe 
 enough to marry him." 
 
 I buried my head in my hands. " Cousin Martha, 
 you are mistaken. Joe doesn't love me : think how 
 old I am, I was thirty last spring, and how homely 
 I am, and not good either ; and and, besides, I have 
 loved somebody else." 
 
 A smile just glittered wanly in her eyes, and she laid 
 her hand on my hair, as I looked up at her with a burn 
 ing face. " Poor child ! " said she. " I know how you 
 have suffered, though I never said so to you. Those 
 things are best kept silent. But Joe is a better man 
 than that one ; and he loves you better ; believe it, for 
 I know it. And now we will let the matter rest." 
 
 "God is good!" said granny. She had a strange 
 way of coming out with apparently irrelevant bits of 
 Scripture, or odd proverbs, or sayings of her own, at 
 times when no one supposed she heard or saw what 
 was going on, as she seemed sunk in her habitual 
 revery. 
 
 " Yes, he is ! " said Cousin Martha. 
 
 I think I said so, too, mentally, as I got up and 
 went out of doors into the little bit of woods that sloped 
 up the hill-side behind the barn, where I sat down under 
 a great oak-tree through whose gnarled boughs, just 
 roughened with buds, the March sunshine streamed 
 strangely warm. I could not believe it ! Was I in 
 love again? Was this strong torrent of emotion a new 
 freshet in the stream that had wrecked me before? 
 Did I love Joe Harding? I'm afraid I did, even then.
 
 MT THANKSGIVING. 267 
 
 I recognized with a certain pang the old rush of feel 
 ing, yet not now the vagne, feverish emotion that had 
 wrapped my whole nature in a light blaze before ; but 
 a deeper, steadier fire, that rose heavenward with 
 solemn aspiration as from an altar, and promised to be 
 life-giving instead of deadly. I ought, perhaps, to be 
 sorry to confess that I did not stop to regret my beau 
 tiful theory of constancy ; I never was a very intro 
 spective person. The thing was gone, and there was 
 an end of it for me. The theory had disproved itself, 
 and so was negatived ; that was only another fact. I 
 found lime afterward to be heartily glad that I could 
 love again, and so much more deeply. This unuttera 
 ble rest, this serene rapture, one hour of which was 
 worth a year of the excitement and restless wearying 
 delight of my youth, was certainly a thing to be glad 
 of, unless one had been more or less than a woman. 
 
 One thing struck me to the heart whenever I dared 
 look that way : the possibility that Joe might not love 
 me, after all ; that Cousin Martha was mistaken. It 
 seemed so impossible. My youth was gone, my beauty 
 faded, my vivacity all fled ; I had been made the sport 
 of another man, and thrown away by him when he 
 tired. Was there in humanity such redeeming love as 
 could stoop to gather this weed of my life and wear it 
 for a cognizance ? I should as soon think of giving to 
 a lover some wan and withered rose picked up from the 
 pavement, without beauty or freshness, as the worthless 
 gift I was. Cousin Martha must be mistaken. How 
 could he love me? Before, and of that other, I had 
 said so mai\y times with hot and salt tears, " How 
 could he help loving me ? " 
 
 1 went back to my room and looked into the glass ; a
 
 268 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 new bloom shone on the old face, but did not trans 
 figure it. There were the pale, worn features ; the sad 
 eyes ; the bands of hair still shining, but all threaded 
 with snow ; the lightly tinted lips that were so tremulous 
 and grieving now, instead of smiling and firm. I was 
 old : I turned away with a sigh from that vision. Men 
 do not love beauty more than women, only they are 
 more frank to own it ; and to lose mine, which was 
 always that of color and outline rather than feature, 
 was hard. 
 
 Cousin Martha grew worse that night, and kept 
 worse. No more respites for her ; the hour came fast 
 that should take her from us, and, except as a thought 
 that I kept to rest m}'self with at intervals of watching 
 and nursing, I heard and knew no more of Joe's love 
 for me. 
 
 At length she died, not with any parting word or 
 message, not with any scene ; but fell asleep like a 
 tired child, holding her husband's hand. There was no 
 need of audible triumph in her testimony ; her life was 
 her witness, and they who had seen its quiet course 
 knew from what source it sprung, to what glad sea it 
 hastened. Joe and I also sat beside her, and when we 
 saw that it was over he gently lifted her hand from his 
 father's clasp and laid it back at her side. Mr. Hard 
 ing looked up with dreadful questioning in his eyes, 
 and then looked at her. He went out of the door and 
 out of the house, and for hours we saw him no more. 
 Joe would not let him be looked for, and at sunset he 
 reappeared. He never said anything, but from that 
 day was a broken man ; his grizzled hair turned white, 
 his keen eye was dimmed, his voice husky ; even the 
 rugged and set features learned to quiver with passing
 
 MY THANKSGIVING. 269 
 
 emotions ; the firm temper became fitful ; he asked 
 help that he laughed at before ; he clung to those about 
 him in little ways hitherto unknown to him. I never 
 loved him as much. Granny looked at Cousin Martha's 
 pallid, but fair, aspect, and took the wasted hand in 
 hers : she did not moan nor weep ; all she said was, 
 ' ' Behold how He loved him ! " 
 
 There was no other change than this inevitable 
 change of loss. The fire seemed to have gone out of 
 our lives, the light to be extinguished, it is true ; but 
 the household ways went on as usual, for I had taken 
 charge of them long before, and now they were my 
 sole occupation. 
 
 One day in May, when all the trees were full of opal 
 tints, pink, or green, or dusky with young buds, and 
 even the oaks put out tiny velvet leaves of tender pink 
 from the heart of every new shoot, Joe asked me to go 
 to the graveyard with him ; and when we had planted 
 by his mother's grave a rose-bush and some English 
 violets, we strolled away into the woods and sat down 
 on a log. Below us lay the Stoneboro valley, with its 
 bright river sparkling in and out among the hills, and 
 a soft south wind blew on us with odors of dead and 
 new leaves, the fresh scent of grass, and breath of 
 orchards in bloom. We sat a long time in silence, and 
 then Joe said : 
 
 "Annie, can you possibly love me enough?" 
 
 " I'll try," said I, with half a laugh, though I could 
 hardly speak at all. 
 
 He put his arm round me and kissed me gravely, and 
 that was all we said. I felt so safe, so rested, so con 
 soled. I did not want words, and he seemed not to 
 have them. I forgot how old and plain and uudeserv-
 
 270 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 ing I was : I ought to have refused him for his own 
 good ; but I couldn't. I was not very good, and I was 
 so glad he loved me. 
 
 When we went home there was a little blaze kindled 
 on the kitchen hearlh ; we sat there in winter and 
 spring always, for it was never used as a kitchen, and 
 granny's bedroom opened out of it. To-night she sat 
 there in the flicker of the blaze, knitting placidly as 
 usual. Her delicate, pale face ; her soft hair, white as 
 milk-weed down ; her light gra}- dress and full-folded 
 white cap, handkerchief, and linen apron gave her the 
 look of a white moth, such as peers in through the 
 window on some June night, with elfin visage and 
 bright, dark eyes. She looked up as we came in, and 
 gazed intently at us for a minute, then nodded with a 
 satisfied air, and said, " Fulfilling of the law." 
 
 Joe smiled, and I believe I blushed ; next morning 
 Cousin Aristarchus, when I came down to breakfast, 
 came and shook hands with me, and looked the other 
 way all the time. It was all he could do, and a great 
 effort for him ; so I accepted it as a congratulation and 
 welcome. It was about three weeks after this that Joe 
 came in and told me he had enlisted and was going to 
 the war, as I said in the beginning of my story. He 
 had longed to go all the time, but could not think it 
 right to leave his mother, especially as she begged him 
 to stay with her while she lived. Now, when rebellion 
 was higher-handed than ever, the army of the Peninsula 
 in deadly straits, the West in terror, and two new calls 
 proclaimed by the President, go he must. Now was 
 the time for men, if ever. 
 
 I had to consent, of course. I am not a heroic 
 woman. I was not glad to have him go, yet I should
 
 MY THANKSGIVING. 271 
 
 have been thoroughly ashamed had he stayed ; doubly 
 ashamed to have felt afterward that, even at the saving 
 of his life, he had deserted his country at need. No. 
 Unhapp}' enough are those women who lose their 
 dearest in battle, though they fight and fall in the 
 good cause ; but wretched, far beyond any loss, are 
 they whose unwomanly fears keep from the country's 
 service men she needs who must sa} r to their children 
 afterward, answering their child-questions, " Your 
 father did not go to the war ; I would not let him." 
 
 No such fate for me. Dear as Joe was to me, 
 dearer every day, far more dear than I thought any 
 living creature could ever be, I choked down my 
 agonies of foreboding, and let him go. In this my 
 sole comfort was preparing his outfit. Granny knit 
 him more stockings than he could take, and every 
 little contrivance that might add to his comfort I took 
 pride in discovering and procuring. He enlisted as 
 private in a company of the Sixteenth Connecticut 
 Volunteers, which in August went into camp at Hart 
 ford. Once he came home to Stoneboro for a three- 
 days' furlough, and we had one talk that I shall never 
 forget. 
 
 " Annie," said he, "I want you to promise me 
 something. I know how you will miss me, and how 
 hard a time 3^011 will have ; but promise you will not 
 let 3*our grief interfere with the usual routine of home. 
 I don't mean simply on granny's account and father's, 
 but on your own. Keep up all the old ways, for the 
 sake of your own quiet. Don't let the farm go back 
 because I'm not here ; father will feel more interest 
 in it if you are interested. Go to church, and to 
 singing-meeting, and to sewing- society ; wherever I
 
 272 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 am, dead or alive, don't omit to keep Thanksgiving ; 
 don't forget Christmas ; and the poor you know you 
 have them always with you, He said." 
 
 " I will, Joe, i'f I can." 
 
 "You can, dear, if you begin straight. Habit is a 
 great help, and in this quiet little village there is no 
 excitement to divert your mind, which you must keep 
 as firm and calm as 3'ou can ; for, Annie, you must 
 look it in the face, it is very probable I may not 
 come back, and these old people will only have you 
 left." 
 
 There was no answer to be made to this. The next 
 day Joe bade us good-by and went off. "We heard 
 from him twice before they left Hartford : he was well 
 and gravely cheerful. 
 
 As for me, there was but one course left, I must- 
 work. No other quiet but that of constant action and 
 effort could allay the dreadful fever of my thoughts. I 
 was naturally both anxious and imaginative, fatal 
 combination for a woman whose place is to wait and 
 endure ! So by day I worked as I never had before. 
 I let the girl whose place it was to take care of the 
 milk, butter, and cheese, go home to her mother, as 
 she had long intended to do at this time, without try 
 ing to supply her place. I could do her work, as far 
 as skill went, better than she, and the constant excite 
 ment of anxiety made me strong. I had to rise early, 
 and work hard ; labor of real and stringent grasp held 
 me all day ; from dawn till blank night I was busy. 
 There was the milk of twelve cows to strain, and set, 
 and skim ; the milk-room, and the cheese-room, and 
 the ice-cellar to be kept spotless and of just tempera 
 ture ; there were rows of cheeses, pressing, ripening,
 
 MY THANKSGIVING. 273 
 
 drying, to be looked at twice a day ; there was curd to 
 set, and cut, and drain, and salt ; moulds to be scoured, 
 cloths to be scalded ; daily the great churn, that a man 
 had to turn, yielded me its crumbly mass of yellow 
 butter, to be worked, salted, moulded, and packed for 
 market, butter that must be firm and sweet, hard as 
 wax, and gold-yellow, lest our farm should lose its 
 reputation for the best butter sent to Boston. Then 
 came numberless pans, and cream-jars, and butter- 
 pails to wash : these never passed out of my hands, 
 lest the careless eyes of a servant might leave some 
 grain of milk, some smear of cream, that should turn 
 sour and spoil my work. Besides these things there 
 was granny to care for ; she needed some help to dress 
 her in those quaint white folds and frills that she de- 
 "lighted to wear ; help she needed, too, in order to lay 
 them aside, and put herself into sleeping order, for 
 never by any chance was the delicately stiff cap per 
 mitted to rest by day against a chair-back, or the folds 
 of cambric that covered her breast ruffled by one 
 minute of repose out of position : if she slept by day, 
 it was bolt upright, as she sat. The last thing at night 
 was work too : the night's milk was to be strained and 
 set ; that of the night before must be skimmed, and the 
 emptied pans scalded and dried ; by nine o'clock I was 
 so tired out that sleep caught me without my knowing 
 it, and in dreamless exhaustion I knew nothing till the 
 noisy fowls in the poultry-yard woke me to dawn and 
 its necessary duties. Yet not all this work and weari 
 ness kept my eager, restless thoughts from Joe. They 
 followed him, invisible, yet faithful, couriers, on every 
 step of his journey, into camp, at drill; farther I 
 knew not, till in. so short a time after he left Hartford
 
 274 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 that it seemed to me scarce the lapse of three days, 
 though I knew it was more, the news of Antietam 
 struck us like a bolt from the clear sky. 
 
 I did not believe it when Cousin Aristarchus told me. 
 I laughed. 
 
 "Why," said I, " it is impossible. The Sixteenth 
 hadn't their arms, they were but just there ; they could 
 not have been sent into a battle." 
 
 "They were," said he, turning his keen gray eyes 
 away from me, and dropping his white head slowly, as 
 if it were heavy with some heavy grief. My heart 
 fell. 
 
 "Is there any definite news? any list of dead or 
 wounded, cousin?" said I, the words faltering, as I 
 spoke. 
 
 " No," said he. " The news came to Hartford yes 
 terday morning, or Saturday night, I don't know 
 which. There was news of one officer killed ; no par 
 ticulars further." 
 
 He stopped, and looked aside out of the window ; 
 he had not finished. I waited breathless for the next 
 words. 
 
 " No," he said, at length, drawing a long breath, 
 and saying over, as if it were a lesson, the very words, 
 I was sure, he had seen ou the bulletin at the post- 
 office : "Nothing definite as to names; the Sixteenth 
 cut to pieces." 
 
 I sat down in the nearest chair, and he walked out 
 of the kitchen. Grief never comes so ; there is a 
 shock, a paralysis, a shuddering novelty, but not 
 grief. I sat there still as the dread grasp that stiffens 
 every fibre holds the paralytic. I could not stir, 
 because I forgot how. I was lost in one great spasm
 
 MY THANKSGIVING. 275 
 
 of resistance, of repulsion. I did not, would not, 
 believe anything had come to Joe. Presently sense 
 and strength returned to me. What a fool I was ! I 
 had heard nothing, knew nothing. Why should not 
 Joe be saved as well as any other man? I tried to 
 laugh, as one does sometimes in a dark room 
 waking from fearful dreams, to reassure himself, but 
 the old kitchen walls seemed to make a hollow echo of 
 my forced mirth; or was it hollow of itself? Granny 
 came out from her room, tottering on the cane that 
 Joe had wrought and ornamented for her. 
 
 " Crackling thorns ! " said she, lifting up her white 
 head and looking vacantly before her. A cold shiver 
 ran over me. I am superstitious, like all women ; and 
 granny's words, quaint and irrelevant as they seemed 
 to others, I had a sort of reverence for that gave them 
 prophetic significance in my eyes. Yes, my laughter 
 was crackling thorns indeed ! The fire was of briers 
 
 O 
 
 that rankled in my grasp still ; trie flame but one flash, 
 vivid and noisy, that quivered, flared, fell into ashes. 
 
 I helped her to her chair, and turned into the cheese- 
 room for my work, sick at heart. There is a strange 
 balsamic power in routine, when the very depths of 
 life break up under your feet ; the daily order of occu 
 pation is a light, but tenacious, crust above those vol 
 canic surges ; and though you feel their sickening 
 undulations, and hear their threatening roar beneath, 
 yet the gulf does not open and swallow you up, the 
 thunder is muffled, the fires smoulder. There is a 
 place for human feet to tread, a point for the lever of 
 divine faith to rest on. I think the cheeses I salted 
 and put to press that day were as well done as ever. 
 I knew what I had to do ; yet it was not merely the
 
 276 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 grind of a machine. It demanded judgment, accuracy, 
 attention ; and it saved me from myself. 
 
 The next day I rode down to the post-office. Mr. 
 Harding left me sitting in the wagon in a little pine- 
 wood a few rods from the village shop where the office 
 was kept, while he went for the news, however it might 
 come. It was a hot, quiet autumn day. As yet no 
 leaves were turned, but the indescribable foreboding of 
 death and decay, that breathes in every air and sound 
 of fall, hushed the whole land with funereal quiet ; 
 purple asters starred the edges of the road, golden- 
 rods held their feathered masses upright in the paler 
 sunshine, crowds of life everlasting crouched with their 
 dead, yet deathless, blooms on every barren knoll, 
 a strange, dried sweetness filled the air everywhere. 
 But here, under the pine-trees, the last fires of summer 
 fused from the acute leaves and rough boughs their 
 antique odor of fragrant resins, that has a breath 
 beyond spice, and a perfume surpassing flowers. Both 
 preservative and revivifying, it assailed other avenues 
 of my nature than the sense it at once stimulated and 
 satisfied ; for the brain that it entered, through the 
 subtlest of all entrances, expanded with insatiable 
 longings, and fled away from the weary weight of space 
 and sense into some upper air, where the ample ether 
 was keen life and the light immortal knowledge ; 
 through all toned to finite capacities by the low whisper 
 of awful, yet sweet, sorrow, that crept from the boughs 
 with that exhaling odor, and breathed to the ear its 
 ocean song of plaintive despair, the very pulse-tune of 
 life and its immutable dead-march toward eternity. In 
 that atmosphere that lulls my brain and exalts it 
 beyond any other known influence I drew deep
 
 MY THANKSGIVING. 277 
 
 draughts of rest, and when I heard a man's tread 
 coming, heavy and blundering, along the soft sand 
 foot-path, though I knew by the very weight and 
 stumble of that firm foot that he was blind with grief, 
 I wore a calm face to meet Mr. Harding' s blurred eyes, 
 and held out a strong hand to help him find his way to 
 the seat beside me. He thrust a telegram slip into my 
 hands, seized the reins, struck the patient horse he 
 never struck before a blow that sent it off at full speed, 
 and I opened the crumpled slip. Its peculiar ominous 
 mixture of print and writing ran thus : 
 
 "A. Harding, Stoneboro. Capt. A. H. Banks killed on the 
 field. Private J. Harding missing. A. J. BOLLES, 2d Lieuten 
 ant." 
 
 "Missing! only missing !" There must have been 
 a great deal of latent hope in my nature to have seized 
 on that frail straw as if it were a rock of refuge ; but I 
 did. Cousin Aristarchus looked around at me with 
 eyes of such wonder and grief at my exclamation that 
 I was half vexed. 
 
 " Why, cousin ! " said I, " missing is nothing. 
 He is safe somewhere. We shall hear from him to 
 morrow." 
 
 "Shall we?" said he, vacantly. 
 
 " Why, of course we shall ! Only think not dead, 
 like poor Banks ; not wounded ; only missing !" 
 
 He whipped the horse again with a fierce stroke, but 
 said nothing. In ten minutes we were at home, and I 
 had told granny. She looked at me with her bright, 
 yet inexpressive, eyes, and said, slowly, " The letter 
 killeth, but the spirit giveth life." What on earth had 
 this to do with me or my news? I was used to her
 
 278 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 odd speeches, but this one seemed more irrelevant than 
 usual. It haunted me all day in my thoughts of Joe, 
 merciful thoughts, sent, I believe truly, from above, 
 that I might not be smitten at once, but rather led 
 gently through the vallej- of the shadow. " The letter 
 killeth ! " At last it dawned on me : granny and his 
 father had indeed taken the letter of the message, and 
 their hope was dead. They were old and broken ; but 
 I was beginning life, and its vital spirit of love and 
 action upheld me ; but, then, why should they despair? 
 I did not know then that granny's father, the hero of 
 the race, who died in the Revolution, had been just so 
 reported " Missing," and found, after bitter weeks of 
 winter, through which wife and babies waited and 
 watched in vain, a stark and stiffened corpse near 
 Ticonderoga, scalped, and pierced with English bullets 
 through heart and limb. No wonder that they de 
 spaired. 
 
 Slowly the days went on. Cousin Aristarchus more 
 than once resolved to go on and search for Joe ; twice 
 was all but ready, and then decided that it was worse 
 than useless, for he could not follow him on the rebel 
 track, and as yet there came no trace of him by report 
 or message. He seemed all bowed and warped by 
 sorrow in mind as well as body ; his energy was gone, 
 his life faded out. Oh, how I wished then to be a 
 man ! I longed and pined to go and look for Joe. I 
 thought I could have tracked his flight, and rescued 
 him whatever obstacles interposed. So the days crept 
 on into weeks, and heavy gloom settled down upon us, 
 broken only by rare gleams of hope as bits of detail, 
 creeping out in the papers, recounted the death, or the 
 illness, or the wounded condition of one after another
 
 THANKSGIVING. 279 
 
 at first, like ours, reported missing ; gleams that only 
 made the gloom heavier in its return, as the vivid track 
 of lightning serves but to show, in a midnight storm, 
 the avvf ut height and blackness of overhanging clouds 
 full of threat and terror. 
 
 By a month's end the blow came. As I said, Cap 
 tain Banks, son of a near neighbor of ours, had been 
 telegraphed as " killed on the field " by the same mes 
 sage that declared Joe " missing." Fortunately his 
 mother, who was a widow, had left town for a day or 
 two, and did not get the message till another followed 
 close upon it to contradict the first. He had not been 
 killed, but so fearfully wounded, that, seeing his life 
 less face and streaming blood, in the panic of defeat 
 he had been left by his men where he lay, with his 
 rebel opponent dead beside him, and the cold corpse- 
 face against his was his first sensation when he re 
 covered from his swoon, somewhere in the dead of 
 night. Happily for him he was found early in the 
 morning alive, but too weak to speak. They took him 
 to a hospital, where he was recognized, and did what 
 ever they could for him ; but fever set in, and when he 
 was raving and apparently dying they sent for his 
 mother. Under her care he began at length to recover, 
 and six weeks after the battle, having regained his 
 memory and strength enough to talk, he asked her to 
 write and tell Uncle Harding that he saw Joe shot in 
 the front rank, just before he himself fell. Not onh r 
 that he saw him shot, but saw him reel to the ground 
 just as a squadron of rebel cavalry charged and swept 
 over him ; so there could be uo doubt of his fate. 
 
 Now, indeed, it was all over, life and love and hope, 
 over forever ! Like the mad whirl of chaos heaving
 
 280 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 before God clave it with his divine order, all my soul 
 whirled and staggered. I could not bear it ; I could 
 not ! Like a blind man fighting with a mortal enemy 
 I fought with Fate, for I could not call it Providence 
 then. I could not endure ; duty was a blank negation 
 to me. If I could have sunk on the floor and stayed 
 there, unmoving and desperate till death released me, 
 I would have done so ; but instincts and habits tor 
 mented me forever back into life. Out of that desolate 
 region to which I had fled, that arid desert on whose 
 sands I fell, mad and blind, I was perpetually recalled 
 b} T little daily needs, by the sting of hunger and the dry 
 lips of thirst ; by the demands upon my care and for 
 bearance that others, perhaps suffering as much as I, 
 though I would not believe it, daily made upon me. I 
 have thought since what a mere}' it was that He who 
 made us, foreknowing the anguish and the lessons of 
 life, put our souls into the conservating power of bodies. 
 With no lesser wants, no failing of the flesh to distract 
 the spirit from its awful pangs, how mortal would those 
 pangs be ! How beyond endurance, how lurid with the 
 horrors of incredible, unimaginable essence and space ! 
 No ; thank God that we are lower than the angels ; for 
 we sin and suffer as no angel could and live. 
 
 Mr. Harding was utterly broken down. He sat, with 
 his head upon his hands, in the chimney-corner, hour 
 after hour ; nothing moved him. The farm-work he 
 left entirely to his hired man, a trustworthy person 
 enough, but wanting in judgment and self-i'eliance. 
 Another of the continual pin-pricks that daily roused 
 me for a moment was his incessant demand for advice 
 and direction. But at length Joe's last words to me 
 recurred to my mind with strange force. What was I
 
 MY THANKSGIVING. 281 
 
 doing for him, for his? I saw suddenly .what selfish 
 sorrow mine had been ; how everything I ought to do 
 had gone undone, as, driven by the restless fury of my 
 grief, I had spent those bright autumn days wandering 
 over hill and field, through lonely woods and across 
 wild ravines, where I startled the partridge and drove 
 the rabbit from his lair ; as I tore through bush and 
 brier, regardless of all but the fierce impulse of motion, 
 the necessity of some unreasoning activity ; only com 
 ing home at the habitual hours of meals and rest, leav 
 ing those two other lonely souls to fight their trouble 
 as they best might. I was ashamed now. I am ashamed 
 still to reflect how little healing or constraining influence 
 my religion such as it was had upon me. I had 
 not yet been long enough under its influence to have 
 acquired the habit of faith and submission ; and under 
 this deadly blow I knew nothing, felt nothing Christian 
 or acquiescent, except the ever-present conviction that 
 even in this whirling storm God was somewhere, not 
 with me, nor for me ; but still living, and unchanged, 
 and just, though all his world slipped away from under 
 my feet like the sliding earth of a nightmare dream. 
 I did not believe he was other than good, but I struck 
 up against Heaven with my bleeding hands, and asked, 
 with horrors of reproach and unbelief, " Why hastthou 
 done this?" nor did Heaven reply ! 
 
 Just as I have seen a mother with a wayward child, 
 in its first passion of temper and grief, neither punish 
 nor argue with it, but only divert its thoughts with 
 some new story or external object, and then, when 
 the sobs ceased, and the eyes were clear, and calmness 
 had smoothed its fair little face into natural lines, 
 quietty reprove, remonstrate, or even punish ; so, as
 
 282 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 I have since seen, did a diviner love than any mother's 
 guide me, even by means of the very passionate human 
 love that made me rebel, into a calmer sphere. Did he 
 punish thereafter, or break my heart again with love 
 instead of wrath? 
 
 I ceased after this to isolate myself, and resumed 
 as best I could my neglected work ; but something was 
 necessary to rouse Mr. Harding: what could I do? 
 As I was at work one day in the shed, Lemuel, the 
 hired man, came in over the sill, and, leaning his back 
 against the door, began one of his usual appeals : 
 
 " I declare for't, Ann, I don't know what I be agoin' 
 to do with the corn-stalks. Can't you jest step around 
 and give me an idee ? " 
 
 " I'll ask cousin," said I. Lem. stared, but kept his 
 position, and began to tie a snapper which he produced 
 from his pocket to the end of the long whip he held in 
 his hand. I was glad he stayed behind. So I went into 
 the great kitchen, where a fire of good hickory sticks 
 sparkled and flamed on the hearth, for it was a chill 
 November day. Granny sat in her own place, Mr. 
 Harding on the other side, his head held in both his 
 hands, the gray light from the window striking across 
 its silver mass of tangled curls, and the red firelight 
 flickering on the great, rough hands that concealed 
 both face and forehead. I went up to him and stooped 
 down beside his chair. 
 
 " Father," said I. 
 
 He started as if a shot pierced him ; his hands 
 dropped, and his dim, bloodshot eyes looked up with 
 wild inquiry. I put one hand on his knee and laid my 
 head on it ; that was an old childish trick of Joe's I 
 had often heard of, as being the only caress his father
 
 MY THANKSGIVING. 283 
 
 ever endured from either of his children. He was 
 neither a gentle nor a demonstrative man. 
 
 "Father," said I again, "Lemuel wants to know 
 where he shall put the corn-stalks." 
 
 Mr. Harding did not speak at once. He gave a low 
 groan, like a sigh ; then "Lord, forgive me! I am 
 worse'n a dumb ox. You come with me, my child." 
 
 He got up from his chair and shook himself, like a 
 person bent on throwing off sleep, reached his old hat 
 from the nail, and my shawl and hood, which hung 
 beside it. As we went out of the door granny said 
 audibly, " A Father to the fatherless, and the widow's 
 God." He held my hand with a tighter grasp as the 
 words met his ear, and held it still while we went the 
 rounds of the barn, and he gave his directions to 
 Lem. as clear and well-judged as ever, every now and 
 then turning to me for an opinion. I knew afterward 
 that Joe had said to his father nearly what he had said 
 to me, and asked him, moreover, to care for and 
 comfort me, if care and comfort should ever be needed 
 as the}' were now. From this day he always called 
 me " My child," and I always said " Father " to him. 
 
 So we settled down into the dull, gray calm of life 
 again ; very silent, very quiet, we all were. Granny 
 now and then volunteered a proverb or a text, as 
 strangely fit to the mood, rather than any occasion, 
 as her utterances usually were. I remember once 
 when Mr. Harding had gone to the village, and I sat 
 by his empty chair sewing, I unconsciously drew a long, 
 sobbing sigh. Granny took out her needle from the 
 sheath, and laid her stocking down, saying, as she did 
 so in a dreamy way, " Yet cloth he devise means that 
 his banished be not expelled from him." What did
 
 284 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 she menn? The words fell softly on my tried soul, yet 
 tliere was neither special promise nor hope in them for 
 my peculiar want ; yet they sung in my thoughts long 
 after, as if persisting on some tender errand, mys 
 terious still to me. 
 
 Soon it was time to make Thanksgiving prepara 
 tions. Last year how different had this all been ! 
 What dreadful changes had passed over us since ! 
 Cousin Martha and Joe both gone, what had we to 
 be thankful for? I had paused before going down 
 stairs one morning, when these bitter thoughts had 
 roused me long before light, to look out at the east 
 from my window. A low range of hills barricaded the 
 valley some two or three miles from our house ; and 
 now, lying level on their tops, were long bars of 
 amber, flushing at the edges with red, that told of a 
 sunrise far away, but sure in coming, while through 
 the gray sky above that pallid blue streak on the 
 horizon a dying aurora pulsated in flashes of faint 
 light, that fled and throbbed out again, and fled once 
 more, and quivered anew with mystic splendor that 
 thrilled me to see. Strange and fair it was, that cold, 
 bright meeting of dawn and the northern night-light 
 ning ; and strangely portentous, too, it seemed to me. 
 Was that a "sign in the sky?" were these fatal wars 
 foreboding the world's great peace? was it good or 
 evil that danced and flickered in those ice-glittering 
 flashes above? 
 
 Thanksgiving day came at last. My sole pleasure 
 in its preparations had been in carrying out my resolve 
 that no poor soul I knew of, within our township, 
 should go without a good dinner to-day. Somebody 
 should be thankful if I was not. So I had sent Lemuel
 
 MY THANKSGIVING. 285 
 
 round with a big basket of pies, and chickens, and 
 tongues, and other necessities of Thanksgiving, the day 
 before ; and now, having laid out my dinner on the side- 
 table in the summer parlor, as far as its cold viands were 
 concerned, and leaving the girl to look after granny, 
 who seemed feebler than usual of late, and giving her 
 strong charges about the turkey, and the potatoes, and 
 the turnips, that already were in their respective 
 corners hissing, and bubbling, and sending savory 
 odors up the chimney, I dressed myself in my best, 
 and set off for church with " father." 
 
 Our old minister had gone away to keep Thanks 
 giving with his son in Boston, and to-day a stranger 
 was to preach for us. Our village choir was a good 
 one for the country, with several fine, though untrained, 
 voices, and one remarkable soprano, that seemed in 
 its purity and accuracy to defy the need of instruction ; 
 and as it rose alone in the anthem before service, and 
 wandered along the exquisite music of those words, 
 " Rest in the Lord ; oh, rest in the Lord ! Wait pa 
 tiently for him, and he shall give thee thy heart's 
 desire," more than one dull eye glittered with tears that 
 did not fall. But on my heart tears lay like lead, nor 
 sprung to cool my hot eyes. Ah ! what patient waiting 
 could ever bring to me my heart's desire ? Not God 
 himself, I said, could restore this ruined past ! 
 
 I looked across the aisle and saw Mrs. Banks, the 
 captain's mother ; her handkerchief was at her face, 
 but she wept for joy, her son was home again, weak 
 and helpless, but at home ! It was Thanksgiving to 
 her ; but for me there was no restoration. Sitting there 
 quiet in the corner of the pew, unable to exert myself 
 to dispel the bitter thoughts crowding upon me, I be-
 
 286 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 came their prey. Hymn and prayer passed by unheeded. 
 I neither heard the text nor the sermon till, when it was 
 about half over, suddenly these words roused me : 
 
 " But there is still heaven to be thankful for. What 
 ever sorrows bereave us here, whatever fatal mistakes 
 darken our lives, whatever irredeemable losses befall 
 us, we may yet rest in the Lord, and wait patiently for 
 him in the little life that remains ; for bc3'ond this 
 world's gain or loss, high in the serene air of heaven, 
 when existence ceases to be a lesson and becomes vivid 
 life, there and only there shall he give us our heart's 
 desire in its immortal fulness. Here knowledge is de 
 filed, love is imperfect, purity the result of fiery trial, 
 wealth rusted with covetousness ; but in heaven is the 
 very native country of pure knowledge, perfect love, 
 utter sinlessness, and riches that neither moth nor rust 
 corrupt, that bless and curse not." 
 
 He went on to enumerate what we had to be thank 
 ful for, even under the reign of anarchy and war ; but 
 on these few sentences that I have written I dwelt till 
 peace brooded over my tried heart. Yes ! there was 
 heaven to come ; and an object still left to life, to 
 grow into fitness for that rest and its reuniting. 
 
 After church we went home without staying to speak 
 to the neighbors, who seemed to understand and respect 
 our silence. They all went home with groups of chil 
 dren and grandchildren about them ; we were alone. 
 
 Soon as possible I had dinner on the table. I wanted 
 to have it through ; I wanted the day done. Anniver 
 saries are like old wounds that reopen and bleed every 
 year. I hurried to have the observances of this one 
 over with. So we sat down to dinner three, where 
 last year had been five ! Cousin Martha's fair, wan
 
 MY THANKSGIVING. 287 
 
 face, with its scarlet flush on cheek and lip, smiling 
 beside granny ; Joe's manly, sunburnt visage and 
 handsome figure on the other. 
 
 We sat down in perfect silence. Mr. Harding carved, 
 and we all went through at least the form of eating. 
 Still in that dead silence, when just as I was about to 
 lay down my knife and fork, a wagon came rapidly 
 down the road and stopped at our door. " Lemuel 
 come back from the post-office," said father. 
 
 But was that halting step in the entry Lemuel's ? 
 
 The door flung open, and there stood Joe. 
 
 Sorrow is easy to describe, but what words can tell 
 the incredible thrill of such joy as this ? For the first 
 time in my life I lost all consciousness for a blind 
 blank moment. I did not faint, for I never faint, 
 but I knew nothing from the moment I saw the door 
 open on him till I found both his arms round me and 
 my head lying against him as I still sat in my chair. 
 It's no use trying to tell it. A few, blessed as I, have 
 snatched this blossom out of blood-red battle-fields ; 
 they will know. 
 
 It seems Joe had fallen, as Captain Banks said, from 
 two musket-bullets that pierced at once the upper part 
 of his left arm ; fortunately for him they were not 
 Minie"-bullets, but the old kind. Then the cavalry 
 charge swept over him, and a horse stepping on his 
 right leg broke it badly ; he escaped marvellously with 
 his life, and fortunately no artery was ruptured ; but 
 he lay on the field three days and three nights, was 
 then picked up by a farmer, a Virginian and a Union 
 man, who, passing by the field, heard him groan ; he 
 picked him up, took him home, drove off to the nearest
 
 288 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 doctor to be found, and bad his leg set, and bis wounds 
 dressed ; but Joe was too weak to talk or think, and 
 before he had strength to do either fever set in, with 
 delirium, and in consequence they neither knew who he 
 was or where he came from. But the woman of the 
 house nursed him like a mother. She had two sons 
 fighting in the West with Rosecrans, and she said it 
 was for thinking of them that she never let a soldier 
 pass her door hungry or thirsty, and took such care of 
 Joe. If gratitude and blessing and prayers can keep 
 that woman's sons alive and well, they will come back 
 to her scathless ! 
 
 So for two months he lay there between life and 
 death. Then he wrote, but the letter was lost, or de 
 layed, or missent ; and through his slow convalescence 
 he expected to see his father or me daily, and so wrote 
 no more till, as soon as he could sit up long enough, he 
 got to Hagerstown, and from there home. True, his 
 leg had been badly set, and he never would walk with 
 out limping, and his arm still lay in a sling ; but it 
 was Joe ! No matter how battered or broken, no matter 
 how wan and thin, he was back again ! 
 
 The next week I laid aside my heavy crape and 
 bombazine for a white dress, and we were married. 
 Still bent and grave, but with a bright smile, father 
 put both his arms round me, and kissed me for the 
 first time in his life. " My dear child !" was all he 
 said. 
 
 And the week after I put on those mourning gar 
 ments again, for granny was gone. The only words 
 she had spoken since Joe came home, except in answer 
 to some question, were : " He that saveth his life shall 
 lose it; but he that loseth his life shall find it." She
 
 MY THANKSGIVING. 289 
 
 sank into a sort of lethargy, and fell asleep like a con 
 tented child. 
 
 It is winter now. Heavy snow falls as I write, drift 
 ing from the north-east, and settling, shroud-like, over 
 the earth ; but in the house, at home, there is no climate 
 but summer. 
 
 God has given me my heart's desire.
 
 290 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 HOW SHE FOUND OUT. 
 
 " BUT I don't love you ! " stiid Laura, in a lazy sort 
 of way, as if it were a matter of no particular conse 
 quence. 
 
 " Yes, you do," answered Frank, lying at her feet 
 in the short, sweet grass, and looking up in her face. 
 A very pleasant face to look into, no doubt : piquant, 
 sensible, humorous, with great capacities of sweetness 
 not yet called out by life ; for Laura's life had been as 
 tranquil as that of the clover-blossoms he was punch 
 ing with her parasol, and her dark eyes had never yet 
 been dimmed or softened with sorrow. They were all 
 sparkle. Yet what girl of twenty would sit quietly 
 and hear a man tell her she loved him in that calm 
 way, even if she had known him always, and was his 
 step-cousin? 
 
 Not Laura Gay ! A quick flush of angry color rose 
 to the dark hair that lay in soft, fluffy clouds almost 
 down to her eyes, and hid the low, wide forehead. She 
 jumped up from the rock where she was sitting. 
 
 " You are impertinent. I shall go home ! " 
 
 "O Laura! don't be cruel. Stay a moment 
 give me a chance. I do beg your pardon, ma'am ; " 
 and Frank Dyer put himself into such an absurd posture 
 on his knees, with his hands dropped at the wrists, for 
 all the world like Laura's own little spaniel which he
 
 HOW SHE FOUND OUT. 291 
 
 had taught to beg, that she had to laugh, and after 
 that there was no more to be said ; so she sat down 
 again and waited for the sunset which they had come 
 to see. 
 
 Norfolk is a little village in western Connecticut: 
 sleepy as Sleepy Hollow, except that it is partly on a 
 hill, and that the north winds blow there straight from 
 the Arctic regions, without let or hindrance. In winter 
 Norfolk is a howling wilderness of snow or stones, 
 where the people endure hardness, and keep alive by 
 strenuous exertions. In summer it blooms with the 
 reluctant foliage and flowering of New England. The 
 barren hills put forth mullein and hardhack, with scant 
 bloom of diluted yellow and unwilling pinkness. The 
 ready ferns illustrate the wood-edges with their delicate 
 grace and faint odor. The gnarled apple-trees writhe 
 into rosy buds, and the knotted, straggling kalmia en 
 tertains angels unaware in its clouds of dawn -tinted or 
 pallid flowers, that come and go almost too quickly to 
 be discovered. 
 
 People go to Norfolk in summer to keep cool and 
 they do it. A few people live and die there. One of 
 these few was Laura Gay's father. Mr. Gay was born 
 in Norfolk, and, having made money enough to content 
 him, elsewhere, returned to his birthplace and settled 
 down in the old homestead. It can be inferred what 
 sort of a man he was from the two facts, that he was 
 content with fifty thousand dollars, and that he was 
 willing to settle down in Norfolk after a long absence, 
 money-making in New York. But he was very fond of 
 his children, and city life had proved fatal to all of 
 them but one ; after that nothing would have per 
 suaded him to leave the country. He took kindly to
 
 2!2 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 his life there, pottered about his garden in summer, 
 hoed his corn, brushed his peas, made wonderful scare 
 crows, and exterminated the worms from his currant- 
 bushes. In winter he had full occupation in keeping 
 his house warm. Seal-skin bags and blubber would 
 have been a vast comfort to him, but civilization de 
 mands coal fires and roast beef. 
 
 Laura was never sent to school. A governess of 
 some sense, and a good deal of sweetness, brought her 
 up. Her mother was a fat, fair, incapable female, 
 who liked her dinner and her novel, and who was 
 abundantly careless of what other people said, a 
 happy gift in the country. It was Miss Greene, the 
 governess, who was Laura's real mother ; who directed 
 her nature in its bright, simple, fearless fashion ; who 
 bought her clothes and saw that they were not outr6 
 enough to be remarkable ; who bought, also, the books 
 she read, and permitted novels of a certain class 
 among them. 
 
 It was she who introduced Laura to the few mild 
 dissipations of society she had ever enjoyed ; for Mrs. 
 Gay said she was too feeble to visit, being in fact too 
 fat. Mr. Gay had never entertained as possible the 
 idea that Laura would or could many. She was his 
 little girl still. She always would be. He felt a 
 curious surprise when she began to go to the church 
 sewing-society, and said, " Sh, sh, dear! children 
 shouldn't talk about such things," when she piquantly 
 retailed at breakfast all the gossip with which the un 
 bleached cotton and cheap calico garments had been 
 seasoned in their fashioning the night before. Ho 
 even doubted in his secret heart if she could read well 
 enough when she was asked to join a reading circle,
 
 HOW SHE FOUND OUT. 293 
 
 which was to Norfolk what a ball is to New York. Bat 
 he did not express the doubt, lest he should grieve her. 
 
 So she grew up as natural, as honest, as delightful 
 as any wild blossom in the fields about her ; and it was 
 no wonder that Frank Dyer, whose father had married 
 Mrs. Gay's sister, when his boy was some seven years 
 old, should find out, after knowing Laura as long as he 
 could remember, and much longer than she could, that 
 she was the very sweetest girl in all the world, and the 
 dearest to him. 
 
 But Frank manfully held his tongue till Laura was 
 twenty. He did not want her to accept him before she 
 knew her own heart fully. She had no lack of ad 
 mirers, such as they were. The village post-office had 
 a succession of clerks, who fell in love with her as fast 
 as they came into position. At least three young 
 farmers spent Sunday in worshipping a human idol 
 with shining eyes and fluffy hair, and she counted 
 among her scalps all those youths who administered 
 dry goods to the Norfolk population, one after an 
 other, and forsook their counter because Laura had 
 no smiles to measure off for them. One theological 
 student, also, who came to try his new-fledged powers 
 in the old white church, bowed and fell at her feet, 
 and then went his way sorrowing. Frank might have 
 despaired of such a Diana had he been a man given to 
 despair ; but he knew, without conceit, that he was a 
 better man than these, and he saw with inward delight 
 that Laura depended on him more and more every 
 year. 
 
 So he spent his summers there with his step-mother, 
 who preferred her sister's society and the cool idlesse of 
 the deep country to Newport or Saratoga ; and when his
 
 294 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 vacation was over and he plunged into business again, 
 he kept Laura always reminded of him by occasional 
 gay notes ; sometimes a piece of music, a box of 
 Maillard's delicate confections, books just published, 
 birthday bouquets, and all the small munitions of war 
 wherewith the illuminati besiege fortresses in these 
 days. But in vain had he waited for Laura to spend a 
 winter in New York, or even Hartford, or to be allowed 
 a season at some gay watering-place, where she might 
 see some other world than that of Norfolk. Her 
 father would not hear of her going to a city ; his early 
 experience filled him with nervous horror of the idea. 
 Was one child spared him out of five, well, straight 
 and strong, with bloom on her face, light in her eye, 
 laughter on her lips, and should he be insane enough 
 to risk his treasure where all the others had been 
 wrecked and lost? Never! No persuasion could induce 
 him to trust her to Mrs. Dyer's care even for a month. 
 
 As to travelling, that, too, was not feasible. Mamma 
 was altogether too supine. Railroads tortured her both 
 by their punctuality and their speed ; hotels were an 
 astonishment and a hissing on account of their stairs 
 and their chairs. She did not see why people wanted 
 to travel when they could stay at home. So she stayed 
 there ! She could not be left alone, so they all stayed 
 with her ; and, therefore, it came to pass that Laura at 
 twenty had seen no better man than Frank Dyer, and 
 he took heart of grace that night they strolled off to see 
 the sunset, and asked her to marry him, receiving the 
 answer and making the response we have already re 
 vealed. 
 
 It is true they sat down quietly to wait for the sink 
 ing sun, but it was an outward quiet only. With all
 
 HOW SHE FOUND OUT. 295 
 
 his audacity, Frank Dyer's heart was apprehensive 
 enough, and Laura was disturbed deeply. Change of 
 any sort had never coine near her ; life had never been 
 a conscious thing ; she had grown up in careless com 
 fort, happy in her daily ways, as a child is happy un 
 awares ; and here came the first stone to vex the 
 placid stream's career, that had hitherto known only a 
 bright, shallow ripple in its grassy bed. But, like a 
 child, she put the trouble aside for the moment and 
 gazed before her. They sat on the precipitous edge of 
 a little hill that holds on its summit the church, the 
 green, and a few pleasant houses ; the last step of a 
 terrace rather, for beyond green and church the land 
 rises again, and still again ; but at their feet, and 
 stretching out before them, lay the West Norfolk and 
 Canaan valley, a green ravine straight on to the sun 
 set, its lofty sides clothed to their summits with tender 
 foliage of birch, beech, and maple, shaded with masses 
 of hemlock and dark spear-heads of pine. A brook 
 babbled down through the verdant cleft in the hills ; 
 you could hear its distant fall over more than one dam, 
 but its light and shining were hidden by thick leaves, 
 and by the flood of golden, dusty, radiant mist that 
 filled and overflowed all the valley from the fast-sinking 
 sun. Now that day-star fell behind a dark blue slate 
 cloud, and gilt its edge with a vivid fringe of fire. 
 Silence brooded over all the woods, broken only now 
 and then by the thrilling, vibrant, silver-smitten note 
 of the wood-thrush, who sings at noon and night as if 
 he disdained the song of other birds, and would have 
 all ether to himself for the clear spirit of his fairy 
 clarion to fill. Then the sun emerged ; the livid cloud 
 was flecked with cold crimson ; pearl and golden scales
 
 296 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 of light dappled all the southern sky in streaming fans 
 of splendor. The east was filled with warm rose tints 
 flushing and fading, and deeper still the crimson grew, 
 and softer the purple of the west. A parting cloud of 
 fire and gloom revealed the high evening star ; the sun 
 was gone. 
 
 Laura drew a long breath. She had lost something, 
 and tried to recover herself and remember. It came 
 back to her, with a disagreeable thrill, that Frank 
 had asked her to marry him. She pulled up her light 
 shawl hastily, and stooped to pick a cluster of straw 
 berry-blossoms to hide the hot blush that covered her 
 face ; but Frank Dyer saw it. He was wise, however, 
 and said no more just then. They went home through 
 the dew, the June grass brushing them with fragrant 
 spires, and the cool evening air breathing promise of a 
 storm to-morrow, as well as the heavy gathering clouds 
 all about the horizon. 
 
 " It will rain to-morrow," said Laura, for want of 
 some better thing to say ; and here they were at the 
 gate. 
 
 " Good-by," was all that Frank answered. He did 
 not offer to come in. She did not ask him. For the 
 first time in her life Laura was glad to be rid of her 
 cousin. It did not strike her as significant that it was 
 the first time. She was too young, too simple, to 
 know why. She went into the house and sat down by 
 the window. A tall white rose pushed its fragrant 
 milky buds against the sash ; the half unfolded roses 
 showed their soft saffron depths, and stood pearled 
 with dew, and breathing tranquil odors close to the 
 sill. Laura loved roses, but she never looked at these. 
 Her face was troubled and thoughtful, and nobody
 
 HOW SHE FOUND OUT. 297 
 
 disturbed her ; for her father was hunting cut-worms at 
 the roots of his cabbage plants, her mother deep in a 
 new novel, and Miss Greene had gone up the hill to 
 prayer-meeting. Not that she would have told her 
 thoughts or her trouble to either of the three ; but the 
 silence forced them upon her own attention, and she sat 
 there a long time wondering if she really did care any 
 thing about Frank Dyer except as a cousin, and getting 
 more and more indignant that he should have asserted it 
 as a fact instead of asking it as a favor. For, as I said, 
 Miss Greene had let Laura read novels. It was in 
 fact making a virtue of necessity, for she knew what 
 feminine nature is in the best of us ; that from the 
 days of Paradise down it has been forbidden fruit that 
 tempted us all ; and by permitting Laura to read 
 novels she achieved for herself the power of selecting 
 them. 
 
 But novels are not nature, save and except a noted 
 few ; and it was not in Laura's experience of gen 
 tlemanly love-making that the lady should be so 
 curtly taken possession of as she had been, without 
 so much as " by your leave." It is true her lovers 
 for a few of the enamored rustics had really committed 
 themselves had made their proposals with much 
 stammering and dire confusion of face, but with 
 proper humility. She had expected of a lover on her 
 own plane the elegant diction, the well-turned phrases, 
 the rapture and devotion, of a well-behaved man in 
 a book ; and Frank had first asked her in the simplest 
 Saxon to marry him, and then, when she said she did 
 not love him, assured her she did. Was this to be 
 borne ? 
 
 So she meditate 1 long on the fact that she did not love
 
 298 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 him ; they were always quarrelling ; not a week passed 
 but their " little tempers " rose and flew to arms, for 
 at least five minutes ; then they were not in the least 
 alike, at least everybody said so. Frank was not 
 afraid of anything ; he was dreadfully rash ; he had 
 brown hair and blue-gray eyes ; and so forth and so 
 on, till she had catalogued the poor young fellow 
 remorselessly, the very police would have known him. 
 Then femininity relented, of course, and the other side 
 of the shield was interviewed ; but good qualities are 
 so tedious. Laura yawned, lifted her head from her 
 hand, got up and lit her candle, and ignominiously went 
 to bed, thinking all the way upstairs of the hero she 
 always had meant to marry : tall, pale, with deep, 
 glittering eyes and raven hair ; a man dedicated to 
 consumption and the ministry ; a man to be adored, 
 waited on, worshipped. Poor, dear 'little Laura! 
 she was so young ! But she went to sleep very soon, 
 and slept better than that audacious Frank, who 
 was half scared at his first daring venture, and lay 
 wondering how it would result in what fashion lie 
 should follow it up. Night brought him no counsel ; 
 he made up his mind only to wait, having dim sus 
 picion that these matters, out of novels, find their own 
 way to a fit ending, much like the drop of water that 
 works a patient way through sand, and stones, and 
 tenacious clay, at last to the root which awaits it in 
 thirsty longing. Even after a week's waiting, after 
 walks, drives, hours of croquet, and two picnics, op 
 portunity-makers for the aid of all deliberating lovers, 
 all he contrived to say was one brief sentence, that 
 escaped him almost before he knew it, as the two sat 
 together one Sunday night on Mr. Gay's door-step, the
 
 HOW SHE FOUND OUT. 299 
 
 rose-freighted air breathing softest balm about them, 
 and the young moon, slender as a dream, floating down 
 the twilight sky. 
 
 " Laura, have you found out yet whether you love 
 me?" 
 
 " No ! " snapped out this thorny }~oung person, with 
 a sudden red in her face that even the twilight could 
 not hide. 
 
 She did not say " I do not," thought Frank to him 
 self. 
 
 " AYou't you try to find out? " he replied, with a cer 
 tain strenuous meekness quite as masterful as a demand. 
 
 "I don't kpow," she answered; but the tone was 
 far more subdued ; the doubt was half assurance. 
 
 " Chateau qui parle, femme quiecoute, tons deuxvont 
 se rendre," thought Frank, blessing the consolatory old 
 proverb, as Laura abruptly rose and left him to wel 
 come Miss Greene, just home from another prayer-meet 
 ing ; for Miss Greene was a good woman, conveniently 
 good, thought Frank Dyer. 
 
 Matters went on very tranquilly after this. One 
 little adventure occurred to Laura that was destined to 
 be cut deep in her memory by after events. She went 
 over to "Winsted one day to the dress-maker, and Mrs. 
 Dyer went with her. At the last moment Frank dis 
 covered important business would take him to the 
 borough too ; and, although both ladies assured him he 
 would be dreadfully in the way, he was yet allowed to 
 go on condition that he would not expect their society, 
 but only meet them at the last train. 
 
 Now Mrs. Dyer, though not equal to Mrs. Gay in 
 size, was a fairly stout woman, and of all things de 
 spised a hill ; so, after Laura's dresses were talked over,
 
 300 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 fitted, tried on ; her Sunday bonnet of last year a bit 
 changed and sobered down for this year's daily wear, 
 and a basket of peaches bought, Mrs. Dyer went to 
 the hotel to take the carriage to the West-street 
 station. But Laura at the last moment remembered 
 she must have some candy, and really it was absurd to 
 ride up a little hill like that ; she could buy her sweets 
 and run up the road very nearly as fast as Aunt Bell 
 could be driven up. But she was long buying her 
 candy ; there was a delay about change, and when 
 Laura at last crossed the Lake-street bridge she heard 
 a whistle at the lower station, and, supposing the train 
 to be coming, hurried up the steps to the track, in 
 tending to cross the railroad bridge, which there runs 
 high above the road, and affords a quick way to reach 
 the cars. Luckily for her the whistle she heard was 
 that of the train just in from Hartford ; but she did 
 not know that, and hurried over the plank that is laid 
 across the open floor of the bridge for pedestrians. 
 Her aunt and Frank stood on the platform watching 
 her, but neither felt anxious, for Laura was sure-footed, 
 and prided herself on her safe passage of many a dan 
 gerous place in her walks. This time, however, be 
 tween hurry and carelessness, one foot slipped just as 
 she got to the last tie of the track, and went down into 
 space as far as it could. She threw her bundles away 
 instinctively, and grasped the rail with both hands ; 
 for an instant she recalled that coming whistle, and 
 shivered ; but the thought gave her desperate strength, 
 and before Frank could reach her she had pulled her 
 self forward on to the solid abutment, and was safe, 
 though trembling with excitement and somewhat 
 scraped and bruised.
 
 HOW SHE FOUND OUT. 301 
 
 Frank's face was white with terror, and he could not 
 speak ; he just gathered up her bundles, drew her hand 
 into his arm, and hastened to the platform, where Aunt 
 Bell stood wringing her hands, almost in hysterics. 
 
 After this good woman was quieted and Laura in the 
 cars on her way home beside the still silent Frank, she 
 remembered his white face, his look of pain, and won 
 dered what made him care so much about her, and if 
 she ever could or would care about him enough to marry 
 him, half smiling, half sighing over the idea. So that 
 summer passed, and the Dyers with it, though the}* only 
 went to New York. Autumn again painted all the 
 world about Laura with its wondrous pigments. Sober 
 Norfolk became transfigured ; respectable old Haystack 
 flaunted in kingly robes of crimson and gold ; the great 
 green valley turned to a ravine of fire and blood, 
 darkened with the constant evergreen sentinels that 
 withstood all temptations of gay attire ; the very ferns 
 turned delicate bronze or faint yellow ; and weeping 
 blackberry-vines trailed garnet and saffron tracer}' over 
 the scant grasses of the rocky hill-sides. Laura went 
 nutting with more than one party ; she gathered a bushel 
 at least of gay leaves, and forgot to dry them ; she took 
 long, lonely walks and read volumes of nice, harmless 
 poetry ; her eyes grew dreamy, her manner abstracted ; 
 life out-doors seemed to have lost its flavor ; she missed 
 Frank everywhere ; she began to hate the youths of 
 Norfolk, who fluttered about her like uninteresting 
 moths, only to burn their fingers. She wished it were 
 summer, and, behold, here Avas winter ; dreadful, more 
 dreadful than ever, for it rioted among the deep figures 
 below zero, made the house dismal with cold o' morn 
 ings, and desperate with frozen water everywhere at
 
 302 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 night. There were clays when the post-office was not 
 accessible ; when the railroad itself was over-drifted, and 
 no New York paper even lifted the weight of their sol 
 itude with the assurance of a pleasanter world beyond, 
 a long and dreary winter, in which almost the only 
 gleam of pleasure was the weekly pamphlet from Frank, 
 or the frequent letter from either his mother or him 
 self. But, after all, if one can endure, spring surely 
 comes at last ; and when May began to make the old 
 hills green in patches, and dot the sward with shy, del 
 icate blooms, Aunt Bell wrote that she had been so 
 worn out with one influenza after another, a touch of 
 pneumonia, and a long siege of rheumatism, that the 
 doctor had ordered her to leave New York at once, and 
 she had resolved to take board at a hotel in Winsted 
 till July, when, of course, she should come to Norfolk. 
 Mrs. Gay fussed a good deal in her harmless way about 
 this new caprice of Mrs. Dyer's ; but she knew long 
 ago it was of no use trying to move her sister's fancy, 
 however capricious it might be. Laura was very glad ; 
 if Aunt Bell was so near she could run down and see 
 her any day. Nothing was said about Frank, he never 
 could leave New York so early ; but by and by, when 
 June began, and Aunt Bell had coaxed Laura into 
 coming to stay a week with her, much to the (appar 
 ent) astonishment of both ladies, Frank appeared 
 Thursday night, to stay till the next Monday. 
 
 How unfortunate ! Laura had promised to go to Hart 
 ford with Miss Greene on Saturday. But then she was 
 coming back at night ; and, since she was to leave Miss 
 Greene to spend Sunday with some friends, Frank 
 promised to run down to Pine Meadow on the four- 
 o'clock train and meet her there ; he might be very
 
 now SHE FOUND OUT. 303 
 
 useful, Aunt Bell said, to carry her bundles out of the 
 car. Laura thought so herself. So at four o'clock the 
 two simultaneously left Hartford and Winsted, flying 
 toward each other on the wings of steam, though in a 
 mighty prosaic fashion : Laura hot, tired, and cross ; 
 for Aunt Bell had made her wear a thick black silk 
 dress and a black hat and feathers, becoming enough, 
 but fit for the cold Winsted morning, not for the hot 
 Hartford noon ; and then shopping is not always con 
 ducive to peace of mind : when you cannot possibly 
 match your summer silk with trimming, or get the right 
 shade of gloves, or suit yourself with a summer bonnet ; 
 when you are blinded with tints of blue, gray, and 
 lavender ; when your dresses demand white and black, 
 with just a bit of rose-color in your bonnet, and you fall 
 really in love with a wreath of dark and golden pansies ; 
 or you want that exquisite French cambric, with a 
 border of daisies to its blue ground, and have spent all 
 your money but two dollars, you have a right to be 
 cross. 
 
 So Laura was cross, as, with half a dollar left in her 
 porte-monnaie after buying her ticket and her inevi 
 table candy, and six bundles in her arms and hands, 
 she seated herself in the train and moved slowly out of 
 the station. 
 
 In the meantime Frank bethought himself of the gar 
 nets that are to be found here and there in the rocks 
 of Satan's Kingdom ; and having a fitful fancy for 
 geology, and remembering that he had an hour to wait 
 for Laura, borrowed a hammer, and as the train crept 
 at a snail's pace through this evil-named gorge 
 dropped off the platform of the car, and proceeded to 
 amuse himself. The day grew hotter toward night, as
 
 304 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 some days in the early season do. Geologizing is not 
 done in the shade, and Frank got very warm indeed ; 
 Laura meanwhile getting cool, good-tempered, and 
 rested, in the breezy cars, and thinking of Pine Meadow 
 station more than she was aware. Suddenly the train 
 stopped, and she was surprised to find the way so far 
 passed over that they were waiting at the side track 
 west of Stratton Brook for the four o'clock train from 
 Winsted ; fifteen minutes dragged on like an hour. 
 By and by the steam-whistle shrieked from a distance, 
 the train rattled on to the siding, and with a vexed yell 
 the detained engine was off again. As they swept, 
 half an hour after, through the Kingdom gorge, Laura, 
 who sat looking out of the window, saw a man try to 
 get on the platform of the car, and fail. She thought 
 it might be the engineer of the construction train at 
 first, and then, quick as light, it flashed on her brain 
 that it was Frunk, who expected the train to slow as 
 usual, and could not reach it. She flew to the rear 
 door of the car, by this time just on the west end of 
 the bridge, and there he was, running across the open 
 floor on the single plank over that black, swift river. 
 Laura turned to the conductor with almost a cry : 
 
 " Please, won't you stop the train? Mr. Dyer is left 
 here, and it is Saturday night." 
 
 " I can't. Miss Gay." The conductor knew both 
 Laura and Frank from their frequent transits over the 
 road. "I wish I could; but we are fifteen minutes 
 late." 
 
 She turned to look. Frank was gone. Laura felt 
 her way back to her seat ; she remembered her own 
 fall on the bridge at Winsted ; and there came back to 
 her a hoirid story, in the paper only 3 7 esterday, of an
 
 HOW SHE FOUND OUT. 305 
 
 old lady whose daughter had come to bid her good-b} r 
 at a train, and standing on the track to wave her hand 
 kerchief, the mother saw, as she rolled off in the car, 
 another train run over her child, and kill her before 
 her eyes. Laura shuddered ; but, having a certain 
 amount of sense for a girl, she sat down and considered 
 what to do. At the Pine Meadow station there was no 
 telegraph office. She could not stop there ; she could 
 not go home in this horrible anxiety ; she must know 
 the worst if anything is worse than doubt. She 
 went to the conductor again and asked him to tell the 
 station-master at the Meadow that if Mr. Dyer came 
 there he might tell him that a wagon would be sent 
 down for him from "Winsted at once. Now, Laura did 
 this partly not to let the conductor know she was 
 frightened, for she alread}', with the logic and justice 
 of most young ladies, regarded this poor man as a cal 
 lous and cruel brute not to have stopped for Frank ; 
 and partly to give Frank himself information that 
 would set him at rest, if b} 7 any possible chance he had 
 escaped the ghastly river, with its rocks and pools ; for 
 Laura had enough poise left to remember that such a 
 thing might be. But little did this young person know 
 the ways of men if she expected the conductor to give 
 such a message, or the station-master to deliver it. 
 They knew very well that any average man could take 
 care of himself without a girl's intervention. Laura 
 hates them both to this day ; but I do not know that it 
 troubles either of them. 
 
 Then she resolved to leave the train at New Hart 
 ford, for she knew certain "VViusted people whom she 
 knew well would get into the cars there, and she could 
 Bend after a carriage to come down for her from the
 
 306 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 hotel and take her home. So, gathering all her bun 
 dles, she hurried to the door, and, as soon as they 
 stopped, seized upon the first gentleman she saw entering 
 and charged him to tell the driver of the Blank House 
 carriage to send a man clown to New Hartford for her as 
 soon as possible, "For my cousin, who was to meet me 
 here, has been left at Pine Meadow, and I must wait." 
 Diplomatic little Laura ! She did not see the furtive 
 smile that curled the corners of Mr. Blinn's mouth as 
 she so carefully avoided personal pronouns. She did 
 not know that he came down on the train with Frank, 
 and knew perfectly well who lie was waiting for ; much 
 less did she know the conclusions he drew at once from 
 her white, anxious face and wistful eyes. But he prom 
 ised to give her message. Then where to leave her 
 bundles? The station-master assured her he should 
 immediately shut up for the night, as there was no later 
 train, but kindly advised her to go to the tavern. She 
 would have asked where she could find a wagon 
 and driver ; but, alas ! there was only half a dollar in 
 that depleted pocket-book. So she found her way to 
 the tavern, interviewed the landlord, and left her par 
 cels in his keeping, telling him she expected to be sent 
 for, and if the man from the Blank House, Winsted, came 
 there before she got back, he must wait for her. Laura's 
 parcels were valuable, among them her pretty French 
 Cashmere shawl, rolled up in its case, and the results 
 of her clay's shopping. But do you think she cared, 
 when Frank was perhaps lying dead in that black river, 
 what became of things ? So she gathered up the long 
 train of her heavy dress, which had been torn from its 
 loopings before she left Hartford, and prepared to walk 
 down to Pine Meadow.
 
 now SHE FOUND OUT. 307 
 
 How hot and dusty the road was ! How long as a 
 bad dream its dull track ! One wagon after another 
 passed her, but Laura had no courage to ask fora ride. 
 Two ladies in a ponj'-carriage drove down, and one 
 turned and looked at her. Laura felt uneasily how 
 peculiar her appearance must be then and there, but 
 she kept on till the Canal railroad station was in sight. 
 Then she paused to consider. If Frank had not been 
 drowned, of course he would walk up to the village ; if 
 he got her message he would stop at the station ; if 
 not, he would probably take the track as shortest ; at 
 any rate the road ran parallel to the railroad, and the 
 Connecticut Western track went for a mile side by side 
 with that of the Canal. She would walk down the 
 rails, and look across at the highway ; then she should 
 be sure not to miss him ; so holding. up her gown, that 
 kept increasing still in weight, she stumbled on across 
 the ties, her head turned toward the highway, till the 
 two paths diverged so far that in the deepening twilight 
 she could scarce discern figures, and in despair she 
 took a little cart-path back to the road, and found her 
 self close to the Pine Meadow station. It was shut 
 tight ; nobody to be found. She looked along the lonely 
 track toward the Kingdom bridge, but no figure ap 
 peared ; she heard the rushing river and the whispering 
 trees sighing in the soft, damp air of the valley ; her 
 heart sank very low. She could not walk to the bridge, 
 and then back to New Hartford ; her strength was all 
 but gone now. Sadly she turned back and hunted up 
 the station-master, only to find that he had shut up as 
 soon as the train passed, because he "allers did." 
 " Hadn't nobody ben there !" Then there lay all that 
 walk to be retraced ; and by this time hope had almost
 
 308 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 left her ; the tears came hot and fast to her eyes, and 
 dropped unheeded. She went over, with the fertile 
 imagination of a woman, not only all the probabilities, 
 but all the possibilities, of the case. How should she tell 
 Aunt Bell ; how glad she was that she had not confided 
 her terrors to Mr. Blinn, for Aunt Bell might have had 
 a real fit and died, to hear such a rumor, and not be 
 able to search it out, and Uncle Dyer not there either ! 
 Poor Frank, poor Laura rather, she thought, what 
 should she do without him ? If she asked herself any 
 further questions they are unknown to this deponent. 
 
 But the hot night grew hotter to her all the time ; 
 her feet ached as well as her heart ; it is well that we 
 have bodies to deaden the aches of our souls some 
 times. Just then the pony phaeton passed her again, 
 this time with but. one lady. She drove very slowly, 
 and Laura, with her heart in her mouth, took courage, 
 and said timidly, though clearly : 
 
 " Are you going to New Hartford, madam? " 
 
 The lady stopped and assented. 
 
 " Can I ride up with you, please? I am so tired." 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 And in another moment Laura was safe beside this 
 friend in need, inexpressibly relieved as to her weari 
 ness, and very glad to have her companion ask, " Are 
 you not Miss Gay, of Norfolk?" And then Laura told 
 her story, too glad to be known and befriended to re 
 member or care for any possible inferences. 
 
 Blessed are the sympathizers ! they give the most 
 precious gifts of earth. Man does not live by bread 
 alone, even in this mortal life ; we exist on other food 
 that that which is physical. Had Mrs. Parker been 
 sarcastic, and sniffed at Laura as a foolish girl, scared
 
 HOW SHE FOUND OUT. 309 
 
 at nothing, and assured her a man was always able to 
 look out for himself, or teased her for her sentimen 
 tality and devotion, Laura might have added a third to 
 her list of hates ; but Mrs. Parker was a lady, and 
 knew better. Life had not made her bitter any more 
 than nature. She soothed poor Laura with the kind 
 liest words ; assured her she should feel just so in the 
 same circumstances, and proposed at once that they 
 should drive right back to the tavern, and see if Mr. 
 Dyer had by any chance been there ; but he had not. 
 The landlord had seen somebody who looked like a 
 stranger ride by ; but he was with another man, and 
 went up to the depot. So to the depot they went, to 
 find that all closely shut ; then Mrs. Parker suggested 
 that he might have come up to the telegraph office and 
 sent a message for her to Winsted, thinking she would 
 be alarmed ; but when they got there the operator had 
 gone to tea. She must be looked for, and when they 
 found her there was no record of any message for the 
 last hour. Mrs. Parker, with unweary kindness, then 
 insisted Laura should go home with her, bundles and 
 all, to wait for the "team" from Winsted, which the 
 landlord of the tavern promised to send to Mrs. 
 Parker's when it came ; and the homesick, heartsick 
 girl was ouly too glad to go. 
 
 The cool, quiet house, the friendliness, the rest, 
 seemed to Laura's undisciplined soul only aggrava 
 tions ; she wanted to do something ; she could not 
 swallow the nice supper set before her, she could not 
 even drink the tea. She paced up and down the piazza 
 in restless misery, till at last the idea occurred to her 
 to telegraph to a friend of Frank's, who was boarding 
 at the hotel in Winsted with his wife, and find out if
 
 310 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 her cousin had been heard from there. So she wrote 
 a hasty message : 
 
 Has Frank come home? I am left in New Hartford. 
 
 LAURA' GAT. 
 
 Further particulars she spared, thinking of that half 
 dollar ; and when Mrs. Parker's little boy had gone 
 down to the office she began to count the minutes for 
 his return. It was seven o'clock now ; by eight at 
 most she ought to see the wagon from Winsted, and 
 before that she should hear from Mr. White. An 
 hour ! The next fifteen minutes were like a day to 
 her ; and at every roll of wheels over the bridge below 
 her heart jumped. But nobody came ! B} r and by the 
 boy returned ; but there was no answer to her message. 
 At eight oh, how long first! Mr. Parker came 
 home, and, proving to be an old acquaintance of 
 Laura's, was as kind as his wife,, He went at once 
 down to the livery-stable, which they had not thought 
 of, to see if any one had been there to hire a horse, as 
 it was the only place where one could be had, and 
 surely Mr. Dyer would not think of walking to Win 
 sted. Laura was by this time nearly frantic. Nobody 
 came for her ; no answer arrived to her telegram ; 
 nothing could be heard of Frank. The mystery and 
 silence of death seemed to close about her like an 
 awful nightmare. She beat against these bars of 
 circumstance like a newly-prisoned bird ; she begged 
 Mr. Parker to order a carriage for her at ten o'clock, 
 for if nothing happened by that time she must and 
 would go back to Winsted ; she must reach her aunt ; 
 she must know something !
 
 HOW SHE FOUND OUT. 311 
 
 They all pitied her; they were all good to her. 
 Perhaps her fervent gratitude to them stands balanced 
 in her record against her hatred of the conductor and 
 station-master. I think the gratitude outweighs the 
 hate if that be so, it is so much the rarer emotion. 
 But even the kindness and pity could but pacify the 
 external expression of Laura's wild and impatient 
 distress. The minutes passed in slow torture ; her 
 nerves were racked with doubt and dread ; her incisive 
 and impatient nature could know no more unendurable 
 pangs than those of suspense. Mr. Parker did not 
 come home ; he had then no good news to bring. 
 Night darkened over the hills about her ; mists curled 
 up from the long pond above the dam ; the river mur 
 mured below ; the tranquil stars came out softly into 
 the misty heaven. Laura looked at this still world 
 with dumb rage and reproach. Frank dead in that 
 whispering river, and all the world so silent, cairn, and 
 sweet! It was horrible. Where should she go ? What 
 should she do? Her head throbbed with pain and 
 excitement. She walked up and down in the night- 
 air till she was shivering with the chill, though her 
 head and her eyes were still aflame. Kind Mrs. 
 Parker, with pity in every tone, tried to make her sit 
 down and rest ; she did not try to comfort her any 
 more. Laura noticed that. Nine o'clock ; must she 
 give up all hope? Just then hoofs rattled on the 
 bridge, clattered up the hill. Mr. Parker's cheery 
 voice cried out that there was news, and in a moment 
 more Laura tore open a telegram from Winsted : 
 
 I am coming for you. Wait where you are. 
 
 FRANK DTEB.
 
 312 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 Laura gave one dry sob and sat down in a chair 
 somebody gave her. Her strength was all gone. 
 There are human words enough for pain : how few 
 there are for jo}' ! nowhere near enough to describe 
 the blessed relief and rapture that made our little girl 
 so weak, so content. Now she could remember her 
 politeness, and try to express her vivid gratitude to 
 these kindest of all people who had helped her in time 
 of need. But it seemed to her as if words failed even 
 there ; she had to cease herself, and hear how Mr. 
 Parker had heard nothing at the stable, and, being then 
 a little alarmed himself, had kept the telegraph office 
 open as long as he could, hoping to hear from 
 Winsted. 
 
 Let us take the time while Laura is waiting in hope 
 far different dispensation from the waiting in fear to 
 explain how this missing young gentleman had spent 
 his time for the three hours during which his fate had 
 been so doubtful to his dismayed " cousin." When 
 Frank found himself, at five o'clock, in the gorge, tired 
 and heated with climbing, his pockets full of specimens, 
 and his hands bruised against the rocks, he resolved to 
 wait there for the train, which ordinarily slows quite 
 enough for any one to reach the car-steps easily, rather 
 than to walk in a hurry up to Pine Meadow. When 
 the cars passed him so fast he still thought they would 
 stop for him on the other side of the bridge, as the 
 conductor had seen him, he supposed, from the baggage 
 car ; so he ran over the single plank, never thinking it 
 to be dangei-ous, and coming to no harm, except, 
 indeed, that he perceived the train did not slacken 
 speed, and that further effort was useless ; so he 
 turned at once into the highway, and prepared to walk
 
 HOW SHE FOUND OUT. 313 
 
 to New Hartford. Just then it must have been that 
 Laura turned to look again after speaking to the con 
 ductor ; for the road turns at right angles with the 
 bridge, while the train curves but little there ; and, 
 standing back in the car, she could not see the road, 
 but only the bridge and the track, and Frank not on 
 either ! 
 
 He walked but a few rods before meeting an old 
 farmer, whom he persuaded to put one of his horses 
 into a wagon and carry him to Winsted ; and so it 
 happened that while Laura, hot and anxious, was 
 trudging down the Canal railroad track, Frank was 
 quietly driving up the highway, and she had failed to 
 recognize him so far off, having moreover made up her 
 mind that he would walk. They had driven up to the 
 depot at New Hartford, for the farmer had some 
 errand there, and would have been seen again, and 
 probably recognized in passing the hotel, had they not, 
 to save time, taken a little by-road that cut off a 
 corner and put them sooner on the turnpike. Frank 
 thought of sending a telegram, but supposed the con 
 ductor had seen him, and would tell Laura he was left, 
 as she would ask probably, on his not appearing at the 
 Meadow station, if he had come down in the four- 
 o'clock train. When he got home and did not find 
 Laura, his mother having gone to bed with a sick head 
 ache, he could get no information from her. Mr. and 
 Mrs. White had gone to ride, and the telegram from 
 Laura lay safely on the floor of their room, shoved in 
 through the crack of the door ! The landlord asserted 
 that Laura did not come home in the carriage, and 
 now both driver and carriage were gone to the Nauga- 
 tuck train. Frank naturally supposed she was left in
 
 314 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 Hartford, and very tranquilly sat down and ate his 
 supper, and then went up street to hunt up Mr. Blinn 
 and see if he had seen her on the train, as it was just 
 possible she might have heard from Miss Greene news 
 to take her back to Norfolk, though he felt a certain 
 chagrin that she had not in either case thought of her 
 aunt's natural anxiety and telegraphed to her. Mr. 
 Blinn was not in his office, so Frank went on to send a 
 telegram to Hartford, and there learned of Laura's 
 message to Mr. White, sent his own down to her, and 
 waited till her answer came. Then he took a convey 
 ance from the nearest stable, and drove back to the 
 hotel for wraps and to interview the driver who had 
 received Mr. Blinu's order at the cars, and find out 
 why it was not executed. But that worthy was in a 
 muddled frame of mind, not unusual to him, and 
 "didn't remember nothin' 'beout it anyhow." So, 
 with a mildly derogatory remark, Frank went his 
 way to New Hartford, quite unconscious of Laura's 
 anxiety, and wondering not a little how she came to be 
 so silly as to get off the last train at New Hartford, 
 and on Saturday night too. Her reply to his message 
 had been, "Will wait at Mr. E. B. Parker's" ; so, 
 after an inquiry or two, he drove directly to the 
 house. 
 
 It was dark by this time, or Laura, who was at the 
 door to meet him, might have been a little confused at 
 his look of surprise when she threw herself into his 
 arms and began to sob. 
 
 Here was an event, to be sure ! Laura, who never 
 had kissed him even as a child, hanging on his neck in 
 tears, and before utter strangers. Mrs. Parker came 
 to the rescue.
 
 HO W SHE FO UND OUT. 315 
 
 " Mr. Dyer, I presume. Miss Gay has been dread 
 fully frightened." 
 
 " Frightened?" echoed the bewildered man. 
 
 " O Frank ! for three hours I have not known if 
 you were dead or alive. I thought you were drowned." 
 
 " Come," said he, in a curt, masculine way, being in 
 fact mightily tickled with the obvious state of affairs ; 
 " put your things on, Laura ; we ought to go directly, 
 it is late ; " and while Laura, meek as any nun, 
 folded herself in the wraps he brought and hunted up 
 her bundles, Mr. Dyer made his warm acknowledgments 
 to Mr. and Mrs. Parker, and obtained some idea of 
 the complications he had unwittingly caused. 
 
 It was after ten o'clock when they drove out of the 
 little village ; the moon glittered just above the crest 
 of an eastern hill, red and hot through the purple haze ; 
 the soft and fragrant June night brooded like a tender 
 dream over the woods and drew out all their delicate 
 odors into the cool and wooing air ; no light shone 
 from any window ; no voice of man intruded on the 
 peace ; the dropping brooks tinkled from stone to 
 stone or rippled whisperingly under long grasses in the 
 meadows ; a whip-poor-will's lonely cry accented the 
 silence and made it felt. With broken speech, and 
 tears that could not be restrained, Laura told her 
 pitiful little tale, and Frank supplied its vacancies 
 with his own. Laura ended with a long, sighing 
 breath and an unfinished sentence : 
 
 "Oh, I am so glad" 
 
 Frank did not speak he could not. He grasped 
 Laura's little hand in his own very closely, but she did 
 not reclaim it. They were both silent for a while, 
 thrilled with the same emotion ; doubtful if, after all,
 
 316 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 this darkness, stillness, this silent passion, this sweet 
 agony of relief and rest, were not a dream ; if it could 
 be true ; if it were vanishing, at least this was Laura. 
 
 Frank, perhaps, was more assured, more exultant, 
 more courageous ; for it was he who broke the silence. 
 
 " Laura, have you found out?" and for answer the 
 lovely head dropped on his shoulder, and she nestled 
 into his arms. Probably she had. 
 
 Laura always said that Frank took a mean advan 
 tage of her, and extorted his answer when she was so 
 tired' she really didn't know whether she meant it ; but 
 as she never said this to any one but him, and they 
 were married the next October, I don't know that it 
 was of any consequence.
 
 ANN POTTER'S LESSON. 317 
 
 ANN POTTER'S LESSON. 
 
 MY sister Mary Jane is older than I, as much as 
 four years. Father died when we were both small, and 
 didn't leave us much means beside the farm. Mother 
 was rather a weakly woman ; she didn't feel as though 
 she could farm it for a livin'. It's hard work enough 
 for a man to get clothes and victuals off a farm in West 
 Connecticut ; it's up-hill work always ; and then a man 
 can turn to, himself, to ploughin' and mowin' ; but a 
 woman aint of no use, except to tell folks what to do ; 
 and everybody knows it's no way to have a thing done, 
 to send. 
 
 Mother talked it all over with Deacon Peters, and 
 he counselled her to sell off all the farm but the home- 
 lot, which was sot out for an orchard with young apple- 
 trees, and had a garden-spot to one end of it, close by 
 the house. Mother calculated to raise potatoes and 
 beans and onions enough to last us the year round, and 
 to take in sewin', so's to get what few groceries we was 
 goin' to want. We kept Old Red, the best cow : there 
 was pasture enough for her in the orchard, for the trees 
 wa'n'tgrowed to be bearin'as yet, and we lotted a good 
 deal on milk to our house ; besides, it saved butcher's 
 meat. 
 
 Mother was a real pious woman, and she was a high- 
 couraged woman too. Old Miss Perrit, an old widder-
 
 318 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 woman that lived down by the bridge, come up to see 
 her the week after father died. I remember all about 
 it, though I wa'ii't but ten years old ; for when I see 
 Miss Perrit comin' up the road, with her slimpsy old 
 veil hanging off from her bumbazine bunnet, and her 
 doleful look (what Nancy Perrit used to call " mother's 
 company-face"), I kinder thought she was comin' to 
 our house ; and she was allers so musical to me, I went 
 into the back-door, and took up a towel I was heinmin', 
 and set down in the corner, all ready to let her in. It 
 don't seem as if I could 'a' been real distressed about 
 father's dyin' when I could do so ; but children is just 
 like spring weather, rainin' one hour and shiniu' the 
 next, and it's the Lord's great mercy they be ; if they 
 begun to be feelin' so early there wouldn't be nothin' 
 left to grow up. So pretty quick Miss Perrit knocked, 
 and I let her in. We hadn't got no spare room in that 
 house ; there was the kitchen in front, and mother's 
 bedroom, and the buttery, and the little back-space 
 opened out on't behind. Mother was in the bedroom ; 
 so, while I called her, Miss Perrit set down in the splint 
 rockin'-chair, that creaked awfully, and went to rockin' 
 back and forth, and sighin', till mother come in. 
 
 " Good-day, Miss Langdon ! " says she, with a kind 
 of a snuffle, " how dew you dew? I thought I'd come 
 and see how you kep' up under this here affliction. I 
 rec'lect very well how I felt when husband died. It's 
 a dreadful thing to be left a widder in a hard world, 
 don't you find it out b} T this ? " 
 
 I guess mother felt quite as bad as ever Miss Perrit 
 did, for everybody knew old Perrit treated his wife 
 like a dumb brute while he was alive, and died drunk ; 
 but she didn't say nothin'. I see her give a kind
 
 ANN POTTER'S LESSON. 319 
 
 of a swaller, and then she spoke up bright and 
 strong : 
 
 "I don't think it is a hard world, Miss Perrit. I 
 find folks kind and helpful, beyond what I'd any right 
 to look for. I try not to think about my husband any 
 more than I can help, because I couldn't work if I did, 
 and I've got to work. It's most helpful to think the 
 Lord made special promises to widows, and when I 
 remember him I aint afeard." 
 
 Miss Perrit stopped rockin' a minute, and then she 
 began to creak the chair and blow her nose again, and 
 she said : 
 
 " Well, I'm sure it's a great mercy to see anybody 
 rise above their trouble the way you do ; but, law me ! 
 Miss Langdon, you aint got through the fust pair o' 
 bars on't yet. Folks is allers kinder neighborly at the 
 fust ; they feel to help you right off, every way they 
 can ; but it don't stay put, they get tired on't ; they 
 blaze right up like a white-birch stick, an' then they go 
 out all of a heap ; there's other folks die, an' they 
 don't remember you, an' you're just as bad off as 
 though you wa'n't a widder." 
 
 Mother kind of smiled, she couldn't help it; but 
 she spoke up again just as steady : 
 
 "I don't expect to depend on people, Miss Perrit, 
 so long as I have my health. I aint above takin' 
 friendly help when I need to, but I mean mostly to help 
 myself. I can get work to take in, and when the girls 
 have got their schoolin' they will be big enough to help 
 me. I am not afraid but what I shall live and prosper, 
 if I only keep my health." 
 
 "Hem, well!" whined out Miss Perrit. "I allers 
 thought you was a pretty mighty woman, Miss Lang-
 
 320 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 don, and I'm glad to see you're so high-minded ; but 
 you aint sure of your health, never. I used to be real 
 smart to what I am now, when Pen-it was alive ; but I 
 took on so when he was brought home friz to death 
 that it sp'iled my nerves ; and then I had to do so many 
 chores out in the shed I got cold an' had the dread- 
 fulest rheumatiz ; an' when I'd got past the worst 
 spell of that, and was quite folksy again, I slipped down 
 on our door-step an' kinder wrenched my ankle, an* 
 eft hadn't 'a' been for the neighbors I don't know but 
 what Nancy and I should 'a' starved." 
 
 Mother did laugh this time. Miss Perrit had over 
 shot the mark. 
 
 " So the neighbors were helpful, after all ! " said she. 
 "And if ever I get sick I shall be willin' to have help, 
 Miss Perrit. I'm sure I would take what I would give. 
 I think givin' works two ways. I don't feel afraid 
 
 yet." 
 
 Miss Perrit groaned a little, and wiped her eyes, and 
 got up to go away. She hadn't never offered to help 
 mother ; and she went off to the sewin'-circle, and told 
 that Miss Langdon hadn't got no feelings at all, and 
 she b'lieved she'd just as soon beg for a livin' as not. 
 Polly Mariner, the tailoress, come and told mother all 
 she said next day ; but mother only smiled, and set 
 Polly to talkin' about the best way to make over her 
 old cloak. When she was gone I begun to talk about 
 Miss Perrit, and I was real mad ; but mother hushed 
 me right up. 
 
 " It aint any matter, Ann," said she. " Her savin' 
 so don't make it so. Miss Perrit's got a miserable 
 disposition, and I'm sorry for her. A mint of money 
 wouldn't make her happy. She's a doleful Christian ;
 
 ANN POTTER'S LESSON. 321 
 
 she don't take any comfort in anything, and I really do 
 pity her." 
 
 And that was just the way mother took everything. 
 
 At first we couldn't sell the farm. It was down at 
 the foot of Torringford Hill, two good miles from 
 meetin', and a mile from the school-house ; most of it 
 was woodsy, and there wa'n't no great market for wood 
 about there. So for the first year Squire Potter took 
 it on shares, and, as he principally seeded it down to 
 rye, why, we sold the rye and got a little money, but 
 'twa'n't a great deal, no more than we wanted for 
 clothes the next winter. Aunt Langdon sent us down 
 a lot of maple- sugar from Lee, and when we wanted 
 molasses we made it out of that. We didn't have to 
 buy no great of groceries, for we could spin and knit 
 by firelight, and, part of the land bein' pin}* woods, we 
 had a good lot of knots that were as bright as lamps 
 for all we wanted. Then we had a dozen chickens, 
 and by pains and care they laid pretty well, and the 
 eggs were as good as gold. So we lived through the 
 first year after father died prett} 7 well. 
 
 Anybody that couldn't get along with mother and 
 Major (I always called Mary Jane " Major" when I 
 was real little, and the name kind of sta}*ed by) 
 couldn't get along with anybody. I was as happy as a 
 cricket whilst they were by ; though, to speak truth, I 
 wasn't naturally so chirpy as they were. I took after 
 father more, who was a kind of a despoudin' man, 
 down-hearted, never thinkin' things could turn out 
 right, or that he was goin' to have any luck. That 
 was my natur', and mother see it, and fought ag'inst it 
 like a real Buuker-Hiller ; but natur' is hard to root up, 
 and there was always times when I wanted to sulk
 
 322 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 away into a corner and think nobody wanted me, and 
 that I was poor and humbl}", and had to work for my 
 living. 
 
 I remember one time I'd gone up into my room 
 before tea to have one of them dismal fits. Miss 
 Perrit had been in to see mother, and she'd been 
 tellin' over what luck Nancy'd had down to Hartford : 
 how't she had gone into a shop, and a young man had 
 been struck with her good looks, an he'd turned out 
 to be a master-shoemaker, and Nancy was a-goin' to 
 be married, and so on, a rigmarole as long as the 
 moral law, windin' up with askin' mother why she 
 didn't send us girls off to try our luck, for Major was 
 as old as Nance Perrit. I'd waited to hear mother say, 
 in her old, bright way, that she couldn't afford it, and 
 she couldn't spare us if she had the means, and then 
 I flung up into our room, that was a lean-to in the 
 garret, with a winder in the gable end, and there I 
 set down by the winder with my chin on the sill, and 
 begun to wonder why we couldn't have as good luck 
 as the Perrits. After I'd got real miserable I heerd 
 a soft step comin' upstairs, and Major come in and 
 looked at me and then out of the winder. 
 
 " What's the matter of you, Anny?" said she. 
 
 " Nothing," says I, as sulk}- as you please. 
 
 " Nothing always means something," says Major, as 
 pleasant as pie ; and then she scooched down on the 
 floor and pulled my two hands away, and looked me in 
 the face as bright and honest as ever you see a dande 
 lion look out of the grass. " What is it, Anny? Spit 
 it out, as Reub Potter says ; you'll feel better to free 
 your mind." 
 
 " Well," says I, " Major, I'm tired of bad luck."
 
 ANN POTTER'S LESSON. 323 
 
 " Why, Army ! I didn't know as we'd had any. I'm 
 sure, it's three years since father died, and we have 
 had enough to live on all that time, and I've got my 
 schooling, and we are all well ; and just look at the 
 apple-trees, all as pink as your frock with blossoms ; 
 that's good for new cloaks next winter, Anny." 
 
 " 'Taint that, Major. I was thinkin' about Nancy 
 Perrit. If we'd had the luck to go to Hartford may be 
 you'd have been as well off as she ; and then I'd 
 have got work, too. And I wish I was as pretty as 
 she is, Major ; it does seem too bad to be poor and 
 humbly too." 
 
 I wonder she didn't laugh at me, but she was feelin* 
 for folks, always. She put her head on the window- 
 sill along of mine, and kinder nestled up to me in her 
 lovin' way, and said, softly : 
 
 " I wouldn't quarrel with the Lord, Anny." 
 
 " Why, Major ! you scare me ! I haven't said noth- 
 in' against the Lord. What do you mean ? " said I ; 
 for I was touchy, real touchy. 
 
 " Well, dear, you see we've done all we can to help 
 ourselves ; and what's over and above, that we can't 
 help, that is what the Lord orders, aint it? And he 
 made you, didn't he? You can't change your face; 
 and I'm glad of it, for it is Anny's face, and I wouldn't 
 have it changed a mite. There'll always be two people 
 to think it's sightly enough, and may be more by and 
 by ; so I wouldn't quarrel wilh it, if I were you." 
 
 Major's happy eyes always helped me. I looked at 
 her and felt better. She wasn't any better-lookin' than 
 I ; but she was always so chirk, and smart, and neat, 
 and pretty-behaved, that folks thought she was hand 
 some after thev knowed her.
 
 324 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 Well, after a spell there was a railroad laid out up 
 the valley, and all the land thereabouts riz in price 
 right away ; and Squire Potter he bought our farm on 
 speculation, and give a good price for it ; so't we had 
 two thousand dollars in the bank, and the house and 
 lot, and the barn, and the cow. By this time Major 
 was twenty-two and I was eighteen ; and Squire Potter 
 he'd left his house up on the hill, and he'd bought out 
 Miss Perrit's house, and added on to't, and moved 
 down not far from us, so's to be near the railroad- 
 depot, for the sake of bein' handy to the woods, for 
 cuttin' and haulin' of them down to the track. 'Twasn't 
 very pleasant at first to see our dear old woods goin' 
 off to be burned that way ; but Squire Potter's folks 
 were such good neighbors we gained as much as we 
 lost, and a sight more, for folks are greatly better'n 
 trees, at least, clever folks. 
 
 There was a whole raft of the Potters, eight chil 
 dren of 'em all, some too young to be mates for Major 
 and me, but Mary Potter, and Reuben, and Russell, 
 they were along about as old as we were. Russell 
 come between Major and me ; the other two was 
 older. 
 
 We kinder kept to home always, Major and me, 
 because we hadn't any brothers to go out with us ; so 
 we were prett}* shy of new friends at first. But you 
 couldn't help bein' friendly with the Potters, they was 
 such outspoken, kindly creturs, from the Squire down 
 to little Hen. And it was very handy for us, because 
 now we could go to singin'-schools and quiltin's, and 
 such-like places, of an evenin' ; and we had rather 
 moped at home for want of such things, at least I 
 had ; and I should have been more moped only for
 
 ANN POTTER'S LESSON. 325 
 
 Major's sweet ways. She was always as contented as 
 a honey-bee on a clover-head, for the same reason, I 
 guess. 
 
 Well, there was a good many good things come to 
 us from the Potters' movin' down ; but by and by it 
 seemed as though I was goin' to get the bitter of it. 
 I'd kept compan} 1 - pretty steady with Russell. I hadn't 
 give much thought to it, neither. I liked his ways, 
 and he seemed to give in to mine very natural, so't we 
 got along together first-rate. It didn't seem as though 
 we'd ever been strangers, and I wasn't one to make 
 believe at stiffness when I didn't feel it. I told 
 Russell pretty much all I had to tell, and he was allers 
 doin' for me and runnin' after me jest as though he'd 
 been my brother. I didn't know how much I did think 
 of him, till, after a while, he seemed to take a sight of 
 notice of Major. I can't say he ever stopped bein' 
 clever to me, for he didn't ; but he seemed to have a 
 kind of a hankerin' after Major all the time. He'd 
 take her off to walk with him ; he'd dig up roots in the 
 woods for her posy-bed ; he'd hold her skeins of yarn 
 as patient as a little dog ; he'd get her books to read. 
 Well, he'd done all this for me ; but when I see him 
 doin' it for her, it was quite different ; and all to once 
 I know'd what was the matter. I'd thought too much 
 of Russell Potter. 
 
 Oh, dear ! those was dark times ! I couldn't blame 
 him ; I knew well enough Major was miles and miles 
 better and sweeter and cleverer than I was. I didn't 
 wonder he liked her ; but I couldn't feel as if he'd done 
 right by me. So I schooled myself considerable, talkin' 
 to myself for being jealous of Major. But 'twasn't all 
 that, the hardest of it all was that I had to mistrust
 
 326 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 Russell. To be sure, he hadn't said nothin' to me in 
 round words, I couldn't ha' sued him ; but he'd looked 
 and acted enough ; and now, dear me ! I felt all 
 wrung out and flung away ! 
 
 By and by Major begun to see somethin' was goin' 
 wrong, and so did Russell. She was as good as she 
 could be to me, and had patience with all my little, 
 pettish ways, and tried to make me friendly with 
 Russell ; but I wouldn't. I took to hard work, and, 
 what with cryhi' nights, and hard work all day, I got 
 pretty well overdone. But it all went on for about 
 three months, till one day Russell come up behind me, 
 as I was layin' out some yarn to bleach down at the 
 end of the orchard, and asked me if I'd go down to 
 Meriden with him next day, to a picnic frolic, in the 
 woods. 
 
 " No ! " says I, as short as I could. 
 
 Russell looked as though I had slapped him. " Anny," 
 says he, " what have I done?" 
 
 I turned round to go away, and I catched my foot 
 in a hank of yarn, and down I come flat on to the 
 ground, havin' sprained my ankle so bad that Russell 
 had to pick me up and carry me into the house like a 
 baby. 
 
 There was an end of Meriden for me ; and he 
 wouldn't go, either, but come over and sat by me, and 
 read to me, and somehow or other, I don't remember 
 just the words, he gave me to understand that well 
 that he wished I'd marry him. 
 
 It's about as tirin' to be real pleased with anything 
 as it is to be troubled, at first. I couldn't say anything 
 to Russell ; I just cried. Major wasn't there ; mother 
 was dryin' apples out in the shed ; so Russell he didn't
 
 ANN POTTER'S LESSON. 327 
 
 know what to do ; he kind of hushed me up, and 
 begged of me not to cry, and said he'd come for his 
 answer next day. So he come, and I didn't say " No " 
 again. I don't believe I stopped to think whether 
 Major liked him. She would have thought of me, first 
 thing ; I believe she wouldn't have had him if she'd 
 thought I wanted him. But I aint like Major ; it come 
 more natural to me to think about myself ; and, besides, 
 she was pious, and I wasn't. Russell was. 
 
 However, it turned out all right, for Major was 'most 
 as pleased as I was ; and she told me, finally, that 
 she'd known a long spell that Russell liked me, and the 
 reason he'd been hangin' round her so long was, he'd 
 been tellin' her his plans, and they'd worked out con 
 siderable in their heads before she could feel as though 
 he had a good-enough lookout to ask me to marry him. 
 
 That wasn't so pleasant to me, when I come to think 
 of it ; I thought I'd ought to have been counselled with. 
 But it was just like Major ; everybody come to her for 
 a word of help or comfort, whether they took her idee 
 or not, she had such feelin' for other folks's trouble. 
 
 I got over that little nub after a while ; and then I 
 was so pleased everything went smooth ag'in. I was 
 goin' to be married in the spring ; and we were goin* 
 straight out to Indiana, onto some wild land Squire 
 Potter owned out there, to clear it and settle it ; and 
 what Russell cleared, he was to have. So mother took 
 some money out of the bank to fit me out, and Major 
 and I went down to Hartford to buy my things. 
 
 I said before, we wasn't either of us any great things 
 to look at ; but it come about that one day I heerd 
 somebody tall how we did look, and I thought consider 
 able about it then and afterwards. We was buyin'
 
 328 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 some cotton to a store in the city, and I was lookiu' 
 about at all the pretty things, and wonderin' why I was 
 picked out to be poor when so many folks was rich and 
 had all they wanted, when presently I heerd a lady in 
 a silk gown say to another one, so low she thought I 
 didn't hear her, " There are two nice-looking girls, 
 Mrs. Carr." 
 
 "Hem yes," said the other one; "they look 
 healthy and strong ; the oldest one has a lovely expres 
 sion, both steady and sweet ; the other don't look 
 happy." 
 
 . I declare, that was a fact. I was sony, too, for I'd 
 got everythin' in creation to make anybody happy, and 
 now I was frettiu' to be rich. I thought I'd try to be 
 like Major ; but I expect it was mostly because of the 
 looks of it, for I forgot to try before long. 
 
 Well, in the spring we was married ; and when I 
 come to go away Major put a little red Bible into my 
 trunk for a weddin' present ; but I was cryin' too hard 
 to thank her. She swallowed down whatever choked 
 her, and begged of me not to cry so, lest Russell should 
 take it hard that I mourned to go with him. But just 
 then I was thinkin' more of Major and mother than I 
 was of Russell ; they'd kept me bright and cheery 
 always, and kept up my heart with their own good ways 
 when I hadn't no strength to do it for myself ; 
 and now I was goiu' off alone with Russell, and he 
 wasn't very cheerful-dispositioned, and somehow my 
 courage give way all to once. 
 
 But I had to go ; railroads don't wait for nobody ; 
 and what with the long journey, and the new ways and 
 things and people, I hadn't no time to get real down 
 once before we got to Indiana. After we left the boat
 
 ANN POTTER'S LESSON. 329 
 
 there was a spell of railroad, and then a long stage-ride 
 to Cumberton ; and then we had to hire a big wagon 
 and team, so's to get us out to our claim, thirty miles 
 west'ard of Cumberton. I hadn't no time to feel real 
 lonesome now, for all our things hed got to be onpacked, 
 and packed over ag'in in the wagon ; some on 'em had 
 to be stored up, so's to come another time. We was 
 two days gettin' to the claim, the roads was so bad, 
 mostly what they call corduroy, but a good stretch clear 
 mud-holes. By the time we got to the end on't I was 
 tired out, just fit to cry ; and such a house as was 
 waitin' for us ! a real log shanty ! I see Russell 
 looked real beat when he see my face, and I tried to 
 brighten up ; but I wished to my heart I was back with 
 mother forty times that night, if I did once. Then 
 come the worst of all, clutteiin' everything right into 
 that shanty ; for our frame-house wouldn't be done for 
 two months, and there wa'n't scarce room for what we'd 
 brought, so't we couldn't think of sendin' for what was 
 stored to Cumberton. I didn't sleep none for two 
 nights, because of the whip-poor-wills that set on a tree 
 close by, and called till moruin' light ; but after that I 
 was too tired to lie awake. 
 
 Well, it was real lonesome ; but it was all new at 
 first, and Russell was to work near by, so't I could see 
 him, and oftentimes hear him whistle ; and I had the 
 garden to make, round to the new house, for I knew 
 more about the plantin' of it than he did, 'specially my 
 posy-bed, and I had a good time gettin' new flowers out 
 of the woods. And the woods was real splendid, 
 great, tall tulip-trees, as high as a steeple and round as 
 a quill, without an}' sort o' branches ever so fur up, and 
 the whole top full of the yeller tulips and the queer,
 
 330 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 snipped-lookin', shiny leaves, till they looked like great 
 bow-pots on sticks ; then there's lots of other great 
 trees, only they're all mostly spindled up in them woods. 
 But the flowers that grow round on the ma'sh edges and 
 in the clearin's do beat all. 
 
 So time passed along pretty glib till the frame-house 
 was done, and then we had to move in, and to get the 
 things from Cumberton, and begin to feel as though 
 we were settled for good and all ; and after the new 
 ness had gone off, and the clearin' got so fur that I 
 couldn't see Russell no more, and nobody to look at, if 
 I was never so lonesome, then come a pretty hard spell. 
 Everything about the house was real hand}', so't I'd 
 get my work cleared away, and set down to sew earbr ; 
 and them long summer days, that was still and hot, I'd 
 set, and set, never hearin' nothin' but the clock go 
 " tick, tick, tick" (never " tack," for a change), and 
 every now'n'then a great crash and roar in the woods 
 where he was choppin', that I knew was a tree ; and I 
 worked myself up dreadfully when there was a longer 
 spell 'n common come betwixt the crashes, lest that 
 Russell might 'a' been ketched under the one that fell. 
 And settin' so, and worryin' a good deal, day in and 
 day out, kinder broodin' over nry troubles, and never 
 thinkin' about anybody but myself, I got to be of the 
 idee that I was the worst-off cretur goin'. If I'd 
 have stopped to think about Russell, may be I should 
 have had some sort of pity for him, for he was jest as 
 lonesome as I, and I wasn't no kind of comfort to 
 come home to, 'most always cryin', or jest a-goin' 
 to. 
 
 So the summer went along till 'twas nigh on to 
 winter, and I wa'n't in no better sperrits. And now I
 
 ANN POTTER'S LESSON. 331 
 
 wa'n't real well, and I pined for mother, and I pined 
 for Major, and I'd have given all the honey and buck 
 wheat in Indiana for a loaf of mother's dry r3'e-bread 
 and a drink of spring- water. And finally I got so 
 miserable I wished I wa'n't never married, and I'd 
 have wished I was dead, if 'twa'n't for bein' doubtful 
 where I'd go to if I was. And, worst of all, one day I 
 got so worked up I told Russell all that. I declare he 
 turned as wliite**as a turnip. I see I'd hurt him, and 
 I'd have got over it in a minute and told him so, only 
 he up with his axe and walked out of the door, and 
 never come home till night, and then I was too stub 
 born to speak to him. 
 
 "Well, things got worse, an' one day I was sewin' 
 some things and cryin' over 'em, when I heerd a team 
 come along by, and before I could get to the door 
 Russell come in, all red for joy, and says : 
 
 " Who do you want to see most, Anny ?" 
 
 Somehow the question kind of upset me, I got 
 choked, and then I bu'st out a-cryin'. 
 
 "Oh, mother and Major!" says I; and I hadn't 
 more'n spoke the word before mother had both her 
 good, strong arms round me, and Major's real cheery 
 face was a-lookin' up at me from the little pine cricket, 
 where she'd sot down as nateral as life. Well, I was 
 glad, and so was Russell, and the house seemed as 
 shiny as a hang-bird's nest, and by and by the baby 
 came ; but I had mother. 
 
 'Twas 'long about in March when I was sick, and by 
 the end of April I was well, and so's to be stirriu' 
 round again. And mother and Major begun to talk 
 about goin' home ; and I declare my heart was up in 
 my mouth every time the}' spoke on't, and I begun to
 
 332 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 be miserable ag'in. One day I was settin' beside of 
 mother, Major was out in the garden, fixin' up things, 
 and settin' out a lot of blows she'd got in the woods, 
 and singin' away, and says I to mother : 
 
 " What be I going to do, mother, without you and 
 Major? I 'most died of clear louesomeness before you 
 come ! " 
 
 Mother laid down her knittin', and looked straight at 
 me. 
 
 " I wish you'd got a little of Major's good cheer, 
 Annj-," says she. " You haven't any call to be lonely 
 here ; it's a real good country, and you've got a nice 
 house, and the best of husbands, and a dear little baby, 
 and you'd oughter try to give up frettin'. I wish you 
 was pious, Anny ; you wouldn't fault the Lord's good 
 ness the way you do." 
 
 "Well, Major don't. have nothin' to trouble her, 
 mother," says I. " She's all safe and pleasant to 
 home ; she aint homesick." 
 
 Mother spoke up pretty resolute : 
 
 " There aint nobody in the world, Anny, but what 
 has troubles. I didn't calc'late to tell you about 
 Major's ; but sence you lay her lively ways to luck, 
 may be you'd better know 'em. She's been engaged 
 this six months to Reuben Potter, and he's gom' off in 
 a slow consumption ; he won't never live to marry her, 
 and she knows it." 
 
 "And she come away to see me, mother?" 
 
 " Yes, she did. I can't say I thought she need to ; 
 but Russell wrote you was pinin' for both of us, and I 
 didn't think you could get along without me ; but I told 
 her to stay with Reuben, and I'd come on alone. And 
 says she, ' No, mother, you aint young and spry
 
 ANN POTTER'S LESSON. 333 
 
 enough to go alone so fur, and the Lord made }"ou my 
 mother and Anny my sister before I picked out Reuben 
 for myself. I can't never have any kin but you, and I 
 might have had somebody beside Reuben, though it 
 don't seem likely now ; but he's got four sisters to take 
 care of him, and he thinks and I think it's what I 
 ought to do ; so I'm goin' with you.' So she come, 
 Anny ; and you see how lively she keeps, just because 
 she don't want to dishearten you none. I don't know 
 as you can blame her for kinder hankerin' to get home." 
 
 I hadn't nothin' to say ; I was beat. So mother she 
 went on : 
 
 " Fact is, Anny, Major's always a-thinkin' about 
 other folks ; it comes kind of nateral to her, and then 
 bein' pious helps it. I guess, dear, when you get to 
 thinkin' more about Russell^u' the baby you'll forget 
 some of your troubles. I hope the Lord won't have to 
 give you no harder lesson than lovin', to teach you 
 Major's ways." 
 
 So, after that, I couldn't say no more to mother 
 about stayin' ; but when they went away I like to have 
 cried myself sick, only baby had to be looked after, 
 and I couldn't dodge her. 
 
 Bym-by we had letters from home. They got there 
 all safe, and Reuben wa'n't no worse, Major said, 
 eft had been me wrote the letter I should have said he 
 wa'n't no better, and I fell back into the old lone 
 some days, for baby slept mostly, and the summer 
 come on extreme hot ; and in Jul\', Russell, bein' forced 
 to go to Cumberton on some land business, left me to 
 home with baby and the hired man, calc'latin' to be 
 gone three days and two nights. 
 
 The first day he was away was dreadful sultry ; the
 
 334 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 sun went down away over the woods in a kind of red- 
 hot fog, and it seemed as though the stars were dull 
 and coppery at night ; even the whip-poor-wills was too 
 hot to sing ; nothin' but a doleful screech-owl quavered 
 away, a half a mile off, a good hour, stead}'. When it 
 got to be mornin' it didn't seem no cooler ; there wa'n't 
 a breath of wind, and the locusts in the woods chittered 
 as though they was fryin'. Our hired man was an old 
 Scotchman, by name Simon Grant ; and when he'd got 
 his breakfast he said he'd go down the clearin' and 
 bring up a load of brush for me to burn. So he drove 
 off with the team, and havin' cleared up the dishes I 
 put baby to sleep, and took my pail to the barn to milk 
 the cow, for we kept her in a kind of a home-lot like, 
 a part that had been cleared afore we come, lest she 
 should straj- in the woods, if we turned her loose. She 
 was put in the barn, too, nights, for fear some stray 
 wild-cat or bear might come along and do her a harm. 
 So I let her into the yard, and was jest a-goin' to milk 
 her when she began to snort and shake, and finally giv' 
 the pail a kick, and set off, full swing, for the fence to 
 the lot. I looked round to see what was a-comin', and 
 there, about a quarter of a mile off, I see the most 
 curus thing I ever see before or since, a cloud as 
 black as ink in the sk}-, and hangin' down from it a 
 long spout like, something like an elephant's trunk, 
 and the whole world under it looked to be all beat to 
 dust. Before I could get my eyes off on't, or stir to 
 run, I see it was comiu' as fast as a locomotive. I 
 heerd a great roar and rush, first a hot wind, and 
 then a cold one, and then a crash, an' 'twas all as 
 dark as death all round, and the roar appeared to be 
 a-passin' off.
 
 ANN POTTER'S LESSON. 335 
 
 I didn't know for quite a spell where I was. I was 
 flat on my face, and when I come to a little I felt the 
 grass against my cheek, and I smelt the earth ; but I 
 couldn't move no way. I couldn't turn over, nor raise 
 my head rnore'n two inches, nor draw myself up one. 
 I was comfortable so long as I laid still ; but if I went 
 to move I couldn't. It wasn't no use to wriggle ; and 
 when I'd settled that I just went to work to figger out 
 where I was and how I got there, and the best I could 
 make out was that the barn-roof had blowed off and 
 lighted right over me, jest so as not to hurt me, but 
 so't I couldn't move. 
 
 Well, there I lay. I knew baby was asleep in the 
 trundle-bed, and there wa'n't no fire in the house ; but 
 how did I know the house wa'n't blowed down? I 
 thought that as quick as a flash of lightnin' ; it kinder 
 struck me ; I couldn't even see, so as to be certain. I 
 wasn't naterally fond of children, but somehow one's 
 own is different, and baby was just gettin' big enough 
 to be pretty ; and there I lay, feelin' about as bad as I 
 could, but hangin' on to one hope, that old Simon, 
 seein' the tornado, would come pretty soon to see 
 where we was. 
 
 (I lay still quite a spell, listenin'. Presently I heerd 
 a low, whimperin', pantin' noise, comin' nearer and 
 nearer, and I knew it was old Lu, a yeller hound of 
 Simon's, that he'd set great store by, because he 
 brought him from the old country. I heered the dog 
 come pretty near to where I was, and then stop, and 
 give a- long howl. I tried to call him, but I was all 
 choked up with dust, and for a while I couldn't make 
 no sound. Finally I called, " Lu ! Lu ! Here, sir ! " 
 and if ever you heerd a dumb creature laugh, he
 
 336 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 barked a real laugh, and come springin' along over 
 toward me. I called ag'in, and he begun to scratch 
 and tear and pull, at boards, I guessed, for it 
 sounded like that ; but it wa'n't no use, he couldn't 
 get at me, and he give up at length and set down 
 right over my head and give another howl, so long and 
 so dismal I thought I'd as lieves hear the bell a-tollui' 
 my age. 
 
 Pretty soon I heerd another sound, the baby 
 cryin' ; and with that Lu jumped off whatever 'twas 
 that buried me up, and run. " At any rate," thinks I, 
 "baby's alive." And then I bethought myself if 'twa'n't 
 a painter, after all ; they scream jest like a baby, and 
 there's a lot of them, or there was then, right round in 
 our woods, and Lu was dreadful fond to hunt 'em, 
 and he never took no notice of baby ; and I couldn't 
 stir to see ! 
 
 Oh, dear ! the sweat stood all over me. And there 
 I lay, and Simon didn't come, nor I didn't hear a mouse 
 stir ; the air was as still as death, and I got nigh dis 
 tracted. Seemed as if all my life riz right up there in 
 the dark and looked at me. Here I was, all helpless, 
 may be never to get out alive ; for Simon didn't come, 
 and Russell was gone away. I'd had a good home, and 
 a kind husband, and all I could ask ; but I hadn't had a 
 contented mind. I'd quarrelled with Providence, 'cause 
 I hadn't got everything and now I hadn't got noth 
 ing. I see just as clear as daylight how I'd nussecl up 
 every little trouble till it growed to a big one ; how 
 I'd sp'ilt Russell's life, and made him wretched ; how 
 I'd been cross to him a great many times when I had 
 ought to have been a comfort ; and now it was like 
 enough I shouldn't never see him again nor baby,
 
 ^4A T .V POTTER'S LESSON. 337 
 
 nor mother, nor Major. And how could I look the 
 Lord in the face if I did die? That took all my 
 strength out. I lay shakiu' and chokin' with the idee, 
 I don't know how long ; it kind of got hold of me and 
 ground me down ; it was worse than all. I wished to 
 gracious I didn't believe in hell ; but then it come to 
 mind, What should I do in heaven ef I was there? I 
 didn't love nothin' that folks in heaven love, except the 
 bab}'. I hadn't been suited with the Lord's will on 
 earth, and 'twa'n't likely I was goin' to like it any 
 better in heaven ; and I should be ashamed to show my 
 face where I didn't belong, neither by right nor by want. 
 So I lay. Presently I heerd in my mind this verse, 
 that I'd learned years back in Sabbath school, 
 
 " Wherefore He is able also to save them to the uttermost." 
 
 There it stopped, but it was a plenty for me. I see at 
 once there wa'n't no help anywhere else, and for once 
 in my life I did pray, real earnest, and queer enough 
 not to get out, but to be made good. I kind of 
 forgot where I was, I see so complete what I was ; but 
 after a while I did pray to live in the flesh. I wanted 
 to make some amends to Russell for pesterin' on him 
 so. 
 
 It seemed to me as though I'd laid there two days. 
 A rain finally come on, with a good, even down-pour, 
 that washed in a little, and cooled my hot head ; and 
 after it passed by I heerd one whip-poor-will singin', 
 so't I knew it was night. And pretty soon I heerd 
 the tramp of a horse's feet ; it come up ; it stopped. 
 1 heerd Russell say out loud, "O Lord!" and give a 
 groan, and then I called to him. I declare, he 
 jumped.
 
 338 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 So I got him to go look for baby first, because I could 
 wait ; and, lo ! she was ail safe in the trundle-bed, with 
 Lu beside of her, both on 'em stretched out together, 
 one of her little hands on his nose ; and when 
 Eussell looked in to the door she stirred a bit, and Lu 
 licked her hand to keep her quiet. It tells in the Bible 
 about children's angels always seein' the face of God, 
 so's to know quick what to do for 'em, I suppose ; and 
 I'm sure her'n got to her afore the tornado ; for though 
 the house-roof had blowed off, and the chimbley tum 
 bled down, there wa'n't a splinter nor a brick on her 
 bed, only close by the head on't a great hunk of stone 
 had fell down, and steadied up the clothes-press from 
 tumblin' right on top of her. 
 
 So then Russell rode over, six miles, to a neighbor's, 
 and got two men, and betwixt 'em all they pi'ied up 
 the beams of the barn, that had blowed on to the roof 
 and pinned it down over me, and then lifted up the 
 boards and got me out ; and I wa'n't hurt, except a 
 few bruises, but after that day I begun to get gray 
 hairs. 
 
 Well, Russell was pretty thankful, I b'lievc, 
 more so'n he need to be for such a wife. We fixed up 
 some kind of a shelter, but Lu howled so all night we 
 couldn't sleep. It seems Russell had seen the tornado 
 to Cumberton, and, judgin' from its course 'twould 
 come past the clearin', he didn't wait a minute, but 
 saddled up and come off ; but it had crossed the road 
 once or twice, so it was nigh about eleven o'clock 
 afore he got home ; but it was broad moonlight. So I 
 hadn't been under the roof only about fifteen hours ; 
 but it seemed more. 
 
 In the mo.rnin' Russell set out to find Simon, and I
 
 ANN POTTER'S LESSON. 339 
 
 was so trembly I couldn't bear to stay alone, and I 
 went Avith him, he carryin' baby, and Lu goin' before, 
 as tickled as he could be. We went a long spell 
 through the woods, keepiu' on the edge of the tornado's 
 road ; for't had made a clean track about a quarter of 
 a mile wide, and felled the trees flat, great tulips 
 cut off as sharp as pipe-stems, oaks twisted like dan 
 delion-stems, and hickories curled right up in a 
 heap. Presently Lu gave a bark, and then such a 
 howl ! and there was Simon, dead enough ! A big oak 
 had blowed down, with the trunk right acrost his legs 
 above the knees, and smashed them almost off. 'Twas 
 plain it hadn't killed him to once, for the ground all 
 about his head was tore up as though he'd fought with 
 it ; and Russell said his teeth and hands was full of 
 grass and grit where he'd bit and tore, a-dyin' so hard. 
 I declare, I shan't never forget that sight ! Seems as 
 if my body was full of little ice-spickles every time I think 
 on't. 
 
 Well, Russell couldn't do nothin' ; we had no chance 
 to lift the tree, so we went back to the house, and he 
 rode away after neighbors ; and while he was gone I 
 had a long spell of thinkin'. Mother said she hoped I 
 wouldn't have no hard lesson to teach me Major's 
 ways ; but I had got it, and I know I needed it, 'cause 
 it did come so hnrd. I b'lieve I was a better woman 
 after that. I got to think more of other folks's comfort 
 than I did afore, and whenever I got goin' to be dismal 
 ag'in I used to try 'n' find somebody to help ; it was a 
 sure cure. 
 
 When the neighbors come, Russell and they blasted 
 and chopped the tree off of Simon, and buried him 
 under a big pine that we calc'lated not to fell. Lu
 
 340 TEE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 pined, and howled, and moaned for his master, till I 
 got him to look after baby now and then, when I was 
 hangin' out clothes or makin' garden, and he got to like 
 her in the end on't near as well as Simon. 
 
 After a while there come more settlers out our way, 
 and we got a church to go to ; and the minister, Mr. 
 Jones, he come to know if I was a member, and when 
 I said I wa'n't, he put in to know if I wa'n't a pious 
 woman. 
 
 " Well," sa}-s I, " I don't know, sir." So I up and 
 told him all about it, and how I had had a hard lesson ; 
 and he smiled once or twice, and says he : 
 
 " Your husband thinks you are a Christian, Sister 
 Potter, don't he ? " 
 
 " Yes, I do," says Russell, a-comin' in behind me to 
 the door, for he'd just stepped out to get the minis 
 ter a basket of plums, "I haint a doubt on't, Mr. 
 Jones." 
 
 The minister looked at him, and I see he was kinder 
 pleased. 
 
 " Well," says he, " I don't think there's much doubt 
 of a woman's bein' pious when she's pious to home ; 
 and I don't want no better testimony'n yours, Mr. 
 Potter. I shall admit you to full fellowship, sister, 
 when we have a church meetin' next ; for it's my 
 belief }-ou experienced religion under that blowed- 
 down barn." 
 
 And I guess I did.
 
 ACELDAMA SPARKS. 341 
 
 ACELDAMA SPARKS; OR, OLD 
 AND NEW. 
 
 " I TELL yew what 'tis, Miss Sparks," said the dea 
 con, " that are boy's got ter hev a Scriptur' name. I 
 wa'n't born an' bred in Hanover, an' hed a father and 
 gran'ther deacons afore me to be a-goin' an' givin' the 
 boy sech a jography name as Wallis ; now don't ye set 
 to no more." 
 
 Mrs. Sparks laughed ; she always laughed ; it was 
 currently reported that she laughed once in church, but 
 that was scandal. Eleven years had she been married, 
 and now for the first time the ponderous old cradle was 
 lugged from the garret to hold a baby. No wonder 
 Mrs. Sparks laughed now. And such a baby ! 
 
 Only imagine Deacon Ebenezer Sparks dressed in a 
 long white frock and a red-edged blanket, seen through 
 a reversed spy-glass, and you behold his baby. Just 
 such yellow hair, sedulously brushed on end ; just such 
 a mottled red complexion, a nose just so indefinite, a 
 mouth that lacked only certain ominous yellow stains 
 to repeat the paternal feature, and eyes of that blank 
 and amazing blue that awed naughty boys, peeping over 
 a stupendous shirt-collar in the deacou-seat every Sun 
 day. But outside the resemblance stopped ; for that 
 baby, like its mother, always laughed ; from a broad 
 grin to a sputtering chuckle it progressed, slowly and
 
 342 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 surely, till it was time for it to be baptized. " Six 
 months old ! "exclaimed Mrs. Little, at sewing-society, 
 " and not yet presented for baptism ! " That was one 
 of Deacon Sparks's crotchets ; he was a good man, and 
 somewhere, a great way down behind his ribs, lie had a 
 kind heart ; but it was overlaid with so much work, 
 and caution, and prejudice, and starch, that it beat 
 ver}' feebly, almost invisibly, even to the angel that is 
 supposed to look after such institutions in every man, 
 specially deacons. 
 
 If Deacon Sparks had one horror above another, it 
 was of babies, particularly in church, most particularly 
 when they cried and made a disturbance at their baptism, 
 a thing he believed to be effected by a special inter 
 position of Satan ; and from the hour his baby was born 
 he had looked forward with dreadful doubts to this cri 
 sis, resolving that his child at least should be old enough 
 to obey before it was risked in an ecclesiastical public ; 
 doubly resolved that it should have a Bible name, in 
 spite of Mrs. Sparks's desire that the boy should be 
 called by her family name ; but, positive as the deacon 
 was, Mrs. Sparks only laughed. 
 
 " I don't care no gret what you dew call him, Betsey, 
 so's'ts out o' Scriptur'," relented the deacon, " I guess 
 it's jest as good not ter call him Cain, 'cause likely 
 he'd feel as though he didn't want ter hev jest that 
 callin' ; but you ken call him anything else you're 
 will in'." 
 
 " Well, I do'no', husband," responded Aunty Sparks. 
 " I haint no great admiration for Timothy, nor Reuel, 
 nor Nahum ; them was all our folks's names, too. Let's 
 open the Bible kinder easy, and call him the first name 
 we see."
 
 ACELDAMA SPARKS. 343 
 
 So the trial by lot was agreed on, and the fatal proper 
 name was Aceldama. 
 
 Mrs. Sparks and her husband were rather pleased 
 than dismayed at this. The name was, so to speak, an 
 unclaimed grant, and they the first settlers on it ; be 
 sides, it afforded such unprecedented advantages for 
 nicknames, so many syllables, such natural diminutives, 
 and then it began with the first letter of the alphabet. 
 
 So the day of baptism came, a bright, mild Thanks 
 giving morning, and Master Sparks was arrayed in 
 gorgeous attire for the occasion ; a long dress, em 
 broidered surprisingly with little holes and big holes, 
 small dots and large dots, impossible leaves with a 
 great development of veins, and tendrils that spiralled 
 the wrong way and executed bow-knots on this occasion 
 only, all fenced in with insane scallops, that branched, 
 and sidled, and crooked perseveringly, but did their 
 duty, after all. 
 
 Over this reposed a long and full yellow cloak, bound 
 with pink ribbon, refreshingly suggestive of dandelion- 
 blossoms, while above the stiff lace frill that inclosed 
 the beaming red visage of this "tender youth " towered 
 a blue silk construction of the pagoda style, popularly 
 supposed to be a puerile cap. 
 
 Who shall describe the trig, prim, and withal sheep 
 ish, expression of Ebenezer Sparks as he squeaked up 
 the aisle in advance of this wonderfully got-up baby ? 
 No amount of stationery would suffice. It was like 
 unto no mortal creature but himself, and was produced 
 by an unlimited quantity of collar, flour-starch, sole- 
 leather, paternal pride, arid intense conservatism ; for 
 it was the ruling passion of Deacon Sparks to preserve 
 things as they had been.
 
 344 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 Even now, in this crowning ceremony, his soul was 
 troubled with the novelty of having a baby to baptize, 
 and his hair stood on end more pertinaciously than 
 ever, over a yet redder face, and the dead blueness of 
 his eyes caused Timothy Little, the pastor's graceless 
 son, a nine-year sinner, to quake and quiver in his 
 pew corner, self-conscious of sundry apples hooked 
 from Deacon Sparks's tree of russet-sweets but a few 
 weeks ago 
 
 Poor Timothy ! the deacon personified his conscience, 
 for that officer of the church was thinking of nothing 
 else but his baby. Clothed in garments of blue broad 
 cloth set off by brass buttons, followed by Mrs. Sparks 
 in a dress we dare not venture to describe, the deacon 
 and his baby presented themselves before Mr. Little, a 
 meek, sentimental, florid man, with a big head and a 
 weak voice, and of the straitest sect, an Old-School 
 man. Dear reader, unlearned as yet in the variations 
 of style and title, ask not rashly what an Old-School 
 man means. Plunge not headlong into the sea of 
 metaphysics and terminology that these hard-headed 
 Yankees call theology. Leave the scientific Greek and 
 Latin names of these unknown trees and shrubs to those 
 who gave and use them ; look and see what fruit hangs 
 on the gracious boughs ; which spreads widest shelter 
 for the lame, and the weak, and the evil-smitten race 
 of men ; to which the birds of heaven fly with glad 
 dest instinct and purest song ; where flowers are sweet 
 est and fruit most abundant and nutritive : that tree 
 is one out of Paradise, whatever name labels or libels 
 it ; and it is good to thank God for it, and fashion 
 one's own growth after its pattern. But Deacon 
 Sparks is holding his baby all this time.
 
 ACELDAMA SPARKS. 345 
 
 The ceremony began. The deacon held Aceldama 
 with a tight grip ; but, as ill-luck would have it, the 
 trembling cap on top of the child's head toppled for 
 ward and extinguished those staring eyes, into one of 
 which, in his awkward attempts to replace the structure, 
 Deacon Sparks thrust his huge, horny finger. 
 
 Poor, dear Aceldama ! What a roar and yell was that 
 which pierced his father's ears, and made the old meet 
 ing-house ring again ! No efforts could quiet the war- 
 cry of the half-gouged baby, and the ceremony pro 
 ceeded in a din likest to nothing ecclesiastical but the 
 exorcising of a bad spirit. 
 
 Deacon Sparks was furious. He held the shrieking 
 infant with fingers that left their sign-manual upon 
 flesh and skin ; and when Mr. Little, with a preter 
 natural exalting of the voice that made him more than 
 ever florid, at length struggled through the baptism 
 and bestowed the strange name Aceldama upon a 
 decent Yankee child, Deacon Sparks, without waiting 
 for the prayer, shouldered his baby, marched out of 
 the meeting-house in double-quick time, followed by 
 his wife at a rapid, scuttling trot, and having arrived 
 at the porch deliberately sat down, and, lowering the 
 infant, administered to it a severe personal castigation ; 
 while Mrs. Sparks, recovering breath behind him, only 
 laughed, well knowing what layers upon layers of linen, 
 flannel, cambric, and merino rendered her precious 
 boy's person impervious to slaps. 
 
 It seemed, from that hour forward, as if some unruly 
 spirit had entered into Aceldama with his name. 
 Instead of lying still in the old cradle, like an orthodox 
 baby, he was always scrambling up on end therein, and 
 peeking over the side. He behaved like some tricksy
 
 346 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 elf, uttering his most pertinacious screeches in time of 
 family prayer, and distorting his visage at poor Mr. 
 Little into such curiously ugly shapes, as daunted the 
 feeble divine from any caressing approaches whatever. 
 
 "When the child began to creep, dire conflicts ensued 
 in the peaceful kitchen of Mrs. Sparks. He seemed to 
 have a natural proclivit\ T for tubs of scalding suds, hot 
 flat-irons, ley-kettles, and old cats. Once he sat down 
 in a kettle of hasty-pudding, just off the boil, and noth 
 ing but an instantaneous grip of the maternal red 
 right hand and triple folds of domestic flannel saved 
 him from an untimely end. Twice he entered into 
 single combat with the old tabbj- on account of her 
 kittens (which he liked to carry by the tail), and came 
 off both times with honorable scars in the face. Once 
 he pulled the wooden churn over, and deluged himself 
 and the spotless floor with thick cream, besides bump 
 ing his nose till it bled. Once he narrowly escaped 
 death from eating potash ; and three times his red 
 flannel frock was patched over holes he burned in it by 
 cultivating an intimacy with the fore-log, for the sake 
 of its sweet and smoky drip of sap. 
 
 Nor were matters composed at all when Master 
 Sparks, having survived his first infancy by dint of a 
 certain elder-witch element in his nature that always 
 brought him off " right side up " from any danger, 
 emerged into a full suit of butternut cloth, trousers and 
 all, thickly buttoned with brass. 
 
 The wildest colt in the deacon's pasture he coaxed 
 into a near approach with tempting handfuls of oats 
 and apples, and then, bestriding the creature, with his 
 dumpy legs almost horizontal across its back, and 
 clinging on to its inane like a monkey, Aceldama
 
 ACELDAMA SPARKS. 347 
 
 careered full tilt about the meadow till he was speedily 
 thrown over the colt's head, luckily for him, into a 
 soft and swampy spot full of flag and coarse grass, from 
 which he crept out slightly subdued and very wet. 
 
 Nothing daunted by this, the next morning he re 
 sumed his equestrian feats by striding the old black 
 cow, very unexpectedly to that respectable animal, 
 causing her to behave in a manner set aside since her 
 calfish days, a sudden plunge and fling of the tail, a 
 wonderfully energetic prance, and away she went 
 down the high road, Aceldama hanging on to the brass 
 knobs of her horns, beating her ears with his heels till, 
 out of breath, his grip relaxed, and just as the cow 
 reentered the barnyard he dropped off into the deepest 
 pool therein, adding the last drop to Deacon Sparks's 
 righteous indignation, he having viewed the whole 
 affair from the upper door of the barn. 
 
 That night 'Celd}' got his deserts after true Solomonic 
 prescription, and went to bed very rueful indeed, but 
 not quite penitent; for two days after, capturing the 
 biggest rooster in the yard, he dressed it up in a white 
 cravat, tied after the strictest clerical fashion, and 
 turned it loose upon astonished Mr. Little, just emerg 
 ing from the door after a pastoral visit. 
 
 In fact, though Aceldama was drilled morning, noon, 
 and night in the Assembly's Catechism, till a profound 
 disgust for that ancient institution was thoroughly im 
 planted in his mind ; though he was kept in a straight- 
 backed chair, and forbidden to laugh or look out of the 
 window all day Sundays ; though his father treated 
 him with the severest justice and his mother with the 
 mildest mercy (popularly called indulgence), Aceldama 
 offered every prospect of becoming the wildest boy in
 
 348 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 Hanover, and the soul of Deacon Sparks groaned within 
 him. 
 
 At school nobody did or dared half the pranks that 
 he amused himself with. At the academy no other 
 boy could compete with him in tormenting the master, 
 kissing the prettiest little girls, tying up the bell-rope 
 out of reach, plugging the logs destined for the fire 
 with tiny charges of powder, and filling the key-holes 
 with divers sticky mixtures that cost an hour's delay of 
 school in the effort to extract them. 
 
 It is true 'Celdy learned his lessons irreproachably. 
 In class he never vexed his master by being stupid or 
 perverse. He was no fool, nor yet a knave, though 
 the latter trait predominated, for he was mischievous 
 and acute. His faults were the faults of vivid animal 
 spirits and pure courage. No little boy, no coward, 
 no sweet-tempered and forgiving comrade, owed Acel 
 dama a grudge, or received from him a blow. The big 
 boys, who bullied all the rest, the savage and brutal 
 natures that will crop out in every crowd of boys as 
 well as men, all these he fought, and cowed, and 
 ruled, with the generous bravery of a thoroughly fine 
 temper and noble disposition. 
 
 But all this availed him nothing with his father. 
 Night and day Deacon Sparks lamented over the boy, 
 not merely as a torment and tease at home, but as a 
 branch and offspring of Satan, a child evidently 
 formed for and bent on eternal misery ; in short, a 
 reprobate. 
 
 The stern Calvinism of the deacon's creed would 
 have allowed him no hope of 'Celdy 's salvation had lie 
 died in his first innocent babyhood. He would have 
 resigned himself to the justice, as he called it, of God.
 
 ACELDAMA SPARKS. 349 
 
 His mercy was mythical to the deacon. Judge, then, 
 what a state of mind this really sincere father was in 
 when, to the certainty of original sin and total deprav 
 ity, 'Celdy had added such a muster-roll of actual trans 
 gressions ! 
 
 Truth to tell, Deacon Sparks's faith and practice were 
 not of a kind to attract the fresh and sensitive heart 
 of youth ; not that outgrowth of the loviug soul that 
 draws itself into the souls of its brethren on the plea 
 of a common father and a yearning fraternal tender 
 ness for all its kind ; not that self-forgetting, tender, 
 gentle charit} r that lives in the wants and woes of 
 others, and bears their burdens as the Master did, 
 glorifying the daily routine of life with love, and praise, 
 and cheerfulness. Exceedingly set in his way, for no 
 better reason than that it was the old way of his fathers, 
 he believed in the Law, and only tolerated the Gospel. 
 His strictness was so purely honest and earnest as to 
 demand respect from any candid mind ; but it was, 
 nevertheless, a strictness of the letter from which the 
 spirit fled away deprecatingly, and which bound upon 
 him and his a grievous yoke that Aceldama found im 
 possible to be borne. 
 
 As the boy grew older the deacon's rule grew more 
 stringent, and he fretted and galled beneath it, and 
 but for his mother might have ended his days, as many 
 a wild boy with a strict father has done before, in the 
 noisome hold of a whaler or the barrack hospital of an 
 army ; but Aunty Sparks was certainly especially 
 oidained to be the deacon's better half. 
 
 No heroine of novel or story was this honest, good- 
 tempered, cheerful, steady, healthy woman. A dozen 
 Matilda-Marias might have been made physically out
 
 350 THE SI' III NX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 of her goodly proportions, and forty from her mind 
 and heart. Not a particle of sentimentality tinged her 
 nature. She neither screamed nor shrunk at a hop 
 toad, or fainted when Aceldama chopped his foot half 
 off or was thrown over the pony's neck and taken up 
 for dead. She never cried all night over her own 
 troubles or anybody's else, but took her natural rest 
 like a common-sense woman, and got up in the morn 
 ing ready to do her duty, with bright e} 7 es and a hearty 
 laugh. 
 
 The sick people in Hanover thought "Miss Sparks 
 beat the doctor ; " the poor believed her bread-tray and 
 pie-shelf never could be emptied ; the deacon consulted 
 her on all emergencies, grimly scorned her advice 
 when given, and always took it. Aceldama loved her 
 as a dandelion loves sunshine or a bobolink singing. 
 
 Heaven bless Aunty Sparks ! If there were a hun 
 dred like her where there is one slightly resembling 
 that type of woman, the world would be saved from 
 half its evils and all-its Women's Rights Conventions. 
 
 And under these conflicting influences 'Celdy grew 
 up to be fourteen. At that time another person began 
 to bend him. Mr. Samuel Fletcher came to Hanover 
 to keep the Academy, and Master Sparks found his 
 master. 
 
 There was nothing very subduing, either, in the 
 aspect of Mr. Fletcher : spare, tall, shabbj?, with a face 
 that might be the index of extreme youth or maturity, 
 so supra-temporal to coin a phrase was the inner 
 fire that used that wan, hectic visage, that keen outline, 
 and wonderful azure eye for its mask and servant. 
 
 Aceldama came home the first morning and told his 
 mother, in confidence, that the new master " wasn't
 
 ACELDAMA SPARKS. 351 
 
 much ; " at night he came back and said he was mis 
 taken ; and before the first quarter was out Master 
 'Celdy would have walked up to a cannon's mouth and 
 put his head therein at Mr. Fletcher's request. 
 
 No man attains that personal ascendency over boys 
 without good reason in himself. Girls adore anybody 
 they happen to fancy, as nine-tenths of their marriages 
 and ten-tenths of their friendships show ; but the 
 besoin d' aimer is not so potent with the stronger sex ; 
 they must know the reason why, and feel it, before 
 they submit to it. Mr. Fletcher was one of those rare 
 natures whose special gift is a vast power over others, 
 a character difficult to analyze, only to be explained 
 by classing it under the all-sufficing head, genius. 
 
 He was an extraordinary teacher, of course. Under 
 his direction his scholars' minds expanded and absorbed 
 knowledge, as vegetation is said to thrive in certain gases. 
 No dull boys were to be found in Hanover Academy 
 under his sway. His acute and vivid intellect seemed 
 to transpierce whatever it would, and transfuse it with 
 its own light and power for the time being. School 
 became a pleasure and an excitement ; and Aceldama, 
 being the smartest boy there by gift of nature, propor 
 tionately grew and flourished in the new dispensation, 
 and added to his increased knowledge a most absorbing 
 and devoted attachment for Mr. Fletcher. 
 
 But after some weeks rumors of a startling nature 
 came to Deacon Sparks's ears ; somebody told some 
 body else that some third body had said the new 
 master was a New-School man in theology, and, on 
 investigating the matter, the deacon became more and 
 more convinced of the fact. 
 
 Now Mr. Fletcher was as earnest in religion as he
 
 352 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 was in teaching. The boys and girls of Hanover 
 Academy could not listen to his morning prayers and 
 readings without profound convictions that, whatever 
 they might think about it, the Bible, and God, and 
 Goodness, and Sin, were deep and living realities to 
 their eloquent muster ; and gradually, at first by mere 
 sympathy, then as the safer result of thought and 
 stud} 7 , a religious interest sprung up and made steady 
 progress throughout the school. 
 
 Deacon Sparks groaned. He could not have his 
 only son a New-School man ; that would be the final 
 drop in the cup ! 
 
 He sat thinking the matter over one night by the 
 kitchen fire, Aceldama having retreated to his own 
 room overhead, where, truth to tell, instead of 
 studying, he, too, was meditating, with his head on his 
 hands, as boys will meditate for whom the great 
 problems of Life and Nature just begin to show their 
 colossal outlines and stir their mighty forces. 
 
 " Miss Sparks," uttered the deacon, after sundry 
 stifled grunts and uneasy creaks of his old chair, " I'm 
 a-goin' to take Aceldamy out of the 'Cademy." 
 
 " Why, husband, you do beat all ! What for, eh ? " 
 
 "Well, I aint satisfied with that Fletcher; he aint 
 right ; he ai nt right ! " musingly retorted Deacon 
 Sparks. 
 
 " What on 'arth's the matter of him? " said aunty, 
 dropping a stitch in her blue yarn knitting from pure 
 astonishment, for Mr. Fletcher had got at her heart 
 through 'Celdy's. 
 
 " Well, I've heerd, and I expect it's true, that he's 
 a New-School man, ralely and ondeuiably a New- 
 School man."
 
 ACELDAMA SPARKS. 353 
 
 " Sakes alive!" exclaimed aunty, with one of her 
 own laughs; "is that all, husband? I thought he'd 
 turned out a forger, or a burglar, or somethin' or other 
 orful bad : " 
 
 " I don't know what you call bad, Miss Sparks, if 
 'taint hetererdoxy ! " 
 
 The deacon delivered this dictum with indescribable 
 weight ; it was evidently intended to settle the thing at 
 once. 
 
 " He ! he ! he ! " furtively choked out from behind 
 aunty's checked apron, held up to stifle the naughty 
 laugh in its bud. " It's a bad word, I'm sure ; but what 
 harm is it, husband? " 
 
 " Harm ! Why, they don't believe in the catechism, 
 Miss Sparks ! And they don't believe in total depravity, 
 nor in reprobation, nor in infant damnation, nor in 
 well, a good many things." 
 
 "Well, husband, the Scriptur' don't say them is need 
 ful to salvation, does it? I shouldn't think Mr. Fletcher 
 could be very bad, judgin' from his prayers that he 
 makes to conference meetin's, and the gentle way he 
 gets the mastery over them boys by. And, you know, 
 the Lord didn't make us all jest alike ; some on us 
 thinks some way, and some another." 
 
 " Miss Sparks, I tell you New-School folks is all 
 wrong ; and ef I thought 't I was goin' to live to see 
 Aceldamy grownup a New-School man, I'd ruther he'd 
 never seen the inside of a school'us ; and ef I don't stir 
 up the school committee and get that Fletcher sent 
 packin', my name aint Ebenezer Sparks ! " 
 
 Aunt}' recommenced her knitting, knowing that words 
 would be but fuel to light the deacon's rage withal ; 
 but 'Celdy, overhead, had heard the whole discourse,
 
 354 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 and was swelling with rage and grief ; and that hour 
 laid the first stone of a barrier between him and his 
 father that long years could not break down. 
 
 Deacon Sparks was true to his intent ; by dint of 
 perseverance and orthodoxy he got the school commit 
 tee to dismiss Mr. Fletcher ; and that New-School man, 
 after listening to a farewell address, got up by the boys 
 and spoken by 'Celdy, who made it most expressive 
 by totally breaking down in the middle, bid good-by 
 to his charge, in a chorus of tears and sobs from the 
 girls, and choking adieus and sturdy hand-shakings 
 from the boys, and betook himself to his boarding-house 
 to pack his trunk ; during which operation a timid 
 knock called him to the door, there to find Aceldama 
 Sparks. 
 
 " Come in, 'Celdy ! " kindly said Mr. Fletcher ; "come, 
 sit clown in that chair, where you won't get tangled in 
 my things." 
 
 He had too much tact to seem surprised at the boy's 
 appearance, or his utter failure to speak what was chok 
 ing in his throat. So 'Celdy sat down ; and, after turn 
 ing bis cap round and round a dozen times in his hands, 
 at length sputtered out, " If you please, sir, can I go 
 with you ? " 
 
 Mr. Fletcher laughed ; not a derisive or altogether 
 an amused laugh, but as if he were pleased, and sur 
 prised, and doubtful, all three. "Go where, my 
 dear boy ? " said he. 
 
 " Oh, anywhere, sir. I want to get away ; I want 
 to get out of Hanover." 
 
 "What's the matter?" said Mr. Fletcher, flinging 
 himself into an arm-chair, and looking 'Celdy in the face 
 with those keen eyes that seemed to read one's soul.
 
 ACELDAMA SPARKS. 355 
 
 " Sir, I can't stand it ! I can't live with my father ! 
 I cannot!" 'Celdy's face glowed with scarlet indig 
 nation. 
 
 " Ah ! " said Mr. Fletcher, coolly, both hands in his 
 pockets, and his eyes fixed now on the wary manoeuvres 
 of a spider overhead ; " how has he tried to kill you? 
 
 poison, or bludgeons, or the old musket?" 
 
 'Celdy moved uneasily on his seat, blushed deeper 
 yet, and at length stammered out, "Why, Mr. Fletcher, 
 he hasn't tried to kill me, of course." 
 
 A line, fine as the spider's thread, quivered about 
 Mr. Fletcher's mouth and was still again. 
 
 "But I thought you said you couldn't live with him?" 
 gravely interrogated he. 
 
 "Well, sir, I can't; I'm miserable. He talks so, 
 he makes me so angry ; he says such things about" 
 
 " Stop there, my boy ! You have no right to tell me 
 what your father says about anybody. And as for you 
 
 look here ! " Mr. Fletcher pulled from the top of 
 his trunk a little book, thin, and cheaply bound ; and, 
 with his peculiar, expressive voice, read aloud one pas 
 sage from the wisest and best of all books, the book 
 among men's works, Thomas a Kempis's " Imitation 
 of Christ": 
 
 It is no great matter to associate with the good and gentle ; 
 for this is naturally pleasing to all, and every one willingly en- 
 joyeth peace, and loveth those best that agree with him. But to 
 be able to live peaceably with hard and perverse persons, or 
 with the disorderly, or such as go contrary to us, is a great grace, 
 and a most commendable and manly thing. 
 
 'Celdy's head drooped. 
 
 ' ' Nothing gives you any right to leave your father,
 
 356 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 my boy, even if he treated you far worse than he does ; 
 neither God's law nor man's permits it. You have 
 hoped lately that you began a new life ; and here is 
 your place to test it. If you are in earnest the trial 
 of your sincerity is here, and will strengthen it ; if you 
 are half-way, lingering, undecided, you will fail and 
 fall. God knew your need, and he arranged your life. 
 Dare you run away from it? Don't be a coward." 
 
 'Celdy's face flushed, and his head rose. 
 
 " That's right! you have a right to be indignant at 
 the idea ; only be indignant, too, at the thing ; for it is 
 as cowardly to run away from duty as to run away 
 from a battle ; and it never helped any living soul out 
 of trouble, but rather into it, to run away from one's 
 post. Besides, your father is a good man, and one 
 whom I respect truly. He has his own ideas, and he 
 has strong prejudices, strong natures often have. 
 Isn't it enough of an object for your life to try and live 
 down those prejudices, try and show him that religion 
 is a life of duty rather than of doctrines? Can't you 
 do a noble service for your Master just here, and one 
 that the world needs as much as this one man ? ' Do the 
 duty that lies nearest thee ; all the rest will follow.' " 
 
 'Celdy's eye kindled. " I'll try, sir." 
 
 " I believe you will," said Mr. Fletcher. " And one 
 thing more : if you want to be free of the world's 
 bonds don't be troubled by what anybody says of any 
 body else or of you ; if what they say is true, they 
 have a right to say it ; if it is a lie, it is a lie then, and 
 neither mars nor shames any but the teller. The worst 
 slavery in life is slavery to what ' they sa3'.' If you 
 want to be bound and tortured you can try the experi 
 ment, but you will repent it."
 
 ACELDAMA SPARKS. 357 
 
 'Celdy got up from his chair with a glowing face, 
 full of new resolution. Mr. Fletcher smiled, half 
 sadly, to see that look. He knew what lay before the 
 boy, what days of futile endeaA^or, of lapses and re 
 coveries, of sinking heart and struggling hope ; for he, 
 too, had lived under bondage, and cherished a Christian 
 life in the clefts of the rock, as it were, till the strong 
 tree had wound its roots firmly into every crevice, and 
 now stood stately and fair. 
 
 " Only never be discouraged," said he, laying his 
 hand on the boy's shoulder. " Remember that not 
 one fall, nor forty, discourages the child learning to 
 walk why should it the Christian? Distrust 
 yourself, but not God ; for what does St. Augustine 
 say? ' He is patient, because he is eternal.' And 
 here, my boy, is a Bible for you, with these same 
 passages I read you written on its blank leaf. I was 
 going to carry it to you myself. I shall come and say 
 good-by to your father in the morning. Shall I see 
 you?" 
 
 "Yes, sir," said 'Celdy, choking as he spoke, and 
 hurrying out of the door without one word of thanks. 
 But his master was already thanked. 
 
 Mr. Fletcher did call in the morning to see Deacon 
 Sparks. 'Celdy sat demurely in the kitchen corner, 
 with his eyes shining and his lips apart, to drink in 
 every word. Mr. Fletcher was as kindly and as genial 
 to the hard old man as to his best boys in school. 
 Nothing was said about the deacon's agency in dis 
 missing him, even in the way of distant allusion ; and 
 those blank blue eyes seemed to stare wider than ever 
 at the unmistakable kindliness of the young man's 
 manner. Now if Mr. Fletcher had gone away, as the
 
 358 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 vernacular of Hanover hath it, " in a huff," and never 
 come near Deacon Sparks, or if he had " improved the 
 occasion" of his farewell ctill to rebuke the deacon 
 for his interference, and then magnanimously forgiven 
 him, the carnal man, who still sneaked about the 
 premises of the deacon's heart, would have become at 
 once a pugnacious animal, and called itself righteous 
 indignation, or a martyr to duty ; but now, overawed 
 by a phenomenon rarely visible in more extended 
 parishes than that of Hanover, the thorough Christian 
 courtesy of a Christian gentleman, the said carnal 
 slunk into obscurity, and the deacon's conscience 
 spoke a good word for the school-master, like an honest 
 conscience as it was, though generally rather stinted 
 and starved. 
 
 "I hope you've found another school, sir?" said 
 Deacon Sparks, with an accent of real interest. 
 
 " Why, no, sir," answered Mr. Fletcher, the least 
 bit of fun glinting in his eye. " I have never intended 
 to teach anywhere after this time. I am about to 
 
 enter the Theological Seminary, as I wished to 
 
 last year, but found my funds did not quite hold out." 
 
 Deacon Sparks's countenance fell in spite of himself. 
 He had had his labor for his pains, literally. 'Celdy's 
 face sparkled ; his secret soul exulted. I regret to say 
 the boy triumphed in his father's discomfiture. Strange, 
 hard, unnatural position ! Where there should have 
 been confidence and sympathy, only this perpetual 
 antagonism, this utter want of tenderness, this repul 
 sion between old and new ; as if the new were not 
 always an outgrowth of the old, no fresh creation of 
 God, but the spring sprouting of the old stock, the re 
 sult of air and light and warmth upon a long-delayed
 
 ACELDAMA SPARKS. 359 
 
 and chilled embryo. But no such light dawned on 
 Deacon Sparks ; no such breadth of perception as yet 
 illuminated 'Celdy. The deacon's hair bristled with 
 horror at the idea of novelty. The Gospel was an old 
 and fixed fact to him, divisible into so many doctrines ; 
 cribbed up to fifty-two days in the year. Works were 
 a legality for six days in the week, and a strict, stony 
 necessity on the seventh. Six days he ground the 
 faces of the poor, snarled and snapped at his wife, 
 looked like a Yankee Gorgon at every child that he 
 passed, overworked his horses, and underfed his hired 
 man. The seventh day he held his tongue and read the 
 Old Testament in the house, or went to church and 
 sung psalms with much fervor and no tune. Yet for 
 all this the deacon had his good traits, both gracious 
 and natural. He was honest in letter and spirit ; 
 earnest as a child in what he believed ; working right 
 eousness and fearing God. Shall man say that the 
 loving Christ, who bears through all these ages the 
 burden of earth's sin and anguish, had not a tender 
 care for this old man, who had not so learned him ? Did 
 not those eyes, that looked into the heart of publican 
 and sinner with never-failing pity, pierce also the crust 
 of this groping life, and behold, with compassionate 
 affection, its truth and its earnestness? "Judge not, 
 that ye be not judged." 
 
 Now when Mr. Fletcher made this little disclosure, 
 that discomfited the deacon and delighted 'Celdy, Aunty 
 Sparks laughed. If anybody else had laughed there 
 would have been some warm words forthcoming from 
 the conscious deacon. But nobody minded aunty. 
 She always laughed ; not specially because things were 
 amusing, or because she was particularly pleased, but
 
 360 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 out of her overflowing good-will, and the good time 
 she always had, living and loving. Just as a bobo 
 link, filled with June scents and glory, can't possibly 
 wait a minute, but lights on the fh'st thing at hand, 
 and bubbles over with singing and fun ; not because it 
 is a cavatina or a bravura from any opera, and he knows 
 exactly how it ought to be sung, with La Grange's trills 
 and Gazzaniga's expression ; nor because it is an ex 
 quisite day, and deserves a musical interpretation of 
 its splendor and verdure and perfume ; but simply 
 because he-can't-help-it-and-he- don't want-to-and-he- 
 don't-know-why-aud- he-don't-care- and-nobody-knows- 
 and-he- must- sing-sing-sing-and- bubble- over -whether- 
 or-no ! 
 
 Just so aunty laughed, and said, in the inter 
 ludes : 
 
 " Why, dew tell, Mr. Fletcher, if you're a-goin' into 
 the ministry ! " 
 
 " Yes, ma'am, I am," returned that gentleman, with 
 a mixture of reverence and joy that was delicately de 
 fined to a quick ear, and one quick ear received it. 
 
 " Well, I'm glad on't," replied aunty, no way 
 daunted by the ominous rigidity that Old School drew 
 over her husband's face. " There's so many poor 
 sticks in the ministry I always feel as though 'twas a 
 partic'lar providence when a smart man takes to 
 preachin'. Folks always think anybody's good enough 
 to make a minister of, or a missionary, an' 'taint so. 
 I think thej-'d come a sight nearer facts ef they'd think 
 nobody's good enough ; for I'm sure skerce anybody 
 is." 
 
 " That is true,'' said Mr. Fletcher ; and he was about 
 to add that .we might take a lesson therein from the
 
 ACELDAMA SPARKS. 361 
 
 Romish Church, that culls her ministers from men of 
 physical perfection and mental power, and thereby 
 carries half her wide-spread influence ; but Mr. Fletcher 
 remembered Deacon Sparks' s prejudices, and with 
 fraternal charity spared them, for he went on: "I 
 think we should oftener remember the answer of David 
 to Araunah : ' Shall I offer to the Lord God that which 
 cost me nothing? ' ' 
 
 Deacon Sparks's visage relaxed. He liked the Old 
 Testament. The Jews and their observances interested 
 a certain natural formalism in his character ; while for 
 want of living the Gospel he had not yet come to loving 
 it, nor did he suspect the delicate apprehension of, and 
 regard for, this very trait that had prompted Mr. 
 Fletcher's quotation. Strange it is that we so often 
 hear a man accused, as of a fault, of " being all things 
 to all men," when the most fervent of all apostles, the 
 one least fitted by birth or training to conciliate or 
 concede, uses it as a triumphant assertion of his pure 
 zeal and ardent endeavor that he is ' ' made all things 
 to all men, that I might by all means save some." 
 
 And Mr. Fletcher knew when to go. He knew that 
 a further discussion of his future work would only lead 
 to some stumbling-block of doctrine or theological 
 nettle-bed for the deacon. So he shook hands all 
 round, but 'Celdy went with him to the yard-gate. 
 
 " I sha'n't write to you, 'Celdy," said he, answering 
 a dumb inquiry in the boy's look ; " but I shall often 
 be in Hanover, I hope. The Seminary is not faraway, 
 and there are long vacations. I never forget any 
 body," added he,~ with a smile, the blank look of 
 'Celdy's face prompting him, so full as it was of doubt 
 and regret. And so Mr. Fletcher left Hanover ; nor
 
 362 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 did 'Celdy know till years afterward that he had re fused 
 to write him simply lest hie should thereby widen the 
 breach between the boy and his father. 
 
 Three years in the Seminary fast rolled by to Mr. 
 Fletcher, but they dragged a slow length to Aceldama 
 Sparks. It is true that he went to the Academy, and 
 did his best to learn in spite of teachers and text 
 books ; all the time longing in his soul for the clear and 
 vivid mind that had interpenetrated his own, and made 
 knowledge and study more keenly sweet than any free 
 dom to be idle. Yet, after all, this discipline was best 
 for the boy ; it threw him on himself for strength and 
 support ; and a boy who learns to stand alone, even in 
 school, is half a man ; and in the better knowledge of 
 himself that self-reliance gave, he learned a broader 
 charity for his fellows, and learned how blind were his 
 own eyes when he would teach others to see. At home 
 one change lightened 'Celdy's time, though it separated 
 him yet farther from his father. Mrs. Sparks's mother 
 was a widow when her daughter Eunice married Eben- 
 ezer Sparks, but soon after that event she herself 
 married a man by the name of Case, a widower, whose 
 only daughter had married and gone to Illinois. Daniel 
 Case was a farmer, kind-hearted, well-meaning, and 
 honest, but emphatically what we Yankees call shift 
 less. His house-roof leaked, and the crevice was 
 stopped up with rags, because he was " goin' to get a 
 hundred o' shingles to-morrer." But Mr. Case's to 
 morrow never came. His barn-floor rotted and fell in, 
 and was mended with old plank laid across the floor, 
 so that when harvest-time came he had to sell his rye 
 as it stood, for he had no place to thresh it. Then the 
 fences began to give way, and were propped with white-
 
 ACELDAMA SPARKS. 363 
 
 birch poles, or stopped with bushes, because lie was 
 " goin' to cut them chestuut-trees next week, and have 
 a lot o' new rails." But, somehow or other, the trees 
 were never cut in his day, and house and farm slipped 
 out of his easy, listless hands, till at length it all went, 
 and Daniel Case ; his wife, who was " a sickly cretur ; " 
 and his little grand-daughter, a legacy from his dead 
 daughter in Illinois, all came on to the town some 
 twenty-six years after Mrs. Sparks's marriage. 
 
 This was the great trouble of Aunty Sparks's life, 
 something that stopped her laughter whenever she 
 faced its reality ; for not one cent of help for her poor 
 old mother or her kindly, inefficient husband could be 
 wrung from the deacon's pocket. He would not have 
 her in the house, or feed her from the kitchen. He 
 said, as mightier men have said in better phrase and 
 more polished accent: " No, you needn't pester me, 
 Miss Sparks ; she made her bed, and she's got to lie 
 on't now ; I aint going to work my legs off to feed 
 Daniel Case's laziness ; they can hang on to the town 
 if they want to, but they aint goin' to hang on to 
 me!" 
 
 So, in process of time, Mr. and Mrs. Case were put 
 up to auction, as we do put up poor people in New 
 England and did black people at the South, to be sold 
 off to the lowest bidder ; and an old woman, whose 
 bedridden husband had a pension that helped them 
 both to starve at their own expense instead of the 
 town's, bidding off the old couple at a lower rate than 
 anybody else, they were forthwith carted down to her 
 dwelling, furnished with a lean-to in the garret, fed on 
 salt pork and potatoes, but neither abused nor despised, 
 for a sum so small that I will not record it ; for the
 
 364 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 same reason that Mungo Park held his tongue about 
 the wonders he saw in Africa, lest the rest of my 
 history should thereby have its credibility endangered. 
 
 And then Hannah Jones, the little girl, was to be 
 bound out- Here Aunty Sparks could interfere, though 
 at no small expense of goodness and labor. She per 
 suaded the deacon, ever accessible on his economic 
 side, that she didn't need a grown girl to help her in 
 the kitchen, and receive wages as well as board ; that 
 it would be far better to have a little girl, who would 
 eat less, cost no money but for shoes, and be clothed 
 from her own old garments. Powerful arguments all 
 these were to the deacon, whose secret soul was eaten 
 into, wide and deep, by that money-rust that curses the 
 blessings of nine-tenths of our northern population, 
 and makes the very foundations of their lives rotten 
 and tremulous. Oh ! had I but one hour more of life to 
 hold a pen ; one hour of reason to guide my thoughts 
 to its tip and send them flying over the land, I should 
 think that hour well spent if I consumed it in preaching 
 on the one text that no man dare expound in ks awful 
 power and significance to a "respectable" congrega 
 tion : " And he cast down the thirty pieces of silver in 
 the temple, and departed, and went and hanged him 
 self ! " 
 
 So there was another fresh young soul set to endure 
 the discipline of Deacon Sparks's household, but with 
 far better chance to escape its contracting influences 
 than 'Celdy, whose very soul boiled over in a torrent 
 of righteous indignation, when he found his grand 
 mother, a sweet-natured, patient, helpless, and gentle 
 old woman, whom 'Celdy loved almost as well as his 
 mother, was farmed out as town poor to the tender
 
 ACELDAMA SPARKS. 365 
 
 mercies of old Peggy Myers. Much ado had Mrs. 
 Sparks to keep 'Celdy's wrath out of the deacon's way ; 
 for the boy of sixteen felt himself to be a man, and 
 looked at his father from a conscious level, for, as a 
 father, in the divinest sense of the word, never could he 
 regard Deacon Sparks ; and long years of dutiful, out 
 ward respect were }'et needful to make him reverence 
 the relation where he could not reverence the man. 
 
 Aunty Sparks soothed and reasoned and persuaded 
 in vain, till at length she cried, and 'Celdy, who never 
 saw his mother cry before, gave a reluctant promise 
 not to say anything to his father ; but Aunty Sparks 
 had well-nigh undone her own work the next minute, by 
 saying, as a sort of amends to the unwilling youth : 
 
 il And if you made him wrathy, 'Celdy, you'd just 
 kick over your own dish, for he wouldn't give you an 
 apple nor an egg for grandmother ; so you'd better 
 keep cool." 
 
 " O mother!" burst out 'Celdy, "that's enough to 
 
 / ' O 
 
 make me speak ! Do you think I'd keep quiet for 
 such a reason ? Do }-ou think I'd let him help grand 
 mother now? No, indeed, I wouldn't! I'll hold my 
 tongue because I promised, and it troubles you ; but I'd 
 work my fingers off before granny should touch any 
 thing of his." 
 
 " Miss Sparks ! " interrupted a low voice, and 'Celdy 
 turned round just in time to see Hannah, in her check 
 apron, holding the door apart, her great black eyes 
 full of tears and anger, her rosy cheeks red as an 
 apple, and the words, that her pretty red lips tried 
 to make into " Mr. Little's in the keepin'-room," 
 choked back^with something between grief and rage : 
 from that day 'Celdy and Hannah were sworn friends.
 
 366 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 In the meantime Aceldama had many letters from 
 Mr. Fletcher, full of good and kind advice ; for which 
 the boy's life thanked him even better than his words. 
 Hard had been the struggle with himself before 'Celdy 
 could persuade that stubborn self that it was right to 
 set the seal of Christian profession upon his new life 
 within by joining Mr. Little's church. "How can I," 
 he wrote to his old teacher, "join the same church that 
 holds such men as you know belong to Mr. Little's, 
 and who live down, in their niggardly, selfish, unlovely 
 natures, all that the Gospel publishes, and I believe? 
 How can I prorfess their faith, when I do not, and dare 
 not, follow their practice? How can I hold them as 
 brethren whom I must despise and dislike, from their 
 utter want of goodness and honesty ? " 
 
 Mr. Fletcher pondered sorrowfully over this letter, 
 for it had to him more significance than merely the 
 expression of Aceldama's candid perplexity and pain. 
 It was the outcry of a whole world lying in sin against 
 a passive and neglectful Church. Nay, more it was 
 the solemn voice of that Church's Head, like the heavy 
 pulses of a knell, tolling down through ages of denial 
 and scorn his own words, uttered where the fruitful 
 Judean valleys illustrated the sentence, " By their 
 fruits shall ye know them. Do men gather grapes of 
 thorns, or figs of thistles?" Yet, ponder as he might, 
 there was but one thing to do, for truth is never unsafe 
 or unjust; and, though it be sometimes the cautery, 
 and sometimes the salve, it is the need of the patient 
 to which it fits itself ; and it was not in Mr. Fletcher's 
 nature to tampei 1 with or mitigate any truth, however 
 bitter, so he answered 'Celdy on this wise.: 
 
 " I cannot deny that what you say of those church-
 
 ACELDAMA SPARKS. 3G7 
 
 members is true. But you have to consider two views 
 of the question before } - ou judge them : one is, the influ 
 ence of education on their minds, such education in 
 both theology and practical religion as you may fairly 
 infer men in their station and their age received. It 
 is one thing to adhere to wrong because you have been 
 brought up in it till it has become a habit, and another 
 to build it up about yourself as a wall against good 
 influences and full light. And the other view is, con 
 sideration of what you do not know about them ; the 
 good that you do not see ; the real earnestness to do 
 right when one is habit-blind ; the inward struggles 
 with sin ; the depression of physical disease or do 
 mestic trouble : these are known to God only, and, if 
 you could discern with his sight, would not your judg 
 ment be modified ? And then there is the harder truth 
 that some of these men are not Christians ; that the 
 tenderest charity and the most gentle judgment can 
 not set aside the bitter fact of their living in sin, 
 though professing righteousness : with such men } - ou 
 cannot fraternize, nor are you bound to attempt it. 
 So much for other people ; too much, indeed ; for this 
 is a matter which concerns j'ourself, and you only. 
 Mr. Little's church is the only one in your village, the 
 only place where you can confess Christ before men, 
 and that you own to be a duty of direct importance. 
 Go, then, and fulfil this duty. It is not made contin 
 gent on any circumstance. If there was not one 
 Christian besides yourself in the list of members, that 
 would not affect what you ought to do. Nay, it ought 
 rather to stimulate you, since it opens a field of action 
 wider and more hopeful than makes the station of 
 many a missionary, and the Lord has said, ' To every
 
 368 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 man his work.' Let me caution you against one thing, 
 contempt. Despise no one ; there is no human 
 heart that is all evil, and the solitary fact that Christ 
 came to die for every man should place all far above 
 your contempt. Dare you despise where he pitied ? " 
 
 If this advice seemed hard to 'Celdy, at least he took 
 it, and was admitted to Mr. Little's church in due time, 
 not a little to his father's satisfaction, though he could 
 not repress a lurking doubt of 'Celd3*'s orthodoxy on 
 several points, luckily for both, not included in the 
 Confession of Faith common to most New England 
 churches. 
 
 But there were all the time troubles and doubts wedg 
 ing apart Deacon Sparks and his son, first of one kind 
 and then of another. If the deacon began a theological 
 discussion after supper 'Celdy was sure to hear a noise 
 in the barn that needed direct attention, or some bar 
 rels in the cellar called for his care, or Hannah wanted 
 help to set up her tubs and take her cheeses out of 
 press, hardly legitimate work for evening ; but her 
 quick instinct provided excuses for 'Celdy when his 
 own failed. So, after a time, the deacon let doctrines 
 drop ; for when 'Celd}' was eighteen his school-time 
 ended, and he came home to " farm it." Here was 
 fertile subject for trouble ; the untiring kindness of 
 Mr. Fletcher furnished him with a good agricultural 
 paper, and his own acute sense seized at once on the 
 practical advantages of a better style of farming than 
 that which prevailed in Hanover. But he might better 
 have harangued the mulleins and golden-rods that 
 adorned his sheep-pasture on the benefits of being 
 pulled up than attempt to convert the deacon to drain 
 ing, lime-manuring, or rotation of crops. Rye had been
 
 ACELDAMA SPARKS. 369 
 
 grown on a certain slope year after year till the spin 
 dling stalks conld be counted, and then the lot was given 
 over to lie at ease till nature should cover it with poor 
 grass again, and sheep should be turned in to starve. 
 Potatoes and corn had their allotted places as much as 
 the horses and wagons in the barn ; and, when corn 
 dwindled and potatoes rotted, the deacon's luck was 
 miscalled, and the weather helped bear the blame. 
 Twenty acres of " muck " swamp, in various patches, 
 that would have made the eyes of a modern farmer open 
 with delight, and his crops. laugh on the hill-sides, that 
 now were dry and sunny enough to raise the best black 
 berries, lay altogether idle, except for the frogs that 
 basked in its black and shallow pools, or the mud-turtles 
 that sunned themselves on every stump, and scuttled 
 away at the rare approach of step or voice. 
 
 But draining was not to be heard of ; lime, and guano, 
 and compost heaps took rank with fairy stories in the 
 deacon's mind. His father and his grandfather had 
 been farmers before him, and squeezed a living from 
 the soil ; and what his father and grandfather did was 
 good enough for him, especially as any change of 
 method involved an outlay of money ; and though the 
 deacon was willing to lay out his own labor and Acel 
 dama's at lavish expense of comfort and health, 
 perhaps life, money was out of the question ; he 
 would rather have opened a vein to enrich his corn-lot 
 than spent the dollars that a course of drain-tile or a 
 barrel of lime implied. 
 
 So Aceldama fretted over his work ; mowed and 
 hoed, and raked and ploughed with grudging effort, and 
 strayed into the swamp, whenever he got a leisure 
 moment, to turn up the rich black soil and specu.la.tQ on
 
 370 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 its value, as a miser might count his useless gold, and 
 sigh over its stationary existence. Nothing could be 
 done with the deacon ; no argument could convince him 
 that Aceldama knew more than the three generations 
 before him, as he was pleased to put the case ; and now 
 he retaliated 'Celdy's neglect of his theology by sniffing 
 at the young man's new-fangled ideas on farming, and 
 treating his opinions with an open contempt that kept 
 them, eventually, silent. Only for his mother and 
 Hannah, 'Celdy would have packed up his Sunday suit 
 and gone to seek his fortune elsewhere ; but his mother 
 more and more depended on him for help and societ}' 
 as she gradually grew older, and Hannah, who was as 
 merry as a cricket, even under the deacon's hard eye, 
 set herself to work, woman-fashion, to make 'Celdy 
 comfortable and contented as far as she could. 
 
 And unsentimental as it may seem to Sacharissa, who 
 alleviates the sorrows of Strephou with smiles and 
 Cologne-water, it was no small comfort to 'Celdy, who 
 was only flesh and blood, to have his dough-nuts made 
 and fried just right, his stockings mended smoothly, his 
 shirts never lacking a button, his room kept in faultless 
 order, his own special lamp with which he read in his 
 own room those offending agricultural papers and 
 various other works that would have equally enraged 
 the deacon always filled and trimmed, and spotlessly 
 clean. And it was more than all these to have that 
 bright, prett}' face and trim figure, animated by a char 
 acter of sparkling common-sense and gay good-temper, 
 always at hand, always somebody to feel for and 
 with him ; to admire and arrange the wild flowei's he 
 brought home from that obnoxious swamp and its 
 edges ; to trudge over the three-mile hill of a moon-
 
 ACELDAMA SPARKS. 371 
 
 light night with some trifle for "grandmother;" to 
 escort to singing-school ; to go berrying with ; to make 
 " posy-beds " for, in short, to love ; for it came to 
 that, without either 'Celdy or Hannah's knowing it ; and 
 a very good plan it was. 
 
 For in those yet primitive regions servants were 
 made of the same clay with their masters ; were men 
 and women of like passions, whose feelings and tastes 
 were really allowed to have room, and whose personality 
 was acknowledged as much as anybody's else ; and it 
 was thought no more for a man to marry " their hired 
 girl," who ate and drank at the kitchen-table with the 
 rest of the famil}', sat in their pew Sundays, and 
 belonged to the same sewing-society with her mistress, 
 than it is in those parts for Mr. Van Tromp, who had a 
 great-grandfather of some sort, to marry Miss Spratte, 
 whose grandfather founded the family in a new hair- 
 dye . 
 
 So between bitter and sweet, strife and peace, 
 'Celdy grew to twenty and Hannah neared eighteen. 
 By this time old Mrs. Case had grown stone-blind in 
 her attic at Peggy Myers's house, and her husband was 
 bent double with rheumatism, and, at the annual 
 auction of the poor, Peggy had been underbid by an 
 old half-breed Indian known as Peter Piper, whose 
 shackling house of two rooms and a garret stood on 
 the top of a bare hill, exposed to every wind that 
 blew, and leak}" enough to drown out at least all hope 
 of comfort even for Peter and his dirt}*, drinking wife. 
 It was nothing to the public, who paid their board, 
 that so many years had made Peggy Myers's house 
 home to these old and feeble people ; that Mrs. Case 
 had learned to grope her way about the rooms and
 
 372 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 even through the garden ; still less did it matter that 
 Peter's house was wet, cold, and shackling enough to 
 be dangerous in a high wind : it was all in all that he 
 had offered to take them for ten dollars less than 
 Peggy could afford, and no town could be so foolishly 
 benevolent as to throw away ten dollars a year on non- 
 producers like these. Besides, if they did die, why, 
 then, the whole sum was saved. But the selectman, 
 unluckily for him, had a heart, a thing selectmen 
 ought never to be troubled with, and sometimes are 
 not; but Mr. Steel, being so afflicted,, was troubled 
 enough at the prospect before these kindly and suffering 
 old folks. Had it been in his power he would gladly 
 have kept them with Mrs. Myers ; but he was only the 
 agent of the town, and the town's nose was ringed 
 with a silver ring, it answered only to the appeal of 
 dollars ; nor could Mr. Steel pay the extra sum him 
 self, for he was poor enough to look twice at even a 
 cent before he dared spend it. In this dilemma Deacon 
 Sparks occurred to him. He was able to put the 
 matter at i - est directly ; he was well-to-do ; in possession 
 of a good farm, with only one son, he could hardly help 
 giving so much aid as this to his wife's mother. So Mr. 
 Steel put on his Sunday coat, tackled up, and set out 
 for Hanover Corners, where the deacon lived, some four 
 miles west of the Centre, and was soon welcomed to a 
 seat by the kitchen fire that a March wind without 
 made doubly welcome. Your true Yankee never 
 comes to the point at once ; there is a pleasing satis 
 faction to him in veering to every point of the compass 
 before he indicates his stopping-place, and Mr. Steel 
 drew largely upon everything in general before he 
 came to his proposition, which was succinct and clear
 
 ACELDAMA SPARKS. 373 
 
 enough when he did reach it. Aunty Sparks dropped 
 her knitting as he began to state the case, Hannah 
 intermitted her sewing, and 'Celdy's cheeks gathered a 
 hot flush as Mr. Steel went on ; but the deacon sat 
 still till he finished, and then spoke. 
 
 "I don't know but what you're correct, Mr. Steel, 
 about this business, but reelly I can't say as I feel 
 called to pamper Dan Case and his wife beyond pay in* 
 my reg'lar tax to the town." 'Celdy moved as if to 
 speak, but his mother looked at him, and her eyes were 
 bright with tears ; so 'Celdy held his tongue, and the 
 deacon went on : 
 
 " It's allers been my principle to let folks reap as 
 they've sowed, and I can't see no justice in my grubbin' 
 and sweatin' the year round to set up a feller, that was 
 allers as shiftless as a cow-buntin', in luxury and ease. 
 I aint a wealth} 1 man myself ; I pay my debts and 
 calculate to subscribe to some objects, but I haint got 
 money to throw away. Besides, I don't see no gre't 
 call for't ; when folks gets old in shiftless wa}'S I ex 
 pect they aint partic'lar about where they do put up. 
 I guess Miss Case an' Dan '11 be about as well off with 
 Peter Piper as they was with Miss Myers." 
 
 'Celdy got up and flung out of the room. Mr. Steel 
 twiddled his restless fingers in and out in confusion, 
 and finally ventured : 
 
 "Well, I thought I'd call an' say how it was, and 
 maybe you'd feel to help 'em ; they're pretty poor off 
 anyhow " Here he stopped, for he saw a big bright 
 drop fall into Aunty Sparks's lap, and he knew her 
 nature well enough to know how hard tears came ; all 
 the harder for the thought that this change would take 
 her mother a mile and a half farther, where the homely
 
 374 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 dainties, and necessities too, that she had, till now, 
 contrived t > smuggle down to her once or twice a week, 
 could scarcely reach her by any available messenger. 
 Hannah had stolen out of the room to comfort 'Celdy , 
 luckily for the deacon, as it reduced his audience to 
 two before he answered Mr. Steel. 
 
 " Well, Brother Steel, I don't feel no call to help 
 'em. I don't mind Miss Sparks's sendin* of 'em bits an' 
 ends now an' then ; but payin' out money's a different 
 thing ; and I can't see my way clear to be sinkin' ten dol 
 lars a year, jest so's to pamper them old folks. If Dan 
 Case had had a grain of common-sense he could ha' 
 had a house over his head to-day, and got his livin' ; 
 but now he'd oughter be thankful to be kep' from 
 starvation, and he'll profit by 'xperienre, I guess." 
 
 Mr. Steel said " Good-by," the deacon went to bed, 
 and Aunty Sparks, throwing her apron over her head, 
 sat a long time rocking back and forth by the fire, 
 sometimes crying softly over her poor old mother, dear 
 to her as a mother should be ; sometimes trying to 
 devise any plan by which that ten dollars could be 
 raised in time to pay Peggy Myers, who would gladly 
 have kept the desolate couple if she could, though she 
 did not make two dollars a year out of her " boarder.^." 
 
 'Celd} r aud Hannah came in softly from the shed as 
 soon as Deacon Sparks's snores testified his absence 
 from the kitchen ; and Hannah, giving Mrs. Sparks a 
 hearty hug and kiss, went off to her own little room 
 with a heart full of pity and indignation, not a little 
 consoled, however, by the quiet, determined way in 
 which 'Celdy had -said to her, out in the shed : 
 
 " I'll make it straight, Hannah." 
 
 How this was to be dune Hannah never stopped to
 
 ACELDAMA SPARKS. 375 
 
 question. She believed in him with all the innocence 
 and strength of her fresh and loving nature. Happy 
 child ! It was enough for her that he undertook any 
 thing. Though it wore impossibility on its face to all 
 the world beside, it would have seemed practicable to her 
 since 'Celdy did it ; and she rested on this faith to 
 reverse all the evil and wrong in both their lives. So 
 she fell asleep, child-fashion, without a care for the 
 morrow. 
 
 'Celdy sat down by his mother, who had dropped her 
 apron and resumed her knitting as soon as he came in, 
 and for a while neither of them spoke. At length he 
 said : 
 
 "Don't be troubled, mother; I'll see that granny 
 never goes to Indian Peter's. Don't you lose heart 
 over "it." 
 
 Mrs. Sparks laughed just a little, partly by way of 
 reassuring 'Celdy about herself, and partly because of 
 his confident and grown-up manner, that both pleased 
 and amused her even then. 
 
 " You can't help it, 'Celdy," said she, " and I can't 
 either ; and if 'twasn't best, why, the Lord wouldn't 
 permit it when he knows it can't be helped. I feel 
 bad to think how you'll lay it up against your father. 
 I know you feel hard toward him ; but you must call to 
 mind his natur' and his briugin' up. His father was a 
 close man, and I've heerd his mother was inclined that 
 way. She come of a family that was always called 
 very near; so't your father was brought up that way, 
 and you can't blame him, nor I can't neither, so much 
 as if he'd ha' been differently inclined in his youth. 
 I do feel bad about mother, and about Father Case, 
 for I don't feel as if Indian Peter was a faithful man,
 
 376 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 and his house is dreadful leaky and shacklin' ; but then 
 we must make the best on't, and I oughter be thankful 
 your father lets me take 'em vittles, that's a great 
 deal." 
 
 " You always do make the best of everything, 
 mother," said 'Celdy, in a tone of mixed admiration 
 and affection ; "but there's scarce any best to this. I 
 shall be twenty-one next week, and you'll see how I 
 shall help the matter if I live." 
 
 So the affair rested for that night, and for several 
 days after nothing was heard of it, till the week before 
 'Celdy's birthday, when he was busy in the barn with 
 his father. He thought best to enlighten the deacon. 
 
 " Father," said he, " Sam Myers, who used to work 
 for you when I went to the 'Cademy, is here, down to 
 the Centre. Don't you want to hire him? " 
 
 " Why, no," said the deacon, facing 'Celdy with a 
 grim look of surprise; "I don't calc'late to keep a 
 hired man. I guess you an' I can do all the work on 
 this farm if you don't go to runnin' arter your new 
 idees, an' I guess you won't have no chance arter the 
 worst on 'em, for I sold the hull o' that are swamp to 
 Squire Willet yesterday." 
 
 'Celdy set his face into its most dogged look. 
 
 "But you won't have me, sir. I'm twenty-one 
 next week, and I've taken Squire Willet's farm on 
 shares, from the fifteenth of April." 
 
 The deacon dropped the broom he was sweeping up 
 hay-seed with. 
 
 " Well," said he, " I s'pose that's your New-School 
 idee of honorin' parents, aint it? I've ben an' brought 
 you up, an' paid your schoolin', and now you go off." 
 
 " I don't know, sir, as you've done anything more'u
 
 ACELDAMA SPARKS. 377 
 
 what everybody does for their sons," remarked 'Celcly 
 between his teeth. 
 
 "Where be you a-goin* to live?" said the deacon. 
 
 " I'm going to live in the farm-honse on Long Pond 
 that he built for Mrs. Willet's brother before he went 
 "West. The squire's going to Congress for four years, 
 and I've got the farm on trial." 
 
 " Two fools together ! " growled the deacon. 
 
 'Celdy set down his peck measure, and set his back 
 against the manger. 
 
 " Father," said he, "I don't think you can say any 
 thing to me about honoring parents when you'll let 
 Grandmother Case go to Peter Piper's because you 
 won't pay ten dollars to help it. I can't stand that. 
 You may give your money to the heathen ; I shall 
 take care of my own household first. I'm a man now, 
 and I shouldn't dare show my face before God or man 
 while grandmother was starved and miserable in that 
 old Indian hut. I don't know anything about what 
 you call Old and New School ; but I know what my 
 duty is, and I've got to do it ; and as long as grand 
 mother and Dan Case live I'll take care of them, if I 
 work my hands off." 
 
 The deacon stood stock-still. 'Celdy walked out of 
 the barn into the woods. He was afraid to trust his 
 temper farther ; he was afraid of having indulged it 
 even in what he had said. He lay down at the foot of 
 a huge pine-tree that towered up above him, a spire of 
 verdure and fragrance and sad music. The chords 
 of its whispering anthem soothed his excited brain ; 
 the blue sky above shone through those waving boughs 
 like a glimpse of God's eternity through the flickering 
 of time. Young as he was, the troubles and doubts of
 
 378 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 every earnest mind already had wearied him with their 
 assaults, so that a prospect of heavenly rest was sweet 
 even when all life's hope lay tempting before him. 
 The mournful character of New England scenery, the 
 sober nature of a life that must needs be one long 
 labor, the repressive system of his home, all tended to 
 make his buoyant nature pensive, if not sad ; and as 
 he la} r there under the tree, no hermit in his rocky cell, 
 on desolate mountains, or sandy deserts, could have 
 looked at the world with more pitying contempt than 
 did 'Celdy, when all at once one of those poems God 
 has scattered in the wilderness, that birds and brooks 
 alone set to music, met his eye. Under the next tree, 
 right at its foot, basking in a gleam of sunshine, stood 
 a tiny cluster of blue squirrel-cups, " liverworts," as 
 the country people call them ; at the foot of that mas 
 sive tree, from the shrivelled heap of last 3'ear's leaves, 
 that bunch of crowded azure blossoms and gray, downy 
 buds looked up to the rare sun, as bright, as fearless, 
 as serene as Hannah ! 
 
 'Celdy sprung up from the turf, and stooped over the 
 pretty creatures, with a shy longing to kiss them, 
 which, being a Yankee boy, he did not indulge ; then 
 he felt for his knife to dig them up and carry them away 
 bodily ; but, as he opened the broad blade, a better 
 impulse filled him. He would not move them ; they 
 belonged there. Amidst the thousand odors of spring 
 in the woods, glinting against the golden-brown of the 
 dead leaves about them, neighbored by the chattering 
 squirrels, and praised by the first song of the year, 
 there they bloomed and there they should die, rather 
 than in a cracked teapot on Hannah's window. 
 
 But 'Celdy went home comforted, though he didn't
 
 ACELDAMA SPARKS. 379 
 
 know how, and though he avoided his father and spent 
 the mild, smoky evening chiefly on the step of the back 
 shed in the moonlight, Hannah was there too, with a 
 shawl over her head, and 'Celdy's arm round her, to 
 keep her warm, I suppose ; and whether he learned his 
 lesson of the squirrel-cups, or not, I cannot tell, but 
 Hannah left him at bedtime with the remark that he 
 "beat all for persuadin' folks out of their own mind." 
 
 Deacon Sparks preserved a grim silence. Pride for 
 bade that he should relent toward 'Geld}*, even so far 
 as to speak with him a word that was not absolutely 
 necessary. He hired a man, but not the one his son 
 had recommended. He went his way to work, and 
 when on Sunday, the second day of April, Deacon 
 Sparks heard the Rev. Mr. Little read from his pulpit 
 the intention of marriage between Aceldama Sparks 
 and Hannah Jones, he so far held the outer man in 
 tight subjection that his eyelash never quivered, nor 
 his mouth stirred from its grim lines. 
 
 So Hannah and 'Celdy were married at the minister's 
 house the next Sunday, and, taking the old couple off 
 the town's hands, were all settled in the new house at 
 Long Pond by the fifteenth of the mouth. Scarce any 
 body but Hannah and 'Celdy would have begun life on 
 such small foundations ; but 'Celdy never forgot a sen 
 tence in Mr. Fletcher's letter answering one of his that 
 asked advice on this matter: "Don't be ashamed of 
 anything but sin ; if you have enough to eat and keep 
 warm with, and a clear conscience, no man is better 
 off than you." Just these requisites Aceldama had. 
 Squire Willet, a good man, and a progressive one, 
 knew enough of his circumstances and education to 
 give him a helping hand with true pleasure. Hannah
 
 380 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 found a barrel of pork and two of potatoes in the 
 cellar, which Mrs. Willet sent over because she was 
 going to "Washington, and from there to spend the 
 summer at the sea-side, and stores wouldn't keep. 
 What should have been the parlor was given up to the 
 old folks for a bedroom, and they had bedding of their 
 own, and a rickety bedstead, with one chair, an old 
 rocker, and a hair trunk, that made all the furnishing 
 their room could boast. Mrs. Sparks had made over 
 to Hannah the bed that belonged to her in right of her 
 term as "bound girl" having elapsed, and added to it 
 some linen and blankets that she had brought with her 
 when the deacon married her. A few coarse towels, a 
 kettle, a spider, and a little tin, with a plain set of 
 absolutely necessary crockery for the table, completed 
 Hannah's equipage, taken in lieu of the heifer-calf, 
 that is, besides the bed, a bound girl's general portion 
 on her release. She and Aceldama had two boxes for 
 their clothes, and they spread their bed on the floor in 
 an upper room. 
 
 Yet, if ever a philosopher wanted an illustration to 
 vindicate his contempt for circumstances, we should 
 have recommended him to 'Celdy's home. No young 
 wife of a boyish millionnaire, in her morning robe of 
 silk, with laced and embroidered garments peeping 
 from under its soft and heavy folds, and every delight 
 or glory that money can bring gathered about her, 
 ever shone more cheerfully lovely than Hannah, in her 
 dark print dress and clean white collar, doing up 
 " chores," with old Dan Case poking about in vain 
 attempts to help her, and granny in her chair by the 
 sunny south window, knitting at her blue stocking, her 
 face as quiet as a child's, and her eyes closed as if will,
 
 ACELDAMA SPARKS. 381 
 
 not power, were wanting to see with. 'Celdy had read 
 enough fiction in his life to have a clue value for sur 
 roundings, and would have liked as well as any man to 
 see his wife in a romantic cottage, overhung with roses, 
 gracefully doing nothing ; but we doubt if he would 
 have loved her half as much under those pleasing 
 aspects as he did now, when every day showed him 
 more and more how neat, how cheerful, how contented 
 she could be in the midst of absolute poverty with him. 
 
 It was the most subtle flattery he could receive, be 
 cause the most unconscious in its giver ; and to him 
 perhaps the thought came, as it does to us, why might 
 not thousands of other men, who dare not marry be 
 cause the} 7 are poor, attempt and find the same happi 
 ness by the same faith in the woman they love ? 
 
 Heaven knows that women are the weaker sex ; that 
 they are full of faults and full of follies ; but where 
 one woman in ten would make a man's life wretched 
 by pining after show and luxury, the other nine would 
 ask nothing but love and trust enough to make them 
 happy in four bare walls. It is not here that women's 
 sins lie. The whole life of thousands, as poor as utter 
 destitution can make them, tells another story. Love 
 a woman enough to trust her, and if she loves you, 
 doubting and sneering man ! she will upset all your 
 woman-hating theories in a year ; but treat her like a 
 doll and a fool, and she will be both. Is it an un 
 natural result? 
 
 Mrs. Sparks stole down as often as she found the 
 deacon's work took him to a distant field to see her 
 boy and his wife, as well as to comfort her old mother ; 
 but the deacon never came, nor did 'Celdy's Christian 
 charity get the better of him yet, enough for him to go
 
 382 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 home at all. He could not forget that when he left his 
 father, and stifling all his worse feelings in the real 
 affection that only slept within him, he said, " Good- 
 by, father," holding out his hand, the deacon had 
 held his own still before him, and, turning red with 
 rage, answered : 
 
 " You'll come back here begging yet ! " 
 
 " Never, if I die on the town ! " said 'Cekty, equally 
 red. And so father and son had parted. 
 
 Squire AVillet had left his farm on 'Celdy's hands, 
 with full power to work it as he pleased, swamp and 
 all, and 'Celdy was faithful to his trust. He hired but 
 two men to help him, and made the eyes of all the 
 farmers round about open wide by the barrels of lime 
 and courses of drain-tile that he laid in for the cam 
 paign ; but he knew what he was about. Up early, and 
 out late, never idle a moment, never looking on, but 
 always at work with his men, he showed the most in 
 credulous how much more a head is worth than hands 
 alone ; and when Squire Willet came back to Hanover 
 for a visit in the autumn, to inspect his farm and 
 settle accounts with Aceldama, the twenty-acre swamp 
 waved with such a crop of corn as no field in the town 
 ship ever saw before, and there was more hay and n r e 
 harvested than even his big barns could hold. 'Celdy 
 made enough out of his farming that year to buy a 
 bedstead and a new cloak for Hannah, and lay up a 
 small sum besides for future emergencies ; since he had 
 discovered that he was as happy as he need be with 
 Hannah, and without furniture ! 
 
 In the winter the trimming and thinning of the wood- 
 lot, and the clearing of a hill-side swarming with white 
 birches, gave them wood enough to defy even a New
 
 ACELDAMA SPARKS. 383 
 
 England winter; and, nnable to be idle, 'Celcly set up 
 two coal-pits, and brought new profit out of the hitherto 
 waste lands on the place. 
 
 Toward the end of their first year's life there, old Dan 
 Case died. He was not sick long, and his feeble mind 
 lost nothing during that brief illness. He paid Hannah 
 richly for all her care by his grateful words on those 
 few days ; she was good enough to be rewarded for 
 any trouble, by feeling that she had made the last year 
 of her grandfather's life on earth both comfortable and 
 happy, and she never could be glad enough that his 
 last words were : 
 
 "Hanner! you've got a good husband ; the Lord'll 
 bless him an' his'n, because he haint forgot the Lord's 
 poor. I can't rightly remember things now ; I'm 
 kinder riled in my head ; but there is a text some- 
 wheres that means him ; it's about doin' it to ' the least 
 of these.' Oh, yes ! I remember!" He raised his 
 head and looked full at 'Celdy coming in at the door. 
 ' ' The Lord says, ' Ye have clone it unto me ! " 
 
 " He's been a great burden to you," said Mr. Little 
 to Aceldama, on the day of the funeral, which was held 
 in church on Sunday. 
 
 "Oh, no, sir!" was the almost indignant reply; 
 "he has been a great blessing!" 
 
 Deacon Sparks heard it. 
 
 The second year of 'Celdy's farming kept the promise 
 of the first good, and was brightened all through by a 
 visit from Mr. Fletcher, who slept on the floor, and 
 lived on pork, potatoes, and rye-bread, with as much 
 apparent enjoyment as if they had been the luxuries 
 of a palace. It was a great refreshment to 'Celdy,
 
 384 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 mentally, to have his company at his daily work ; not 
 that Mr. Fletcher worked much, for he had come there 
 to rest, and he therefore conscientiously rested ; but 
 his quick, practical insight, that he always exerted for 
 others, though never for himself, and his poetic faculty 
 of seeing the beauty in every common thing, seemed to 
 illustrate even labor, and make it vivid with power and 
 loveliness. Then he appreciated Hannah ; and there 
 is no man who does not like to have his wife praised 
 by another, especially by one whom he admires and 
 respects. A woman loves for love's sake ; it makes 
 no difference to her what the world sa} - s : it is enough 
 that she loves her lover; praise intrudes, and blame is 
 simply outside barbarism. But a man loves for his 
 own sake ; pride and self-gratulatiou mingle with his 
 passion and affection ; he is commercial enough in his 
 very nature to feel better satisfied with a bill the more 
 good indorsers it has. " Pit3' 'tis, 'tis true." 
 
 So this visit left 'Celdy in good heart for the sum 
 mer's labors all the more that "granny" elevated 
 *' that are Mr. Fletcher" into a household oracle, and 
 quoted him on all possible occasions ; aud Hannah kept 
 alive in her husband's mind a hone too sweet not to be 
 cherished, small as it was, that Hanover people would 
 some day call Mr. Fletcher to be colleague with Mr. 
 Little, now stricken in years and extremely feeble. 
 
 " No, they won't, Hannah ! " 'Celdy would say, with 
 great emphasis. "They don't know him, and he aint 
 orthodox enough." But, for all that, a vague hope 
 existed in his mind, till it was finally quashed by Mr. 
 Fletcher's receiving and accepting a call to Hanover 
 Centre, four miles from the Corners, and inaccessible 
 to anybody but 'Celdy, because they kept no horse.
 
 ACELDAMA SPARKS. 385 
 
 Six months he trudged that distance every Sunday to 
 hear his old friend preach ; for Hannah had now a little 
 occupation at home that made " meeting " impracti 
 cable ; till one Sunday in the second spring after their 
 marriage she did contrive to walk to church, and Mr. 
 Little being too ill to preach, Mr. Fletcher supplied his 
 place and baptized Aceldama Sparks' baby and his own 
 namesake. 
 
 This was rather too much for Deacon Sparks. If 
 'Celdy had shown one sign of relenting toward his 
 father if he had even called his baby Samuel Ebenezer 
 the deacon might have "come round;" but to go 
 and name his first grandchild after the man, of all 
 others, who had been, in the deacon's eyes, the primary 
 cause of their separation, was not to be forgiven. 
 
 It is true Mrs. Sparks and Hannah both begged this 
 mitigation of the name, but 'Celdy was not to be 
 persuaded ; the dogged old Adam, who gets credit for 
 all his children's sins, lurked deep in 'Celdy 's heart, 
 and made him uncomfortable through every duty of his 
 life, religious or secular. He knew he did not feel as 
 he should toward bis father ; but he laid the blame on 
 his father's shoulders, and refused to own that both 
 could be wrong as well as one. 
 
 That year the farm-work needed a horse ; so 'Celdy 
 bought one, and built a barn, and removed his member 
 ship and Hannah's to the Centre church. This was 
 the climax of Deacon Sparks's affliction. He couldn't 
 any way understand the works of Providence ; he 
 could not see why a New-School man, and one who set 
 light by his father, and called him to naught by his 
 actions, as he phrased it, should be blessed in all his 
 temporal undertakings, have the best wife, and the
 
 386 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN-. 
 
 finest child, and the biggest crops in the township. He 
 had eaten sour grapes, and it was against Scripture 
 that 'Celdy's teeth were not set on edge. 
 
 So matters progressed, for three years, during which 
 the deacon's farming plodded slowly backward, and 
 Squire Willet's farm got the premium at the county 
 fair. Hanover people began to wake up to the merits 
 of modern farming ; and 'Celdy worked his way into 
 the respect of everybody who knew him, not merely 
 by his agricultural success, but by the never-failing 
 care and kindness with which he treated his old blind 
 grandmother. Still Aceldama was not happy, and Mr. 
 Fletcher saw it, and treated him accordingly. 
 
 " What is the matter with you?" said he to Acel 
 dama, one Sunday night, after tea was over, and they 
 sat on the door-step, looking at the sunset, while 
 Hannah " cleared off " within. 
 
 " I don't know, sir," said Aceldama. 
 
 " Then I shall have to tell you," said Mr. Fletcher; 
 " you have everything at home here, in ycur family and 
 in your success, to make you happy ; but you don't feel 
 right to your father." 
 
 "Well, what can I do?" answered 'Celdy, with a 
 sudden burst of angry grief : "he don't treat me as if 
 I was his son ; he is not so civil to me as to the com 
 monest beggar. What can I do? " 
 
 " I don't see that what he is or does has anything to 
 do with your duty ; if he neglects his, that is his affair. 
 Have you tried all you can to be friends with him ? " 
 
 Aceldama was honest ; he hung his head and said, 
 " No." 
 
 " Then go and do it at once. Go to-night. I can 
 not offer you any hope of peace unless you are willing
 
 ACELDAMA SPARKS. 387 
 
 to do a known duty as soon as you see it. If you have 
 spoken disrespectfully to him, say so, and ask his 
 pardon ; tell him you want to be at peace with him ; 
 that you have suffered from your estrangement. Do 
 this, and, whatever answer he gives you, I can promise 
 you a light heart and a pure conscience then ; but not 
 till then." 
 
 " I will," said Aceldama, and, quite forgetful of Mr. 
 Fletcher, afraid only of delaying so disagreeable a duty, 
 he took his hat and went ; leaving his pastor in the 
 door, no longer interested in the sunset, but thinking 
 in himself, with increasing respect and affection for 
 'Celdy, how few men in all the world kept in their 
 life of business the directness and honesty ~that had 
 sent the young man on such an errand, with so slight 
 an impulse. He did not know himself how much he 
 had to do with it ; how far his own stainless life, and 
 practice of what he preached, had given him the great 
 power he possessed over all who knew him. 
 
 It is almost always true that Providence smooths 
 before us the path to any duty from the moment we 
 enter it. A thicket of doubts and fears may present 
 itself before us, but the boughs bend and the briers 
 part as we face them, and we find a straight way ready 
 for our feet. So Aceldama found it, for his mother 
 met him on the step with tears in her eyes. His 
 father had been taken sick the night before, with a 
 heavy cold apparently ; it had increased now to fever, 
 and he lay on his bed seemingly stupid, but flushed 
 with heat, and restless, though unconscious. The 
 doctor had just been there, and pronounced him in 
 danger; and Mrs. Sparks, full of apprehension, 
 thought he had sent Aceldama up on his way back to
 
 388 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 his house ; and so he would have, but that 'Celdy came 
 across the lots, and Dr. Brooks went by the road. 
 Aceldama was glad always that he came of his own 
 will. 
 
 For many long days and nights Deacon Sparks 
 groaned and tossed in the anguish of a raging fever. 
 'Celdy only went home to direct his men about the 
 work ; he was always at hand at night, and watched 
 and wore himself to a shadow, too glad to show 
 how earnest his resolutions had been, by some visible 
 act of witness. Deacon Sparks neither knew wife nor 
 son for ten days. His first consciousness ensued on a 
 heavy sleep, from which he woke early one April day, 
 free from fever, but weak as a child ; and, gathering 
 his fluttered senses so far as to know where he was, 
 heard 'Celdy say, in the next room, in a voice which 
 only the extreme sensitiveness of weakness could have 
 rendered audible to his father : 
 
 "No, mother; I can't leave him now; tell Jay to 
 let the wheat-lot go. I don't care if there isn't a 
 blade of grain on that lot this year : I shall not leave 
 father." 
 
 Deacon Sparks could not believe his ears ; his mind 
 was too weak and dreamy to linger long on anything ; 
 but the sentence lived in his memory, and was there 
 turned over and over again during his long convales 
 cence, and resulted in his slow conviction that, after 
 all, 'Celdy must have a strange affection for his old 
 father, since he risked a crop worth at least a hundred 
 dollars, net profit, to stay with him over the crisis of 
 his illness. 
 
 For dollars were the deacon's standard, and when a 
 man has one habitual gauge of value he reduces strange
 
 ACELDAMA SPARKS. 389 
 
 things to that measure ; however, it is significant to 
 himself, though it be even ludicrous to another. 
 
 He was a long time getting well. Week after week 
 rolled by, and still 'Celdy was needed often to lift his 
 father from one bed to another ; to watch by him at 
 night, when his mother was altogether worn out ; to 
 oversee the deacon's neglected affairs, over which he 
 fretted and worried enough to have made a well man 
 sick ; and all this time he said nothing of reconciliation 
 or affection to his son, not one word. 
 
 By no means because he did not feel it, and show it, 
 too, in his own way ; but a genuine Yankee is lost for 
 words to express emotion, however deep it may be. 
 Perhaps he is used rather to consider language as so 
 potent an ally in cheating and chaffering, that he hesi 
 tates to profane truth and feeling by utterance ; or per 
 haps he is conscious that the nasal twang of dear old 
 New England is scarce fitted to adorn or intensify the 
 tenderer and sweeter sentiments of life. Be that as it 
 may, the fact remains true ; nay, we recall now one 
 man of profound mind and intense sympathies, whose 
 professional attempts at consolation or advice almost 
 always give pain and excite anger, from the simple ina 
 bility existing in him to speak what he feels with the 
 same depth and delicacy that he feels it. When will 
 somebody annex to the " school of the prophets" most 
 in vogue, a " school of expression," and get a woman 
 to teach it ? But Aceldama knew that his father had 
 restored him to his old place quite as well as if he had 
 orientally fallen on his neck and wept, and was rather 
 pleased to have the reconciliation tacit himself. As 
 Deacon Sparks grew better, and came out again into 
 life to do for himself, every one who saw him perceived
 
 390 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 that he was softened toward things in general, as well 
 as toward 'Celdy. lie gave more to the poor-box, and 
 quite as much to the heathen ; he went all over Squire 
 Willet's farm, and did not sniff once at the new-fangled 
 machines and operations for its management. He vol 
 unteered a call on Hannah, in return for the many she 
 bad made him, and shook hands with old Mrs. Case, 
 frho was as earnestly glad to welcome him as if he had 
 been the best son-in-law living, and coaxed Master 
 Sammy into the beginnings of a friendship so fervent 
 that thereafter neither grandfather nor grandson were 
 ever so happy as when together ; and Sam led the old 
 deacon into all sorts of places, at all times and seasons, 
 simply by pulling at his knotty forefinger, till Hannah 
 had to interfere for her father-in-law's sake, much to 
 the little master's disgust, who had no idea but that 
 grandfathers were made to be useful. 
 
 Before another year expired, bringing to an end 
 'Celdy's lease of the Willet farm, old Mrs. Case had 
 gone home to heaven in her peaceful sleep, and was 
 mourned as a sweet and quiet example of Christian 
 loveliness must be mourned always ; though it is for the 
 world and ourselves we grieve, not for those whom 
 death restores to their native atmosphere. Deacon 
 Sparks came to the funeral early, and, standing by the 
 coffin to take a last look at the placid, withered face 
 within it, was heard to say by Hannah, who was in the 
 next room, and was attracted to the door by his musing 
 soliloquy : 
 
 " Well ! the Lord has his own ways of levellin' stub 
 born folks. I wouldn't keep her out o' want, and now 
 she'll be in the upper story up there. She'll be a saint, 
 and I don't know as I shall even keep the door."
 
 ACELDAMA SPARKS. 391 
 
 Deacon Sparks gave up his farm to'Celdy, to have and 
 to hold and to work his own way, while he himself " lived 
 on his interest," in Hanover phrase. We only hope our 
 readers may have been able to live on the same fund up 
 to this point. 'Celdy's profits on the Willet place en 
 abled him to build a little frame house, for neither his 
 wishes nor his judgment permitted him to accept his 
 father's proposal that they should all live together. 
 And a few years of real sunshine gilded what remained 
 of Deacon Sparks's life ; but he never quite rebounded 
 from that fever. And when a slow consumption at 
 length set in, and gradually beguiled him to his grave, 
 he had many long talks with Mr. Fletcher, whom he 
 had learned both to admire and love ; and in one of the 
 last he said : 
 
 " I'm a real changed man about a good many things, 
 Parson Fletcher, an' 'Celdy's done it. I can't think 
 hard of folks's religion when I see how it's worked him, 
 out of the kiting-est boy ye ever see into a real, down 
 right good man. He's better'n I am, a sight ! He don't 
 take sech an amazin' grip o' this world as I did. There's 
 suthin better'n dollars to him. An' seein' him, he's 
 kinder upset all my old hard feelin's about New-School 
 folks. I tell ye what, Parson Fletcher, there aint no 
 preachin' like livin' ; an' if you want to convert the 
 world, jest you preach to folks in your church to live 
 as though they b'lieved the Bible, and liked to b'lieve 
 it. Your pretty Sunday talk about natur', and ph'los- 
 ophy, and doctrines, and one thing and 'nother, isn't 
 goin' to bring the millennium round very spry. It aint 
 no good to deny the Lord six days in your works, and 
 be entertained spec'latin' about him the seventh. The 
 children o' this world are too knowin' to be caught with
 
 392 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 sech chaff. They've got the Bible as well as professors, 
 and they know 't when the Lord says religion is doin' 
 justly, and lovin' mercy, and walkin' humbly with God, 
 that a man who don't do nary one of them things nint 
 religious, if he is deacon in three churches, and shells 
 out to all the societies a-goin'. 
 
 " I've ben a stumblin'-block myself long enough to 
 know jest how't's done ; and the fust thing't brought 
 me to was seem' one live Christian, an' that's 'Celdy ; 
 an' you done it, next to the Lord, ef you are, a New- 
 School man. Besides," added the old man, after a 
 paroxysm of coughing that interrupted his speech had 
 passed away, " I'm too near to Jordan now to b'lieve 
 there's any schools on t'other side. It's jest like gettin' 
 right into the sunshine's track when it's settin', an' 
 seems near, close to ; you can't see nothin' partic'lar 
 because of the light an' glory on't ; all you know how 
 to say is, it's all light, and brightness, and warm all 
 over ; there aint no spots ; it's all together, and it's all 
 good." 
 
 "Amen ! " said Mr. Fletcher, bending his head, and 
 closing the rude simplicity of the old man's speech 
 with the only words fit to finish and seal it : 
 
 " 'Where there is neither Greek nor Jew, circumcision 
 nor uncircumcision, Barbarian, Scythian, bond nor free : 
 but Christ is all, and in all.' "
 
 SALLATHIEL BUMP'S STOCKING. 393 
 
 SALLATHIEL BUMP'S STOCKING. 
 
 " Sallathiel Bump, 
 He sat on a stump. 
 I hit him a thump 
 That made him to jump, 
 And" 
 
 " OH ! ow ! ow ! Stop a-hitlin' of me, C'lesty ! I 
 aint doin' nothin' ; haint a feller got a right to sing, 
 I'd like to know?" 
 
 " Depends considerable on what he sings," said 
 Celestia, glowing like an indignant rose, " angry and 
 brave," as she stood there in the October sunshine, 
 with a milk-pail in one hand, and the palm of the other 
 pink and tingling with the blows she had just bestowed 
 on Jehiel Burr's ears. 
 
 "Well, what in thunder's a feller got such an out 
 landish name for, if he don't want it poked fun at ? " 
 muttered the aggrieved youngster, rubbing his scarlet 
 ear with his hand, and casting black glances at Celestia. 
 
 " If you was half as good-lookiu' or as good as he is, 
 you'd be glad enough to take his name, you limb ! I 
 do'no* as Jehiel Burr is much better, neither." 
 
 " Stan' up for him, don't ye?" sniffed Jehiel, com 
 monly called Hi. " Well, do ! I see ye last Sat'day 
 night under that apple-tree a " here he skipped madly 
 out of reach, for Celestia's firm hand descended, onty 
 just escaping his ears again ; and, feeling that discretion
 
 394 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 was better than valor, he fled to the barn and sung his 
 doggerel there in safety ; but poor Celestia carried her 
 milk-pail round to the sunny stoop of the kitchen, and, 
 having tilted it at just the right angle to catch the sun, 
 she sat down on the steps, flung her gingham apron 
 over her head and began to cry noiselessly. In this 
 moist state her mother found her as she stepped out to 
 hang up a dishcloth in the air. 
 
 " Why, C'lesty ! " she asked ; "what under the can 
 opy ails 3 T e? What are ye takin' on about?" 
 
 " Oh, nothing," said the girl, as women always say. 
 
 " Well, nothing's easy mended," answered the 
 mother, having good reasons of her own for not asking 
 Celestia's confidence ; indeed, she knew enough of the 
 trouble in her girl's heart to be pretty sure these tears 
 were but its outlet and relief ; and she knew, too, from 
 long experience, that sympathy is not always the best 
 thing for trouble that is inevitable, and the meek, weak, 
 patient woman had been Jehiel Burr the elder's wife 
 so many years that she regarded his will quite as 
 powerful and sure as the will of that higher power 
 whom she called Providence, 
 
 The fact was that old Jehiel had made up his mind 
 that Celestia should marry the school-master at Pomp- 
 ton Academy, and Celestia had made up her mind to 
 marry Sallathiel Burnp. 
 
 There is very little in a name when one falls in love 
 with a tall, handsome young fellow, kind-hearted, well 
 made, with the handsomest steel-blue eyes you can 
 think of ; a dimple in his chin, and teeth white as rows 
 of corn kernels under the green husk of the fresh cob. 
 All these good gifts belonged to Celestia's lover; but 
 her father did not pay such respect to them as they
 
 SALLATIIIEL BUMP'S STOCKING. 395 
 
 deserved. In his eyes Sallathiel I should like to 
 leave out one 1 in the name, but he never did Salla 
 thiel, I say, had two glaring faults ; he was poor, and 
 he was born and bred an Episcopalian. If Jehiel Burr 
 had started the old war-cry against popery and prelacy 
 he would have added poverty to complete the triad ; he 
 hated all three. He was a rigid sectarian of his own 
 sort, and despised every other form of religion ; and to 
 be poor was to be "shiftless," the New England 
 unpardonable sin. 
 
 Moreover, Celestia had a little money of her own, 
 just enough to add another charm in the eyes of some 
 people to those with which nature had endowed her ; 
 and ever}' poor man who looked at her was considered 
 by her father to be rather captivated with her money 
 than herself. But Celestia felt in her heart that 
 Sallathiel loved her, and not her dollars ; possibly she 
 judged him by herself, as we all judge others, but this 
 time her opinion was right : this lover would have laid 
 his heart at her feet with just as much alacrity and 
 passion if her Grandmother Green had left her five 
 thousand cents, instead of five thousand dollars. 
 
 Not content with thwarting this true love, however, 
 Jehiel Burr was also determined that his daughter 
 should marry as he pleased, and had already deter 
 mined that Mr. Algernon Sydney Howard Middleton, 
 principal of Pompton Academy, should be his son-in- 
 law. Here was a man after his own heart : orthodox 
 as Calvin, learned enough to be writing a wonderful 
 work on higher mathematics, powerful in prayer-meet 
 ing, setting his face, not exactly as a flint, but rather 
 as a flour-pudding, against amusements, and rattling 
 off the Shorter Catechism from his tongue's end on all
 
 396 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 occasions as fluently as a Tartar praying-machine. Of 
 course Celestia hated him ; and not without other 
 reason than his pretensions to her favor. He was very 
 fat, fat as to his colorless, puffy cheeks, as well as 
 his person, which possessed the even symmetry of a 
 large chestnut worm ; and his little, beady, black eyes 
 gleamed from under the gold-rimmed glasses perched 
 on his thick, flat, upturned nose, with a glare by no 
 means heavenly ; while his protuberant lips wore an 
 expression of conceit and impertinence almost insuffer 
 able to beholders. His gait was a pompous swagger, 
 and the stove-pipe hat lilted on his bullet head added 
 another expression of character to his figure. He was 
 vain as a peacock, and could not believe that any girl 
 could resist his charms ; indeed he felt that he stooped 
 from a proud eminence to address Celestia Burr, and 
 he made her feel it. But for that five thousand dollars 
 of hers he knew, and she knew, that he never would 
 have condescended so far. Hi, a real little pickle, 
 hated the school-master with all his heart, and liked 
 Sallathiel, but he loved to tease Celestia ; it tickled his 
 very soul to see the angry crimson rise in her smooth, 
 dark cheek, her beautiful soft eyes flash from their 
 midnight depths with fire, and her rich red lips quiver 
 with distress. He was a boy, and, if all men are born 
 free and equal, as our glorious Constitution plausibly 
 declares, all boys are born savages. Really Hi loved 
 his sister as well as anybody, but he tyrannized over 
 her and his mother because his father was a tyrant to 
 him, and instinctively he imitated the parent he feared ; 
 it was a curious sort of relief to pass the terror along. 
 
 But when Jehiel Burr resolved that Celestia should 
 marry Master Middleton he did not remember that she
 
 SALLATHIEL BUMP'S STOCKING. 397 
 
 was his daughter. Heredity is a troublesome thing 
 sometimes. Men forget that their children generally 
 share their own traits, and Celestia had quite as strong 
 a will as her father. In her firm chin, on her low, 
 straight brow, in the darkness of her great, steady 
 eyes, lay dormant a strength he did not dream of, 
 waiting only for an emergency to call it out. 
 
 Now Grandmother Green had the forethought to 
 ordain in her will that Celestia should not have her 
 money at all if she married before she was twenty-one, 
 but at that age she should come into full possession of 
 it with her other legal rights ; and this October after 
 noon she was still twenty. Her birthday was coming 
 on Christmas day, though she knew about that festival 
 only from the pleasant stories Sallathiel Bump had 
 poured into her ears concerning his own childhood. 
 
 His father and mother had both been of English 
 descent, and their form of religion was an inheritance. 
 Poor as they were no Christmas had ever passed with 
 out some observance in their family, some decoration 
 about the tall clock, some festoon of evergreen about 
 the old rusty halberd that lay across two spikes above 
 the fireplace, and had a tradition invisibly tied to it, 
 longer by far and more sempiternal than the ground- 
 pine streamers floating from its sharp pike-end. 
 Sallathiel always hung up his stocking over-night, and 
 always found something, if only a home-made top and 
 home-knit mittens, distending its blue ribbed leg, and 
 if there was but one mince-pie falling to their lot in the 
 whole year it was served for their Christmas dinner. 
 
 It was a sort of romance to Celestia, this cheerful 
 observance, this happy religion. Her clean, bare, 
 silent home knew ao feast-days but the annual Thanks-
 
 398 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 giving, which meant to them a tedious political sermon 
 from Parson Pitcher, an inordinate dinner, at which 
 Master Middleton, for the last two years, had gorged 
 himself to repletion, leering at Celestia like an enam 
 ored boa-constrictor between vast mouthfuls of turkey, 
 onions, and pie; and after which "cold bits" from 
 the overloaded table were their daily food for at least 
 a week. 
 
 During these last six months, urged by parental 
 encouragement and the fact that Celestia was nearly 
 twenty-one, Master Middleton had " courted" her with 
 unfaltering assiduity. Every Sunday night found him 
 seated on the big rocker by the sitting-room hearth 
 when fires began to burn there, or by the window when 
 summer reigned, his fat pomposity seeming to fill and 
 overflow the small apartment, and his thick-skinned 
 conceit keeping him complacent under all Celestia's 
 coolness or angry rebuffs. 
 
 But Sallathiel had no entrance to the house. When 
 he met her it was by stealth, under the fragrant, 
 flowery apple-trees of the orchard, or Sunday noons in 
 the pine grove back of the graveyard, when her father 
 was grinding out the conjectural histor}" of Melchisedec, 
 the problems of election, infant damnation, free-will 
 and responsibility, or the war record of the Maccabees, 
 to his yawning Bible-class, and thought C'lesty had 
 gone home to get her lunch, or to a noon prayer-meet 
 ing. Hi kept them both in terror, for he was ubiquitous ; 
 and, if he did not know when and where they met every 
 time, he said he did, which was quite as unpleasant to 
 the lovers. 
 
 To-day Celestia had reason for her tears of vexation 
 when the little rascal intimated he had been a witness
 
 SALLATHIEL BUMP'S STOCKING. 399 
 
 of their last interview, for it bad been an important 
 one. She had stolen away to the orchard, while her 
 father dozed by the kitchen fire, in obedience to a word 
 from Sallathiel, as he passed her on the road two days 
 before on her way to a quilting. 
 
 " C'lesty," said the handsome fellow, after the shy 
 greetings had passed between them, " that feller Mid- 
 dleton 's a-boastin' and tellin' round how that you're 
 a-goin' to marry him sure, come New Year, and I can't 
 Stan' it no more." 
 
 " I don't know as his sayin' of it makes it sure," said 
 Celestia, with a bewitching little laugh. 
 
 "No, I do'no' as it does, but it's everlastin' hard, 
 C'lesty, to look on and see him courtin' of you when I 
 can't put in a look except on the sly. Now, why won't 
 you say the word, and we'll get Jim Perkins's fast horse 
 and click it over the line, and be married without any 
 to-do about it ? " 
 
 " I like that!" said the girl, meaning she did not 
 like it at all. "No, sir! when I git married 'twon't 
 be over no State line, as though I was ashamed on't. 
 Besides, Sallathiel, I should lose all Granny Green's 
 money." 
 
 " I don't care an individooal darn if you do ! " said 
 Sallathiel, flushing hotly in the moonlight. "I don't 
 want your money, nor I never did. I want you ; and 
 I am afeared your pa'll set to and pester you so, and 
 make it so hot for you to hum, that well " 
 
 Here he choked. The prospect was too hard. 
 Celestia blazed up at once. 
 
 "Do you think I'm a fust-class fool, Sallathiel 
 Bump? Do you think I'm sech a rag-baby that any 
 man 't ever was born could make me marry that feller?
 
 400 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 If you do, you're entire mistook. I'd give him lamb- 
 kill before I'd marry him." 
 
 " No, you wouldn't," said Sallathiel, rather startled 
 by the flashing eyes of his sweetheart. " You wouldn't 
 hurt a fly, C'lesty. I know ye." 
 
 " I'd kill a snake, though ! " she retorted, but it was 
 an aside. 
 
 Sallathiel went on : 
 
 " I can work, and I will work for my wife. I've 
 got two stout good arms, and I've got the old home 
 stead and four acres to't. We couldn't starve no 
 way, C'lesty. Don't, don't wait for that confounded 
 money ! " 
 
 Celestia laughed. 
 
 " Never you mind, dear. I shall wait for the 
 money. I want it ; but that Middleton feller shan't 
 have it, not a red cent. Besides, I don't want to go 
 out of the State to be married ; it aint seemly, and 
 if I'm twenty-one I don't need to. Can't you have 
 patience ? " 
 
 " It's everlastin' hard to," sighed Sallathiel, looking 
 at the lovely upturned face in front of him. " But 
 there's one thing, C'lesty. I've got as good a right to 
 come to your folks's house Sunday evenin's as he has, 
 and I'm a-comin'." 
 
 " AV-e-e-11," she answered, doubtfully, not without a 
 thrill of consciousness that her master would some time 
 grow out of her lover, " you know father'll make it 
 real unpleasant for 3 7 ou, S'lathil, and that other feller'll 
 be worse." 
 
 u I aint afraid of 'em," said he, calmly, closing his 
 big, shapely hands into ominous fists as he spoke, with 
 masculine instinct. " I can't come to-morrow night,
 
 SALLATHIEL BUMP'S STOCKING. 401 
 
 for I'm goin' to set up with old Perkins. He's had a 
 stroke, and I told Jim I'd come and spell 'em. But 
 look out for me next Sunday evenin' for sure as 
 shootin' I shall come." And with that they parted. 
 
 It was Saturday again when Celestia caught Hi sing 
 ing his ditty about Sallathiel Bump's unfortunate 
 name, and this was the one straw that quite broke 
 down her vaunted courage. She had worried all the 
 week about that coming Sunday evening. It was right, 
 quite right, that Sallathiel should assert himself. Her 
 father had never forbidden him to come to the house 
 further than grim looks and bitter words went ; and it 
 was owing to her own entreaties that he had consented 
 to meet her elsewhere, for, like most women, Celestia 
 dreaded a domestic storm. Alas, how many mean 
 nesses, subterfuges, lies, have been forced upon trem 
 bling wives, sisters, and daughters, in order to avert 
 these uncivil wars in the household ! How rare is the 
 woman who dares adhere to facts in the face of mas 
 culine fury ! Celestia was not of that exceptional 
 sort. She looked forward to this coming encounter 
 with dread, and when Hi added his small jeer to the 
 weight already oppressing her, what could she do but 
 cry? But, tears or no, the unlucky Sunday came; 
 and when meeting, Bible-class, and the late dinner 
 were over, old Burr turned to Celestia, as she passed 
 through the kitchen with the sitting-room lamp, and 
 growled : 
 
 " Look-a-here, C'lesty, I want ye to understand that 
 you aint a-goin' to keep Master Middleton on ten 
 ter-hooks no longer. You've hed him a-danglin' long 
 enough, and he's a-comin' for his answer to-night ; 
 you let him hev it, do ye hear?"
 
 402 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 Celestia's courage returned. She looked her father 
 square in the face. 
 
 " Yes ; he'll get it ! " she said, curtly and sharply. 
 
 Jehiel stared at her with dull surprise in his cold, 
 angry eyes. 
 
 " Look out, gal ! he nor me won't stan' no non 
 sense." 
 
 "Nor me, neither!" she said, looking back at him 
 as she went through the door. 
 
 The old man glared after her, a little doubtful, but 
 still confident of his own coercive powers, and waited 
 for the master's arrival. Celestia, too, waited. Never 
 had she looked lovelier than to-night. Her dark red 
 woollen dress, with its delicate white frills, became her 
 well, her cheek glowed with excitement, and in the 
 coiled masses of her night-black hair she had fastened, 
 with instinctive taste, a graceful spray of golden-rod, 
 and clasped another in the tiny breastpin at her throat. 
 
 Her eyes were brighter than soft, something defiant 
 looked out from them ; but when Master Algernon 
 Sydne}' Howard Midclleton waddled into the front 
 parlor, and put his shiny hat down on a chair near by 
 the door, he only perceived her beauty, and simpered 
 to think how soon she would be his own. Celestia was 
 cool and haughty. She seated Master Middletou on 
 the old sofa, whose feeble springs creaked as he depos 
 ited his weight on the slippery horsehair surface ; but 
 he did not mind that : he had no consciousness of small 
 things, he was going to make the final plunge, and 
 emerge triumphant. But, just as the early common 
 places of weather and season were over, a confident 
 knock was heard at the outer door. Country-fashion, 
 Celestia answered it, just in time to prevent her
 
 SALLATHIEL BUMP'S STOCKING. 403 
 
 * 
 
 father's thorough rousing from his dose by the kitchen 
 fire. A repetition would have brought him out ; as it was 
 he thought a rat had disturbed him and nodded again. 
 But it was something worse than rats, it was hand 
 some, happy, assured Sallathiel Bump, who walked into 
 the parlor beside Celestia, blushing divinely, though 
 her heart beat almost to suffocation. Algernon 
 ' Sydney Howard Middleton stared with beady eyes at 
 the intruder, but said " Good-evening," in the hope 
 that this was but a call, and determined to outstay 
 him ; a determination all in vain. There were awful 
 pauses in the conversation ; there were essays at talk 
 on the school-master's part that fell dead to the ground, 
 and sallies from Sallathiel that were supported by 
 Celestia with giggling response or interested question. 
 Master Middleton grew furious, yet had sense enough 
 left to appreciate the situation. "When the clock struck 
 ten he took up his shiny hat and said good-night. 
 
 "Going my way, Mister Bump?" he remarked 
 blandly to Sallathiel. 
 
 "Not jest yet," was the exasperating answer, and 
 the master left the lovers together. Father Burr long 
 since had gone to his bed, secure that his plans were 
 all going on as he desired, and Celestia and Sallathiel 
 sat up in that stiff, chill parlor till midnight, happy as 
 they ought to have been ; happier, no doubt, because 
 they knew their bliss was precarious, and Master Mid 
 dleton not always to be so balked. 
 
 Not he ! Scarce a day had passed before he com 
 plained to Jehiel Burr of his disappointment. 
 
 " I'll fix it," said the furious parent, and forthwith 
 he hunted up Sallathiel, and forbid him to enter his 
 house or speak to his daughter.
 
 404 THE SPHIXX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 " If you wa'n't her pa, and an eld feller to boot, I'd 
 thrash ye to strings ! " said the outraged lover. 
 
 " Do ! oh, do, now," sneered Jehiel. " I'd jest like 
 to tackle ye, young feller ! Maybe I be old, but I'm 
 gritty as sin ; jest you try." 
 
 " I'd despise to tech ye, Mister Burr ; but I will say 
 one thing, an' thet is, as sure as I live I'll marry C'lesty 
 in spite of you." 
 
 And with this defiance Sallathiel went, leaving 
 Father Burr choking and sputtering with rage, which 
 he drove home to pour out on Celestia. 
 
 The girl shut her teeth and said nothing. It was 
 but a few weeks now to her birthday ; her mind was 
 made up. Master Middleton came again, and this 
 time without interruption ; but, to his disgust and sur 
 prise, when he laid his heart and hand at Celestia's 
 feet she resolutely refused him. His face grew tallow 
 white, his little black eyes glowed red with rage, his 
 upturned nose quivered ; he looked like a fat fiend, and 
 Celestia's deep contempt inspired her expressive coun 
 tenance. 
 
 " But your father said you should," he gasped and 
 stammered. 
 
 " And I say I shall not," was her calm, cool answer. 
 
 " I believe it's a law of Christianity that children 
 shall obey their parents," he retorted, taking high 
 moral ground. 
 
 " I shan't never obey nobody to do wrong," replied 
 Celestia, trumping his trick. 
 
 " Well, I s'pose you're whifflety, like other girls, 
 Celestia ; but I've got your pa's consent, and I'll give 
 you time to change your mind. I'm a patient man ; I 
 can wait, for I'm sure you'll come round."
 
 SALLATHIEL BUMP'S STOCKING. 405 
 
 " Never ! " said the angry girl. " I wouldn't marry 
 you, Master Middleton, if there wa'n't another man in 
 the created universe ! " 
 
 She said these indignant words as she lighted him to 
 the door, looking so handsome in her excitement that 
 the master's feelings got the better of him. He turned 
 on the sill, threw his arms about her and tried to snatch 
 a kiss. Celestia screamed and dashed the lamp at his 
 face ; a rough hand seized him by the collar, hustled 
 him down on to the gravel path, and the foot that cor 
 responded to that hand dismissed him ignominiously 
 from the premises, too confounded and out of breath 
 to do more than skip along with an alacrity uncomfort 
 able enough to a man of his avoirdupois, and only able 
 to gasp : 
 
 "Ow! oh! ow!" 
 
 While an elfish giggle from the gate-post preluded 
 another stave of Hi's impromptu ditty : 
 
 " Sallathiel Bump 
 Hit the master a thump, 
 And how he did jump 
 All up in a hump! 
 Oh my ! " 
 
 " Hi Burr ! hold your tongue ! " whispered Celestia, 
 who had stayed to pick up the pieces of her lamp-chim 
 ney on the steps. 
 
 " Taint me ! " shrieked Hi, as he disappeared round 
 the corner. 
 
 Perhaps Sallathiel did not further his cause by this 
 outburst. The master could not bring suit against him 
 for assault, for there were no witnesses, nor did he even 
 see the face of his assailant ; but he uttered vast threats 
 of vengeance, at which Sallathiel laughed ; and he still
 
 406 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 proceeded to persecute Celestia with weekly visits on 
 the Sunday evenings sacred in New England to court 
 ships. Besides this, her father assumed that the mar 
 riage was a fixed affair ; and her mother, while she 
 weakl}" cried and sniffed about the house, dared not 
 offer one word of comfort or help to Celestia. As the 
 year drew near its close the girl became conscious that 
 things were closing up about her. Her father gave up 
 his Bible-class at noon, and brought the family home 
 to lunch. He would not let her go to quiltings or to 
 evening meetings any more, and every night he locked 
 the front door, put the key in his pocket, and sat in the 
 kitchen till midnight, so that no one should go out or 
 come in without his knowledge. 
 
 Celestia's heart sank ; for weeks she had not seen 
 Sallathiel, and she began to feel that despair which the 
 native impatience of woman accelerates before it is 
 inevitable. 
 
 But Sallathiel was not idle meantime. With a lover's 
 instinct he cultivated a friendship with Hi ; he let him 
 gather the chestnuts off the big tree behind his little 
 red house, a tree noted in Pompton for its large and 
 abundant nuts ; he took him hunting Saturdays ; 
 helped him with advice as to his water-wheel ; and had 
 many a laugh with him over Master Middleton's alert 
 departure from Jehiel Burr's door on that Sunday 
 evening. 
 
 Hi grew very fond of Sallathiel, and correspondingly 
 pitiful of Celestia's hard case. Hi kept his eyes and 
 ears open, and reported the condition of things to the 
 lover with great zeal ; it was so pleasant to feel of im 
 portance ! 
 
 Christinas came very near. It was only two days
 
 SALLATIIIEL BUMP'S STOCKING. 407 
 
 before its arrival that Hi followed Celestia into the 
 pantry, on a pretext of seeing that she put some 
 ginger-snaps as well as pie into his dinner-pail, and 
 whispered to her : 
 
 " Say, C'lesty ! I heered pa a-sayin' to ma last night 
 when you went down suller for th' apples an' cider, 
 thet come your birthday he was a-goin' to tell ye to 
 clear out o' here for good or marry Master Middletou. 
 I was up-stairs a-harkin' an' a-peekin' through the pipe- 
 hole, for I 'xpected something or 'nother was up. Ma 
 said, kinder cry in', thet you wouldn't never marry him, 
 she was af eared ; and then pa fetched his fist down 
 and sed he'd hev the minister here that mornin' 't you 
 was comin' to your mone} T and marry ye right up. I 
 do'no's he could, an' do'no' as he could ; but I thought 
 you'd oughter know. Land, there's pa ! Put in them 
 things quick, C'lesty. Don't keep a feller waitin' all 
 day." And with an aggrieved air he took up his pail 
 and hurried off. 
 
 Celestia, trembling and pale, went upstairs to her 
 chamber. Could it be, after all, that her father had 
 such power over her? Had she mistaken her own 
 rights under the law? There was nobody to advise or 
 reassure her. She fell into an unreasoning terror. 
 
 "What if, after all, it was in her father's power to 
 make her marry Master Middleton? She shuddered at 
 the thought. If only she could get to Sallathiel ! At 
 last it occurred to her that Hi could perhaps carry him 
 a letter. But if her father should find it on the boy? 
 She sat down and fell to thinking, for she knew no one 
 but her lover could help her in this strait ; yet how 
 could she send and word the letter, so that if it fell 
 into other hands it need not betray her? Woman's wit
 
 408 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 at last came to the rescue. She remembered Salla- 
 thiel's stories of his Christmas gifts in the old time. 
 She knew he was now at work at a saw-mill just 
 beyond the village, and that it was but a little farther 
 for Hi to go to school by the lane past his red house ; 
 so she wrote him a note, instructing Hi to push it 
 under the crack of Sallathiel's door the next morning, 
 and went about her work with a lighter heart. 
 
 Sallathiel himself was pleased enough with the brief 
 epistle which he found in his kitchen as he entered the 
 door, though all it said was : 
 
 To-morrow night is Christmas Eve, that you used to tell 
 about. Hang your biggest stocking outside of your door, 
 instead of up chimney, and see what you'll get. C. 
 
 It seemed to link a happy memory to a blessed 
 future that Celestia should think of sending him a 
 Christmas gift, and remember about the stocking, for 
 years had gone by since the childish custom had been 
 observed for him ; and it was with a saddened gladness 
 that he obeyed her wish, going late out of the door to 
 nail up on the casing a long blue yarn stocking he had 
 hunted up in his mother's chest; the very stocking 
 one of his father's best pair that had always been 
 used in his childhood for this purpose. 
 
 It was early dawn when he awoke, after a night of 
 dreams, in which his mother and his sweetheart seemed 
 both to visit him, with smiling faces. He thought he 
 heard steps on the crisp snow outside, and with the old 
 boyish eagerness sprung up, hastily dressed himself in 
 the pale, cold light that stole into his little window, 
 and lifted the latch to explore his stocking for the ex 
 pected love-token.
 
 SALLATHIEL BUMP'S STOCKING. 409 
 
 Did he dream still? There stood Celestia herself, 
 one arm deep down in the blue stocking, the other 
 hand holding her shawl close about the blushing, tear 
 ful, dimpling face. 
 
 " My Christmas present! " said Sallathiel, in a sort 
 of rapture, drawing her into the tiny kitchen, and put 
 ting her into his mother's chair. 
 
 Truly it was Celestia whom he found in his stocking ! 
 Desperate at the prospect before her she had stolen 
 into Hi's room before light, not daring to open even 
 the closet door to find a bonnet ; but, as the bedroom 
 doors were always left ajar in winter, she reached the 
 boy's window silently, managed to lift it without wak 
 ing him, since he had long ago taken out the spring in 
 order to make his own exits, and, as it opened on a shed 
 roof slanting to a few feet from the ground, she had 
 dropped off into a snow-drift, and made her way by 
 the gray light to Sallathiel's door. 
 
 Luckily there was an early service in the small Epis 
 copal chapel at Pompton, for the rector lived ten miles 
 away, and did duty in this mission chapel as well as 
 in his own church, and when Sallathiel had lit the fire 
 in his stove, and brewed Celestia a cup of tea with awk 
 ward devotion, he locked the door on her lest some one 
 might track her thither, and, hurrying to Jim Perkins's 
 house, borrowed his buggy, his fast horse, and his moth 
 er's Sunday bonnet, to Jim's speechless astonishment. 
 
 So before three people had gathered to this early 
 service, just as the tinkling bell begun its summons, 
 Celestia was made Sallathiel's wife ; and to this hour, 
 though, like us all, they have endured life's evils as 
 well as its joys, Sallathiol still blesses the Christmas- 
 day when he hung up his stocking.
 
 410 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 SALLY PARSONS'S DUTY. 
 
 THE sun that shines on eastern Massachusetts, 
 specially on buttercups and dandelions, and providen 
 tially on potatoes, looks down on no greener fields in 
 these days than it saw in the spring of 1775, fenced 
 in and fenced off by the zigzag snake-fences of 'Zekiel 
 Parsons's farm. 
 
 " About this time," as almanacs say, young orchards 
 were misty with buds, red maples on the highway shone 
 in the clear light, and a row of bright tin pans at the 
 shed door of the farm-house testified to a sturdy arm 
 and skilful hand within, arm and hand both belong 
 ing to no less a person than Miss Sally, 'Zekiel Parsons's 
 only daughter, aud the prettiest girl in Westbury : a 
 short, sturdy, rosy little maid, with hair like a ripe 
 chestnut shell, bright blue eyes full of mischief, and 
 such a sunny, healthy, common-sense character one is 
 almost afraid to tell of it, it is so out of date now. 
 
 But of what use is it to describe her? How can I 
 impress upon moderns how enlivening and refreshing 
 was her aspect, as she spun, or scoured pans, in a 
 linsey-woolsey petticoat and white short-gown, wearing 
 her pretty curls in a crop? George Tucker knew it all 
 without telling ; and so did half a dozen of the West- 
 bury boys, who haunted the picket fence round 'Zekiel's 
 garden every moonlight night in summer, or scraped
 
 SALL Y PARSONS 'S DUTY. 411 
 
 their feet by the half-hour together on his door-step in 
 winter evenings. Sally was a belle ; she knew it and 
 liked it, as every honest girl does, and she would 
 have been a belle without the aid of her father's wide 
 farm and pine-tree shillings ; for she was fresh and 
 lovely, with a spice of coquetry, but a true woman's 
 heart beneath it all. 
 
 It was very hard to discover whom Sally Parsons 
 favored among her numerous beaux. Her father 
 seriously inclined to George Tucker ; not because he 
 was rich, for 'Zekiel had not arrived at fashionable 
 principles, but because he was honest, kind-hearted, 
 and reliable ; but as yet Sally showed no decided pref 
 erence ; time and the hour were near, but not in sight. 
 
 One Sunday night, early in April, after the nine- 
 o'clock bell had scattered Sally's admirers far and wide, 
 and old 'Zekiel sat by the chimney-corner, watching 
 his sister, Aunt Poll, rake up the rest of the hickory 
 log in the ashes, while he rubbed away sturdily at his 
 feet, holding in one hand the blue yarn stockings, 
 " wrought by no hand, as you may guess," but that of 
 Salty ; the talk, that had momentarily died away, began 
 again, and with a glance at Long Snapps, a lank, 
 shrewd-faced old sailor, who, to use his own speech, 
 had " cast anchor 'longside of an old ship-met fur a 
 spell, bein' bound fur his own cabin up in Lenox," 
 'Zekiel spoke after this wise : 
 
 " I expect, Long, you sailors hev a drefful hard, 
 onsartin time navigatin', don't ye?" 
 
 " Well, skipper! that are depen's on folks. I don't 
 calc'lale to hev no sort of a hard time, ef I don't get 
 riled with it ; but these times I doo rile easy." 
 
 lk What onsettles ye, Snapps? "
 
 412 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 " Well, there's a squall to wind'ard, skipper; 'taint 
 no cat's-paw neither ; good no-no-east, ef it's a flaw. 
 And you landlubbers are a-goin' to leeward, some on 
 
 ye." 
 
 " You don't say ! What be you a-hintin' at?" 
 
 " Well, there's a reel blow down to Bostin, Zekle ; 
 there's no more gettin' out o' harbor with our old 
 sloop ; she's ben an' gone, an' got some 'tarual lawyer's 
 job spliced to her bows, an' she's laid up to dry ; but 
 that's a pesky small part o' judgment. Bostin's full 
 o' them Britishers, sech as scomfishkated the ' Susan 
 Jane,' cos our skipper done suthin' he hedn't oughter, 
 or didn't do suthin' he hed oughter ; and I tell yew the 
 end o' things is nigh about comin' on here ! " 
 
 Sally, in the chimney-corner, heard Long Snapps 
 with open e3 - es, and, hitching her wooden chair nearer, 
 inquired solemnly : 
 
 " What do you mean, Mister Snapps? Is the end 
 of the world comin' here? " 
 
 u Bless your pooty little figger-head, Sally ! I don't 
 know as 'tis, but suthin' nigh about as bad is a-comin'. 
 Them Britishers is sot out for to hev us under hatches, 
 or else walk the plank ; and they're darned mistook, ef 
 they think men is a-goin' to be steered blind, and can't 
 blow up the cap'in no rate. There aint no man in 
 Ameriky but what's got suthin' to fight for, afore he'll 
 gin in to sech tyrints ; and it'll come to fightiu' yet, 
 afore long ! " 
 
 " Oh, my ! oh, goody ! the land's sakes ! yew don't 
 mean ter say that, Long?" wofully screeched Aunt 
 Poll, whose ideas of war were derived in great measure 
 from the tattered copy of Josephus extant in the Par 
 sons family, and who was at present calculating the
 
 SALLY PARSONS 'S DUTY. 413 
 
 probable effect of a battering-ram on their back butter}-, 
 and thinking how horrible it would be to eat up Uncle 
 'Zekiel in case of famine, even after long courses of 
 rats and dogs. 
 
 " Well, I dew, Aunt Poll. There'll be some poppin' 
 an' stickin' done in these parts afore long ! " 
 
 " The Lord deliver us ! an' the rest on't ! " devoutly 
 ejaculated Poll, whose piety exceeded her memory ; 
 whereat 'Zekiel, pulling on the other blue stocking that 
 had hung suspended in his fingers while the sailor dis 
 coursed, exhorted a little himself : 
 
 " Well, the Lord don't deliver nobody without they 
 wriggle for themselves pretty consider'ble well fust. 
 This aint the newest news to me ; I've been expectin' 
 on't a long spell, an' I've talked consider'ble with West- 
 bury folks about it ; and there aint nobody much, round 
 about here, but what' 11 stand out agin the Britishers, 
 exceptin' Tucker's folks ; they're desp'rit for Church 
 an' King ; they tell as ef the Lord gin the king a special 
 license to set up in a big chair an' rewl creation ; an' 
 they think it's pertic'lar sin to speak as though he 
 could go 'skew anyhow. Now I believe the Lord lets 
 folks find out what he does, out o' Scriptur' ; and I 
 haint found nothin' yet to tell about kings bein' better 
 than their neighbors, and it don't look as ef this king 
 was so clever as common. I s'pose you haint hecrd 
 what our Colon}* Congress is a-doiii', hev ye, Snapps? " 
 
 " Well, no, I haint. They was a-layin' to, last I 
 heerd, so's to settle their course ; I 'xpect they've 
 heaved up an' let go by this, but I haint seen no 
 signals." 
 
 " Dear me ! " interrupted Sally ; " a real war coming, 
 and I aint anything but a woman ! "
 
 414 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 Her cheeks and eyes glowed with fervent feeling, 
 as she said this ; and the old sailor, turning around, 
 surveyed her with a grin of honest admiration. 
 
 "Well said, gal ! but you're out o' your reckonin' 
 ef yon think women aint nothin' in war-time. I tell 
 yew, them is the craft that sails afore the wind, and 
 does the signallin' to all the fleet. When gals is full- 
 rigged an' tonguey, they're reg'lar press-gangs to t\vist 
 young fellers round, an' make 'em sail under the right 
 colors. Stick to the ship, Miss Sally ; give a heave at 
 the windlass now 'n' then, an' don't let nary one o'thern 
 fellers that comes a-buzzin' round you the hull time 
 turn his back on Yankee Doodle ; an' you won't never 
 hanker to be a man, cf 'tis war-time ! " 
 
 Sally's eyes burned bluer than before. " Thank 
 you kindly, Mister Snapps. I'm obleeged to you for 
 putting the good thought into my head. (If I don't 
 pester George Tucker the plaguy Tory !) " 
 
 This parenthesis was mental, and Sally went off to 
 bed with a busy brain ; but the sleep of youth and 
 health quieted it ; and if she dreamed of George 
 Tucker in regimentals I am afraid they were of fla 
 grant militia scarlet, the buff and blue were not 
 distinctive yet. However, for the next week Sally 
 heard enough revolutionary doctrine to revive her 
 Sunday-night enthusiasm; the flame of "successful 
 rebellion " had spread ; the country began to stir 
 and hum ominously ; people assembled in groups, 
 on corners, by church-steps, around tavern -doors, 
 with faces full of portent and expectance ; ploughs 
 stood idly in the fields ; and the rawboned horses, 
 that should of right have dragged the reluctant share 
 through heavy clay and abounding stones, now, be-
 
 SALLY PARSONS 'S DUTY. 415 
 
 stridden by breathless couriers, scoured the country 
 hither and yon, with news, messages, and orders from 
 those who had taken the right to order out of the 
 hands of sleek and positive officials. 
 
 Nor were Westbury people the last to wake up in 
 the general reveille. Everybody in the pretty, tranquil 
 village, tranquil now no more, declared themselves 
 openly on one side or the other, Peter Tucker and 
 his son George for the king, of course ; and this open 
 avowal caused a sufficiently pungent scene in Miss 
 Sally Parsons's keeping-room the very next Sunday 
 night, when the aforesaid George, in company with 
 several of his peers, visited the farm-house for the 
 laudable purpose of " sparkin'" Miss Sail}'. 
 
 There were three other youths there besides George ; 
 all stout for the Continental side of the question, and 
 full of eager but restrained zeal ; ready to take up 
 arms at a moment's notice ; equally ready to wait for 
 the ripened time. Of such men were those armies 
 made up that endured with a woman's patience and 
 fought with a mau's fury, righting a great wrong as 
 much by moral as by physical strength, and going to 
 death for the right, when death, pitiless and inevitable, 
 stared them in the face. 
 
 Long Snapps had been, in his own phrase, " weath 
 er-bound" at Westbury, and was there still, safe in 
 the chimney-corner, his shrewd face puckered with 
 thought and care, his steady old heart full of resolute 
 bravery, and longing for the time to come ; flint and 
 steel ready to strike fire on the slightest collision. On 
 the other side of the hearth from Snapps sat 'Zekiel, in 
 his butternut-colored Sunday suit ; the four young 
 man ranged in a grim row of high-backed wooden
 
 416 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 chairs ; Sally, blooming as the roses on her chintz 
 gown, occupying one end of the settee, while Annt 
 Poll filled the rest of that institution with her ample 
 quilted petticoat and paduasoy cloak, trying hard to 
 keep her hands still, in their unaccustomed idleness, 
 nay, if it must be told, surreptitiously keeping up a 
 knitting with the fingers, in lieu of the accustomed 
 needles and yarn. 
 
 An awful silence reigned after the preliminary bows 
 and scrapes had been achieved, first broken by 
 George Tucker, who drew from under his chair a small 
 basket of red-cheeked apples and handed them to Aunt 
 Poll. 
 
 " "Well, now, George Tucker ! "exclaimed the benign 
 spinster, " you dew beat all for sass out o' season ! 
 Kep' 'em down sullar, I expect ? " 
 
 " Yes'm, our suller's very dry." 
 
 " Well, it bed oughter. What kind be they ? " 
 
 " English pippins, ma'am." 
 
 " Dew tell ! Be you a-goin' to hev one, Sally? " 
 
 "No, Aunt Poll! I don't want any thin' English 
 'round ! " 
 
 The three young men grinned and chuckled. George 
 Tucker turned red. 
 
 " Hooray for you, Sally ! " sung out old Snapps. 
 " You're a three-decker, if ever there was un ! " 
 
 Again George reddened, fidgeted on his chair, and 
 at last said, in a disturbed, but quite distinct voice : 
 
 " I think the apples are good, Miss Sally, if the name 
 don't suit you." 
 
 "The name's too bad to be good, sir !" retorted 
 Sally, with a decided sniff and toss of the head. Old 
 'Zekiel gave a low laugh and interfered.
 
 SALLY PARSONS' S DUTY. 417 
 
 " You see, George Tucker, these here times is curus. 
 It wakes up the wimmen folks to hev no tea, nor no 
 prospects of peace and quiet, so's to make butter aii' 
 set hens." 
 
 " O father ! " burst out Sally, " do you think that's 
 all that ails women ? I wouldn't care if I eat samp for 
 ever, and had nothing but saxifrax tea ; but I can't 
 stand by cool, and see men driven like dumb beasts by 
 another man, if he has got a crown, and never be let 
 speak for themselves." 
 
 Sally's logic was rather confused, but George got at 
 the idea as fast as was necessary. 
 
 " If 'twas a common man, Miss Sally; but a king's 
 set up on high by the Lord, and we ought to obey 
 what he sets over us." 
 
 "I don't see where in Scriptur' }'ou get that idee, 
 George," retorted 'Zekiel. 
 
 " Well, it says in one place that you're to obey them 
 that has the rule over you, sir." 
 
 "So it do ; but ef the king haint got no rcwl over 
 us (an' it looks mighty like it jes' now), why, I don't 
 see's we're bound to mind him ! " 
 
 This astute little sophism confounded poor George 
 for a minute, during which Sally began to giggle 
 violently, and flirt in her rustic fashion with the three 
 rebels in a row. At length George, recovering his 
 poise and clear-sightedness, resumed : 
 
 " But he did rule over us, Mister Parsons, and I can't 
 see how it's right to rebel." 
 
 " There don't every thin' come jest square about 
 seein' things," interposed Long Snapps ; " folks hed 
 better steer by facts sometimes, than by yarns. It's 
 jest like v'yagin' ; yew do'no' sumtimes what's to pay
 
 418 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 with a compass ; it'll go all p'ints to once ; mebbe some 
 body's got a hatchet near by, or some lubber's throwed 
 a chain down by the binnacle, or some darned thing's 
 got inside on't, or it's shipped a sea an' got rusted ; 
 but there's allers the Dipper an' the North Star ; they're 
 aller's true to their bearin's, and you can't go to Davy 
 Jones's locker for want of a light'us so long's they're 
 ahead. I calc'late its jes' so about this king-talk ; 
 orders is very well when they aint agin common-sense 
 an' the rights o' natur' ; but you see, George Tucker, 
 folks will go 'cordin' to natur' an' reason, ef there's 
 forty parliments an' kings in tow. Natur's jest like a 
 no' west squall; you can't do nothin' but tack ag'inst 
 it ; and no men is goin' to stan' still and see the wind 
 taken out o' their sails, an' their liberty flung to sharks, 
 without one mutiny to know why ! " 
 
 "No!" burst out Sally, who had stopped flirting, 
 and been listening with soul and body to Long ; " and 
 no man, that is a man, will go against the right and 
 the truth just because the wrong is strongest ! " 
 
 This little feminine insult was too much for George 
 Tucker, particularly as he had not the least idea how 
 its utterance burned Sally's lips, and made her heart 
 ache. Pie got up from his chair with a very bitter look 
 on his handsome face. 
 
 " I see," said he, quite coldly, " I am likely to be 
 scarce welcome here. I believe the king is my master, 
 made so by the Lord, and I think it is my honest duty 
 to obey him. It hurts me to part otherwise than kind 
 with friends ; but I wish you a good night, and better 
 judgment." 
 
 There was something so manly in George's speech, 
 that, but for its final fling and personality, every man
 
 SALLY PARSONS' S DUTY. 419 
 
 in the room would have crowded round him to shake 
 hands ; but what man ever coolly heard his judgment 
 impeached ? 
 
 Sally swallowed a great round sob ; but being, like 
 all women," an actress in her way, bowed as calmly to 
 Mr. George as if he only said adieu after an ordinary 
 call. 
 
 Aunt Poll snuffled, and followed George to the door ; 
 Uncle 'Zekiel drew himself up straight, and looked after 
 him, his clear blue eyes sparkling with two rays, one 
 of honest, patriotic wrath, one of affection and regret 
 for George ; while Long, from the corner, eyed all with 
 a serpent's wisdom in his gaze, oracularly uttering, as 
 the door shut : 
 
 " Well, that are feller is good grit ! " 
 
 "All the worse for us ! " growled Eliashib Sparks, 
 the biggest of the three, surprising Sally into a little 
 hysterical laugh, and surprised himself still more at 
 this unexpected sequence to his remark. 
 
 "Pooty bad! George is a clever fellow!" ejacu 
 lated 'Zekiel. " He haint got the rights on't, but I 
 think he'll come round by'n'by." 
 
 "I do'no'," said Long, meditatively ; "he's pooty 
 stiff, that are fellow. He's sot on dooty, I see ; an' 
 that means suthin' when a man that oughter be called 
 a man sez it. AVimmin-folks, now, don't sail on that 
 tack. When a gal sets to talkin' about her dooty it's 
 allers suthin' she wants ter do and haint got no grand 
 excuse for't. Ye never see a woman't didn't get 
 married for dooty yet ; there aint nary one on 'em 
 darst to say they wanted ter." 
 
 " O Mister Long ! " exclaimed Sally. 
 
 " Well, Sally, it's nigh about so; you haiut lived a
 
 420 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 hunderd year. Some o' these days you'll get to know 
 yer dooty." 
 
 Sally turned red, and the three young men snig 
 gered. Forgive the word, gentle and fair readers ! it 
 means what I mean, and no other word expresses it ; 
 let us be graphic and die ! 
 
 Just then the meeting-house bell rang for nine 
 o'clock ; and every man got up from his seat, like a 
 son of Anak, bowed, scraped, cleared his throat to 
 say " Good-night," did say something like it, and left. 
 
 " Well, Sally, I swear }-ou're good at signalling" 
 broke out Long, as soon as the youths were fairly out 
 of sight and sound; " you hev done it for George 
 Tucker ! " 
 
 Sally gave no answer, but a brand from the back-log 
 fell, blazed up in a shaft of rosy flame, and showed 
 a suspicious glitter on the girl's round, wholesome 
 cheek. 
 
 Aunt Poll had gone to bed ; 'Zekiel was going the 
 nightly rounds of his barns, to see to the stock ; Long 
 Snapps was aware of opportunity, the secret of suc 
 cess. 
 
 *' Sally," said he, " is that feller sparkin' you?" 
 
 Sally laughed a little, and something, perhaps the 
 blaze, reddened her face. 
 
 " I don't know," said the pretty hypocrite, de 
 murely. 
 
 "H'm! well, I do," answered Long; "and you 
 aint never goin' to take up with a tory ? don't think 
 it's yer dooty, hey?" 
 
 " No, indeed ! " flashed Sally. " Do you think I'd 
 marry a Britisher? I'd run away and live with the 
 Indians first."
 
 SALLY PARSONS' S DUTY. 421 
 
 "Pooty good! pooty good! you're calc'lating to 
 make George into a rebel, I 'xpect!" 
 
 Long was looking into the fire when he said this ; he 
 did not see Sally's look of rage and amazement at his 
 unpleasant penetration. 
 
 " I'm sure I don't care what George Tucker thinks," 
 said she, with a toss of her curly head. 
 
 " H'm ! " uttered Long, meditatively, "lucky! I 
 'xpect he carries too many guns to be steered by a 
 woman ; 'tis a kinder pity you aint a man, Sally ; 
 mebbe you'd argufy him round then ; it's plain as the 
 gulf you can't crook his v'yage ; he's too stiff for 
 wimmin folks, that's a fact ! " 
 
 O Long Snapps ! Long Snapps ! how many wives, 
 in how many ports, went to the knowledge of feminine 
 nature that dictated that speech? Sally set her lips. 
 From that hour George Tucker was a doomed man ; 
 but she said nothing more audible than " Good-night." 
 Long looked at her, as she lit the tallow dip by the fire, 
 and chuckled when he heard her shut the milk-room 
 door in the safe distance. He was satisfied. 
 
 The next afternoon Sally was weeding onions in the 
 garden, heroines did, in those days, the currant- 
 bushes had just leafed out ; so George Tucker, going 
 by, saw her ; and she, who had seen him coming before 
 she began to weed, accidentally of course, looked up and 
 gave him a very bright smile. That was the first spider- 
 thread, and the fly stepped into it with such a thrill ! 
 
 Of course he stopped, and said : 
 
 "What a pleasant day!" the saving phrase of 
 life. Then Sally said something he couldn't hear, and 
 he leaped the low fence without being asked, rather 
 than request her to raise her voice ; he was so con-
 
 422 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN, 
 
 siderate. Next he remembered, just as he turned to 
 go away, that there were some white violets down in 
 the meadow, that Sally always liked. Couldn't she 
 spend time to walk down there across lots and get some ? 
 Sally thought the onions could not be left. Truth to 
 tell, her heart was in her mouth. She had been play 
 ing with edge-tools ; but just then she smelt a whiff of 
 smoke from Long Snapp's pipe, and the resolve of last 
 night came back : her face relented, and George, see 
 ing it, used his utmost persuasiveness ; so the result 
 was, that Sally washed her hands at the well, and 
 away they went, in the most serene silence, over fences, 
 grass-lots, and ditches, through bits of woodland and 
 by fields of winter-rye, till they reached the edge of the 
 great meadow, and sat down on a log to rest. It was 
 rather a good place for that purpose. An old pine had 
 fallen at the feet of a majestic cluster of its brethren, 
 so close that the broad column of one made a natural 
 back to part of the seat. The ground was warm, dry 
 sand, strewn with the fine dead leaves of past seasons, 
 brown and aromatic. A light south wind woke the 
 voices of every bough above, and the melancholy su- 
 surrus rose and fell in delicate cadences ; while beyond 
 the green meadow, Westbury river, a good-sized brook, 
 babbled and danced as if there were no pine-tree la 
 ments in the world. 
 
 I believe the air, and the odor, and the crying wind 
 drove the violets quite out of both the two heads that 
 drooped silently over that pine log. If Sally had been 
 nervous or poetical she would have been glad to recol 
 lect them ; but no such morbidness invaded her healthy 
 soul. She sat quite still till George said, in a sup 
 pressed and rather broken tone :
 
 SALLY PARSONS' S DUTY. 423 
 
 " I was sorry to vex you last night, Sally ; I could 
 not be sorry for anything else." 
 
 " You did grieve me very much, Mister George," 
 said Sally, affecting a little distance in her address, but 
 sufficiently tender in manner. 
 
 "Well, I suppose you don't see it the way I do," 
 returned George; "and I am very sorry, for I had 
 rather please you than anybody else." 
 
 This was especially tender, and he possessed himself 
 of Sally's little red hand, unaware or careless that it 
 smelt of onions ; but it was withdrawn very decidedly. 
 
 " I think you take a strange way of showing your 
 liking ! " sniffed the damsel. 
 
 George sat astounded. Another tiny spider-thread 
 stopped the fly ; a subtle ray of blue sped sideways out 
 of Sally's eye, that meant " I don't object to be liked." 
 
 ' ' I wish with all my heart I knew any good way to 
 please you," he fervently ejaculated. 
 
 "/should think any way to please people was a good 
 way," retorted Sally, saying more with her eyes than 
 with her voice, so much more, that in fact this fly 
 was fast. A little puff of wind blew off Sally's bonnet ; 
 she looked shy, flushed, lovely. George stood up on 
 his feet, and took his hat off. 
 
 " Sally," said he, in the deepest notes of his full, 
 manly voice, " I love you very much indeed ! Will you 
 be my wife? " 
 
 Sally was confounded. I rejoice to say she was quite 
 confounded ; but she was made of revolutionary stuff, 
 and what just now interfered with her plans and 
 schemes was the sudden discovery how very much in 
 deed she loved George Tucker, a fact she had not 
 left enough margin for in her plot.
 
 424 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 But, as I said, she was made of good metal, and she 
 answered very low : 
 
 " I do like you, George; but I never will marry a 
 Britisher and a tory." 
 
 A spasm of real anguish distorted the handsome face, 
 bent forward to listen. 
 
 " Do you mean that, Sally? Can't you love me be 
 cause we don't think alike ? " 
 
 Sally choked a little ; her tones fell to a whisper. 
 George had to sit down close to her to hear. 
 
 "I didn't say I didn't love you, George." A blissful 
 pause of a second ; then, in a clear, cold voice, " But 
 my mind's set. I can't marry a Britisher and a tory, 
 if I died sayin' so." 
 
 George gasped. 
 
 " And I cannot turn traitor and rebel, Sally. I can- 
 not . I love you better than anj-thing in the world ; but 
 I can't do a wicked thing ; no, not even for }'ou." 
 
 He was pale as death. Sally's secret heartfelt proud 
 of him, and never had she been so near repenting of 
 her work in the good cause before ; but she was reso 
 lute. 
 
 " Very well," replied she, coolly ; " if you prefer the 
 king to me it's not my fault. When your side beats 
 you can take your revenge ! " 
 
 The thorough injustice of this speech roused her 
 lover's generous indignation. 
 
 " If you can think that way of me, Sally, it is better 
 for us both to have me go ! Good night ! " And away 
 strode the loj*al fellow, never looking back to see his 
 sweetheart have a good cry on the pine log, and then 
 an equally comfortable fit of laughter ; for she knew 
 verv well how restless Mister George would he, all alone
 
 SALLY PARSONS'S DUTY. 425 
 
 by himself, and how much it meant that they both 
 loved each other, and both knew it. 
 
 Sally's heart was stout. A sort of Yankee Evange- 
 liiie, she would not have gone after Gabriel ; she would 
 have stayed at home and waited for him to the end of 
 time ; doing chores and mending meanwhile, but un 
 married, in the fixed intention of being her lover's sixth 
 wife possibh", but his wife at last. 
 
 So she went home and got supper, strained and 
 skimmed milk, set a sponge for bread, and slept all night 
 like a dormouse. George Tucker never went to bed. 
 
 " Hooraw ! " roared Long Snapps, trundling in to 
 dinner, the next day ; " they're wakin' up down to Bos- 
 tin ! Good many on 'em's quit the town. Them are 
 Britishers is a-gettin' up sech a breeze ; an' they doo 
 say the reg'lars is comin' out full sail, to cair' off all the 
 amminition in these parts, fear 'o mutiny 'mongst the 
 milishy ! " 
 
 " Come along ! " shouted 'Zekiel, " let'em come ! like 
 to see 'em takin' our powder an' shot 'thout askin' ! 
 Guess they'll hear thunder, ef they stick their heads 
 inter a hornet's nest." 
 
 " Dr.edful suz ! " exclaimed Aunt Poll, pulling turnips 
 out of the pot with reckless haste, and so scalding her 
 brown fingers emphatically; "be they a-comin' here? 
 Will they fetch along the batterin'-rams?" 
 
 " Thunder an' dry trees," ejaculated 'Zekiel, "what 
 does the woman " ; but at that instant Long made 
 for the door, and flung it open, thereby preventing 
 explanations. 
 
 " Goin' to Concord, George? " shouted he to George 
 Tucker, who, in a one-horse wagon and his Sunday-best 
 clothes, was driving slowly past.
 
 426 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 " No ; goin' to Lexington, after corn. Can I do 
 anything for you ? " 
 
 " Well, no, I 'xpect not. When be you a-comiu' 
 back?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 " Well, go 'long ; good-luck to ye ! Keep to wind'ard 
 o' squalls, George." 
 
 Long nodded, and George drove on. That day the 
 whole village of Westbury was in an uproar. News 
 had come from Boston that the British were about to 
 send out forces to possess themselves of all the mili 
 tary stores in the country, and forestall rebellion by 
 rendering it helpless. From every corner of every 
 farm and village young men and old mustered ; from 
 every barn horses of all sizes and descriptions were 
 driven out and saddled ; rusty muskets, balls of all 
 shapes and of any available metal that would melt and 
 run, disabled broad-swords, horse -pistols, blunder 
 busses, whatever wore any resemblance to a weapon, or 
 could be rendered serviceable to that end, all were 
 hunted out, cleaned, mended, and laid ready ; an 
 array that might have made a properly drilled and 
 equipped army srnile in contempt, but whose deficien 
 cies were more than supplied by iron sinews, true 
 blood, resolve, and desperate courage. 
 
 Sally and Aunt Poll partook the gale of patriotism. 
 They scoured the " ole queen's arm" to brilliancy; 
 they ran bullets by the hour ; baked bread and brewed 
 spring beer, with no more definite purpose than a 
 general conviction that men must and would cat, as the 
 men of their house certainly did, in the intervals of 
 repairing harness, filling powder-horns and shot-belts, 
 trotting over to the tavern after news, and coming back
 
 SALLY PARSONS' S DUTY. 427 
 
 to retail it, till Aunt Poll began to imagine she heard 
 the distant strokes of a battering-ram, and, rushing out 
 in terror to assure herself, discovered it to be only Sam 
 Pequot, an old Indian, who, with the apathy of his 
 race, was threshing in the barn. 
 
 Aunt PoIRook clown Josephus to refresh her memory, 
 and actually drew a laugh from Sally's grave lips by 
 confiding to her this extreme horror of the case ; a 
 laugh she forgave, since Sally reassured her by recom 
 mending to her notice the fact that Jerusalem had stone 
 walls that were more difficult to climb than stone 
 fences. As for Sally, she thought of George all day, 
 of George, all night ; and while the next day deepened 
 toward noon was still thinking of him, when in rushed 
 Long Snapps, tarpaulin in hand, full of news and horror. 
 
 ' k l swan! we've got it now !" said he. "Them 
 darned Britishers sot out fur Concord last night, to 
 board our decks an' plunder the magazine ; the boys 
 heerd on't, and they was ready over to Lexin'ton, 
 waitin' round the meetin'us ; they stood to't, an' that 
 old powder-monkey Pitcairn sung out to throw down 
 their arms, darned rebels ; an' 'cause they didn't muster 
 to his whistle he let fly at 'em like split ; an' there's 
 some killed an' more wounded ; pretty much all on 'em 
 our folks, though they did giv the reg'lars one round o' 
 ball afore they run." 
 
 " Hooray ! " shouted 'Zekiel ; " that's the talk ; guess 
 they'll sing smaller next time ! " 
 
 " They'll do more'n that, Zekle," responded Long; 
 " this aint but the beginnin' o' sorrers, as Parson Marsh 
 sez, sez he ; there'll be a hull gulf stream o' blood 
 afore them darned reg'lars knows the color on't well 
 enough to lay their course."
 
 428 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 Sally glided past Long, and plucked him by the 
 sleeve, unseen bj r the rest. He followed her into the 
 shed. She was ghastly pale. " Long," said she, 
 hurriedly, " did you hear who? Was anybody shot?" 
 
 " Bless ye, gal ! a hull school on 'em was shot ; there 
 wasn't many went to the bottom, though*; haint heerd 
 no names." 
 
 " But George?" gasped Sally, "he went to Lex 
 ington yesterday." 
 
 "Well, I am took aback!" growled Long. "I 
 swear I never thought on't. I'll go see." 
 
 " Come back and tell me," whispered Sally. 
 
 " Lord-a-massy, yes, child ! jest as soon's I know 
 myself trewly ; but I shan't know nothin' more till 
 sundown, I 'xpect. Desire Trowbridge is a-ridin' 
 post ; he'll come through 'bout that time with news." 
 
 Long did not come back for several hours, some 
 time after sundown, when he found Sally in the shed, 
 waiting for him. She saw the news in his face. 
 " Dead!" said she, clutching at the old sailor's hand. 
 
 "No! no! he aint slipt his moorin's }-et, but he is 
 badly stove about the figger-head ; he's got a ball 
 through his head somewhere, an' another in his leg ; 
 and he aint within hail ; don't hear no speakin'-trum- 
 pets ; fact is, Sally, he's in for the dock -yard a good 
 spell, ef he aint broke up, hull and all." 
 
 " Who shot him?" whispered Sally. 
 
 "That's the best on't, gal; he's took an' tacked 
 beautiful; he went "into port at Lexin'ton yesterday, 
 and heerin' there all sides o' the story, an' thet them 
 critters sot up for to thieve away our stores, he got 
 kinder riled at the hull crew like a common-sense 
 feller, an' when Pitcairn come along George finally
 
 SALLY PARSONS 'S DUTY. 429 
 
 struck his colors, run up a new un to the mast 
 head, borrered a musket, an' jined the milishy, an' 
 got shot by them cussed reg'lars fur his pains ; an ef 
 he doos die I'll hev a figger cut on a stun myself, to 
 tell folks he was a rebel and an honest man, arter all." 
 
 " Where is he?" asked Sally, in another whisper. 
 
 " He's .to the tavern there in Lexin'ton. There aint 
 nobody along with him, 'cause his father's gone to 
 Bostin to see 'bout not gettin' scomfishkated, or arter 
 a protection, or sumthiu'." 
 
 "And his mother is dead," said Sally, slowly. 
 "Long! I must go to Lexington to-night, on the 
 pillion, and you must go with me. Father's got too 
 much rhetimatiz to ask it of him." 
 
 "Well!" said Long, after a protracted stare at 
 Sally, " wimmiu is the oddest craft that ever sailed. 
 I swan, when I sight 'em I don't know a main-top-sail 
 from a fly in' jib ! Goin' to take care o' George, be 
 ye?" 
 
 "Yes," said Sally, meekly. 
 
 Long rolled the inseparable quid in his cheek, and 
 slyly drawled out, " W-ell, if ye must, ye must! I 
 aint a-goin' ter stand in the way of yer dooty ! " 
 
 Sally was too far away to hear, or she might have 
 smiled. 
 
 Uncle Zeke and Aunt Poll were to be told and 
 coaxed into assent, no very hard task ; for George 
 Tucker was a favorite of 'Zekiel's, and now he had 
 turned rebel, the only grudge he had ever owed 
 him was removed ; he was only too glad to help him 
 in any way. Aunt Poll's sole trouble was lest Sally 
 should take cold. The proprieties, those gods of 
 modern social worship, as well as their progenitors,
 
 430 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 the improprieties, were unknown to these simple 
 souls ; they did things because they were right 
 and wrong. They were not nice, according to Swift's 
 definition, nor proper in the mode of the best so 
 ciety, but they were good and pure; are the disciples 
 and lecturers of the " proper" equally so? 
 
 Sally's simple preparations were quickly made. By 
 nine o'clock she was safe on the pillion behind Long 
 Snapps, folded in Aunt Poll's red Joseph, and provided 
 with saddle-bags full of comforts and necessaries. 
 The night was dark, but Sally did not feel any fear ; 
 not Tarn O'Shanter's experience could have shaken the 
 honest little creature's courage, when George filled the 
 perspective before her. The way was lonely ; the 
 hard road echoed under the old cart-horse's hoofs ; 
 many a black and desolate tract of forest lay across 
 their twenty miles' ride ; mqre than once the tremulous 
 shriek of a screech-owl smote ominous on Sally's 
 wakeful sense, and quavered away like a dying groan ; 
 more than once a mournful whip-poor-will cried out 
 in pain and expostulation, and in the young leaves 
 a shivering wind foreboded evil ; but they rode 
 on. Presently Sally's drooping head rose erect; 
 she listened ; she laid her hand on the bridle. 
 " Stop, Long! " said she. " I hear horses' feet, and 
 shouts." 
 
 " Look here ! " said Long, after a moment's listening, 
 " there's breakers ahead, Sally ; let's heave to in these 
 'ere piny bushes side o' the track ; it's pitch-dark, 
 mebbe they'll go by." 
 
 He reined the horse from the road, and forced him 
 into a group of young hemlocks, which hid them entirely 
 from passers-by. Just as he was well ensconced, a
 
 SALLY PARSONS' S DUTY. 431 
 
 company of British cavalry rode up, broken and dis 
 orderly enough, cursing and swearing at the Yankees, 
 and telling to unseen ears a blood}' story of Concord 
 and its men. Sally trembled, but it was with indigna 
 tion, not fear, and as soon as the last hoof-beat died 
 away she urged Long forward ; they regained the 
 road, and made their way at once to George in Lexing 
 ton. 
 
 Is it well to paint, even in failing words, such emo 
 tions as Sally fought with and conquered in that hour? 
 Whoever has stood by the bed of a speechless, hope 
 less, unconscious human being, in whom their own soul 
 lived and suffered, will know these pangs without my 
 interpretation. Whoever knows them not need not so 
 anticipate. If Sally had been less a woman I might 
 have had more to say ; but she was only a woman, and 
 loved George, so she went on in undisturbed self- 
 control and untiring exertion to nurse him. 
 
 The doctor said lie could not live ; Long said he was 
 booked for Davy Jones ; the minister prayed for ' ' our 
 dying brother ; " but Sally said he should live, and 
 he did. After weeks of patient care he knew her ; 
 after more weeks he spoke, words few, but precious ; 
 and when accumulating months brought to the battle 
 fields of America redder stains than even patriotic 
 blood had splashed upon their leaves ; when one 
 nation began to hope, and another to fear, both hope 
 and fear had shaken hands with Sally and said good- 
 by. She was married to George Tucker, and with the 
 prospect of a crippled husband for life was perfectly 
 happy ; too happy not to laugh, when, the day after 
 their wedding, sitting on the door-sill of the old West- 
 bury homestead, with George and Long Snapps,
 
 432 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 George said, "Would you ever have come to take care 
 of me, Sally, if I'd 'a' been shot on the side of the 
 reg'lars?" 
 
 Sally looked at him, and then looked away. 
 
 " I 'xpect she'd 'a' done her dooty," said Long 
 Snapps dryly ; and Sally laughed.
 
 A HARD LESSON. 433 
 
 A HARD LESSON. 
 
 " Is he worse, doctor?" 
 
 " No, madam, no. I cannot say he is worse." 
 
 " But he is no better?" 
 
 " Madam Fontaine, the secrets of the profession 
 h'm I'm an old fellow as } T OU know, but damme ! I 
 might as well be honest for once, I must own I am 
 at my wit's end about the judge." 
 
 "Dr. Levis!" 
 
 A shocked exclamation , that did not seem to pain the 
 doctor, a fat, flabby, elderly man, yellow as an orange 
 with malaria, whiskey, and tobacco : a trio that had 
 taken full possession of him for many a year, yet had 
 not altogether quenched the keen ray of his deep-set 
 eye, and could not change the contour of his head and 
 face, or do more than degrade and darken the evident 
 intellect they expressed. 
 
 Mrs. Fontaine was a slight, delicate woman, with 
 soft, dark eye, languid lips, abundant black hair, small 
 feet and hands, a typical Southern woman, a tender 
 mother and a devoted wife, full of the inborn convic 
 tion that the black race were made for slavery, and the 
 white for masters. Judge Fontaine, her husband, was 
 judge by courtes}- ; he had studied law and been ad 
 mitted to the bar of Louisiana ; but he put a definite 
 end to his legal usefulness by marrying Marie Le
 
 434 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 Baron, an orphan girl, and an heiress. Soon after this 
 marriage his father died, and left him master of another 
 great plantation beside Le Rivage, the inheritance of 
 his wife. 
 
 But they did not live at Le Rivage, it was not a 
 wholesome place for white people ; all the Le Barons 
 had died young, saturated with malaria from the 
 swamps that lay all about the great fields of cotton and 
 cane from which they coined their dollars. Marie had 
 been educated from her childhood in a New Orleans 
 convent, and on her first entrance into society had met 
 Louis Fontaine, and married him from her aunt's house 
 there ; for Le Rivage was uninhabited except by the 
 overseer. Marie's father, mother, brothers and sisters 
 lay on the tiny enclosure on the only bit of rising 
 ground in the plantation, and she expected to live out 
 her life in the city, when Colonel Fontaine died, and 
 Louis took possession of Rosieres, his inheritance. 
 Rosieres was a vast and productive estate, and lonely as 
 only a home can be set miles away from any other human 
 habitation. It was higher than the Le Barons' estate, 
 and its crops were of upland cotton ; the heavy woods 
 that hemmed in those rolling acres did not hide altogether 
 the distant river that half circled Le Rivage, and took 
 away the sense of solitude by its ever-varied, never-end 
 ing procession of smoke-wreathing steamers. Rosieres 
 was far away from the nearest village, miles lay be 
 tween its centre and the homes on other plantations ; 
 hospitalities passed between them at rare intervals, and 
 the men found in their hunting and fishing the sole 
 amusement of their lives, and their only labor in the 
 ordering of their estates, the buying and selling of 
 slaves, the shipping of cotton, and the semi-annual
 
 A HARD LESSON. 435 
 
 visits to New Orleans for purposes of traffic and 
 pleasure ; while the women had the children to rear, 
 their irresponsible house-slaves to scold, and the 
 ignoble army of the quarters to clothe, feed, and aid as 
 far as they might when sickness and death entered the 
 lowly hut as inevitably as the lordly mansion. Schools 
 there were none ; every house had its governess or 
 tutor ; and Dr. Levis, the only physician within reach, 
 had a plantation of his own, and practised his pro 
 fession rather as an occupation than a necessity. His 
 patients were his friends ; for the slaves preferred their 
 own healers to this rough, contemptuous master, who 
 treated them as he would not treat his superb horses or 
 his thorough-bred dogs. 
 
 To-day Dr. Levis was puzzled. He had an acute 
 brain, some perception, much common-sense, and such 
 knowledge added to his course of study in a celebrated 
 northern college as thirty odd years of experience gave 
 him. He was a fair, old-fashioned physician, but none 
 of the remedies and experiments of modern times were 
 at his command. He took no medical journals, for he 
 considered that he knew by heart all the range of dis 
 eases that prevailed in the neighborhood ; he had even 
 had yellow-fever himself, and believed it perfectly man 
 ageable ; while the various forms of malaria were to 
 him an old story. He knew just where a tisane of bitter 
 sour-orange was of use, and where a small dose of 
 quinine was good for nothing ; but for a case not in his 
 books or his experience he had nothing to do but to con 
 front his ignorance and own it. 
 
 He had to do this now. Judge Fontaine had been in 
 a languid, irritable, feeble condition for weeks ; quinine 
 did not seem to bring him up except for the hour ; food
 
 436 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 was disgusting to him ; he could not swallow stimu 
 lants, and a heavy depression, impossible to throw off, 
 settled down upon him like a pall. He was drowsy or 
 fretful most of the time, and nothing Dr. Levis did 
 seemed to be of any use. 
 
 He turned and looked sharply at Mrs. Fontaine as 
 she said, " Dr. Levis ! " in that pained, frightened voice. 
 
 " Yes, madam ! Doctor as I am, I don't know what 
 to do for Fontaine any more than you do ! " 
 
 " Did Louis show you his le''t arm this morning? " 
 
 " His arm ! No. He was so glad to get rid of me, 
 or, I should say, so infernally snappish at seeing me, 
 that I made a short visit, I can tell you. What's to 
 do about his arm?" 
 
 " Why, there's a black spot on it as big as my 
 nail ; and there's one on his forehead, too, since yes 
 terday." 
 
 " H'm ! " Dr. Levis knitted his gray brows, and set 
 his loose, thick lips hard together. " How long since 
 the spot came on his arm?" 
 
 " Stephen found it last night when he bathed him." 
 
 "I'll go back and inspect," said the doctor; and 
 Mrs. Fontaine followed him into the sick man's cham 
 ber. 
 
 A cool, airy room it was ; scrupulously neat, with 
 all the air that stirred that warm spring day blowing 
 across it from the half-turned Venetian blinds on either 
 side. Judge Fontaine was stretched on a light frame 
 work of bamboo and cane near the northern window, 
 with only a sheet thrown over his stalwart figure. He 
 was a handsome man in health, with black hair, toler 
 ably fair complexion, and dark, long eyes ; now he was 
 pale, thin, and a sort of feverish brightness lit his usu-
 
 A HARD LESSON. 437 
 
 ally calm countenance ; he was impatient of his illness, 
 and turned his head, as the door gently opened, with a 
 vexed look. 
 
 " Here again, Foutaine ! Bad penny, you know. 
 But I want to inspect you once more, for I've got to go 
 down to the city to-morrow, and maybe I can counsel 
 there with my brothers, if I take a thorough account of 
 your symptoms along." 
 
 " You might go or stay, Levis, for my care. I don't 
 get better with all } 7 our doses, and I never shall." 
 
 " Fudge ! " growled the doctor. " I believe you're a 
 d d humbug, Louis. Let me look at you with my 
 spectacles. Steve, open the blind ! " 
 
 Stephen, Judge Fontaine's body- servant, stepped 
 forward, unfastened the catch, and gently swung the 
 blind backward. He was a tall, well-made mulatto, 
 like enough in every feature to have passed for his mas 
 ter's brother, except for the deep olive of his skin. 
 And why not? for he was Judge Fontaine's brother ; 
 only Louis was the son of the free woman and Stephen 
 of the slave ! 
 
 As the warm light streamed in on the sick man's face 
 he shut his eyes, unused to even the tempered glare of 
 day, and Dr. Levis saw on his temple a dark spot like 
 a mole, that certainly was not there two days before. 
 It was not a mole, though, for not even the slightest 
 roughness, or rising, indicated any such thing ; it was 
 merely a dark spot, as if the juice of some fruit, or the 
 stain of a drug, had touched it. 
 
 Dr. Levis turned back the shirt-sleeve on the sick 
 man's left arm a little way, as if the better to feel his 
 pulse, and there on the wrist, or rather just above tho 
 articulation of the wrist, on the inside of the arm,
 
 438 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 another dark spot showed against the unsunned skin 
 more blackly than on the temple. 
 
 For a moment Dr. Levis was startled. Could it be 
 the black flag of mortification ? But the steady pulse 
 forbade such a diagnosis ; there was no other symptom 
 to further the idea. Some chronic derangement of the 
 liver Judge Fontaine had long suffered from at inter 
 vals ; now there were symptoms also of digestive 
 trouble, but nothing that could or would induce gan 
 grene, nothing that, to the doctor's eye, meant vital 
 mischief. He fell back on the last resort of all phy 
 sicians, change of place and air. 
 
 " Look here, old fellow," he said, putting on a hila 
 rious air, as Stephen closed the blinds again, " what 
 you want is a course of Saratoga water. Take Steve 
 and the madam, and start off Monday for Congress 
 Hall." 
 
 " I can't do it, Levis ! You know I can't." 
 
 " Fudge ! Don't tell me. By George ! you shall go, 
 if I have to carry you to the boat. Half that ails you 
 is hypo. Get up your will, man ! The moment you're 
 out of this slew you'll begin to pick up." 
 
 Judge Fontaine laughed f eebly . To him the ' ' slew " 
 of this dreadful depression and irritation seemed the 
 very valley of death, and it tickled his sense of humor 
 that hearty, jolly old Levis, standing hale and heartsome 
 in the sunshine, should tell him to take up his bed and 
 walk, with divine prerogative. 
 
 " Since when did you go into miracle-working? " he 
 asked, looking up at the doctor with an odd twist of 
 his pale lips. 
 
 " Get up, I say ; don't talk blasted nonsense ! You 
 can, if you've a mind to. If I stuck a lighted fagot
 
 A HARD LESSON. 439 
 
 under the veranda you'd run. like a lapwing in five 
 minutes; } T OU want excitement, push, not a cool 
 lounge and unlimited lemonade or orange-juice." 
 
 Judge Fontaine's eye kindled ; much as he liked Dr. 
 Levis he did not like to be bullied in this fashion. lie 
 rose on one elbow, and a certain warmth that was not 
 color lit his sallow cheek. 
 
 "I wish I could fight you, Levis! One would 
 think I was your red setter, to hear you order me 
 about." 
 
 " Good ! " laughed the doctor. " Got your blood up 
 a little. Gad, man ! I'd fight you with a good will if 
 you could stand up long enough ; 'twould stir you up 
 roundly, better than Saratoga. But, seriously, Louis, I 
 am at the end of my track with you. I can't put my 
 finger on the mischief. I'm old, and not up to modern 
 sciences. You must go North, and see an abler man 
 than old Hubert Levis. If you sta} r here }-ou'll just 
 sink ; the heats are coming on ; May will be here in a 
 fortnight, and I want you to get to New York by the 
 first of the month. Set off to-morrow ; don't wait to 
 think." 
 
 Judge Fontaine sunk back wearity on to his pillows. 
 
 " I don't care a picayune, Levis, whether I get well 
 or not." 
 
 ""D it!" roared the doctor, in a most unseemly 
 passion. " Haven't you got a wife and children to 
 think of?" 
 
 Mrs. Fontaine burst into a flood of tears ; she was 
 not well, and she was worn out with anxiety. 
 
 " O Marie! don't cry, child!" sighed her husband. 
 " Don't mind my petulance, dear! I was just weary 
 enough to feel like dying that minute, Levis has badg-
 
 440 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 ered me so ; but you know I don't want to leave 
 and the babies." 
 
 Mrs. Fontaine choked her sobs, and kissed her hus 
 band's cold forehead, while the doctor paced up and 
 down, growling under his breath all the anger he felt. 
 He had small patience with what he called " fudge," 
 his favorite term for anything that seemed to him pre 
 tence or feebleness of will. 
 
 Judge Fontaine looked tenderly at his wife's pale 
 face and tear-filled eyes ; he was not more selfish than 
 other men are by nature, and Marie was a part of him 
 self ; he would try to live for her sake, and for the 
 sturdy boy of five, and the twin girls of two, who 
 were laughing and prattling under the great catalpa 
 tree, that dropped its spotted bells on the pavement of 
 the court-yard, and sent its odorous breath into his 
 chamber. 
 
 " I'll try, doctor," he said, with an evident effort. 
 
 "Good! Man can't do more. Mammy is safe to 
 take care of the youngsters ; or I'll carr} T them off to 
 Lone Palm, if you like, while madam is away." 
 
 " Doctor, I can't go ; you forget," said Mrs. Fon 
 taine, in a half whisper, a wave of faint color rising to 
 the edges of her shining hair. 
 
 "So you can't! I'm an old fool. Well, Fontaine 
 will have the less care, and Steve will watch over him 
 like a brother ! " 
 
 A flash in Stephen's eye, as he stooped to pick up his 
 master's handkerchief, might have warned Dr. Levis 
 that he had forgotten again, had he seen it ; but he saw 
 nothing except a change in the judge's face, a look he 
 liked to see there, for the far-off expression of the eye 
 was gone ; it seemed to have recalled sight to the things
 
 A HARD LESSON. 441 
 
 at hand, to have taken a new outlook on life, to be once 
 more a vital spark, not a fading glimmer. 
 
 So the next day Judge Fontaine and Stephen, in the 
 easiest of carriages, with every appliance to be pro 
 cured in that lonely region, began their journey to the 
 nearest landing-place on the river, leaving a pale, but 
 tearless, woman on the veranda looking after them with 
 sorrowful longing, and three wondering children, who 
 could not understand why papa should go away and 
 mamma cry. It was a tedious journey to Judge Fon 
 taine, and when he reached New York he was quite 
 exhausted ; but the physicians there seemed to be as 
 much at fault as Dr. Levis. None of them noticed the 
 dark spots on his forehead and arm, and Stephen did 
 not know that the old doctor had ever observed them. 
 One man, whose specialty was disease of the liver, im 
 mediately pronounced him " Bilious, nothing more." 
 Another, who had studied affections of the heart, laid 
 his condition at the door of that long-suffering organ ; 
 and each one he consulted fixed his malady on some 
 part of his organization that the last diagnosis had 
 omitted ; but in one thing all agreed : change of air and 
 cheerful society must be tried at once. It was a late 
 season and too cold for Saratoga, so Judge Fontaine 
 went to Newport for a month, and, in pleasant lodgings 
 in that quaint old town, fancied thattlie pure sea-breeze 
 revived him. 
 
 So it did, a little ; but as he grew somewhat better 
 Stephen noticed that the black spots spread ; another 
 showed on one cheek just under the eye, and on one 
 leg a patch appeared as large as a child's palm. 
 
 " It is nothing mortal," said the little Quaker physi 
 cian whom he had called in, a quaint, considerate,
 
 442 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 old man, with almost a life's experience of diseases and 
 their treatment. " Thee can call them moth-patches 
 if thee likes, friend F'ontaine ; it is a disorder of the 
 true skin, or rather of the pigment therein ; we regard 
 it as a rather obscure ailment, probably connected with 
 the liver. A thorough course of Congress water, fresh 
 from the spring, will probably prove beneficial to thee." 
 
 So early in June the judge established himself in a 
 private boarding-house in Saratoga. He grew more 
 languid and depressed here ; the sick people who filled 
 the house were not altogether a cheerful crowd. To sit 
 down at table thrice a da} r with exemplifications of 
 paralysis, brain-softening, spinal distortion, jaundice, 
 and other evils too numerous to mention, is not calcu 
 lated to raise the spirits of a well man ; and the in 
 creasing size of the dark spot on the judge's face began 
 to annoy him : he thought that all eyes were fixed upon 
 it ; that he was a marked man, in a most obnoxious 
 sense. He had always been conscious, to say the least, 
 of his handsome face and figure ; but now he shunned a 
 mirror as if it were a poisonous reptile, and only 
 Stephen knew that the spot on his leg was fast cover 
 ing it, and that the other ankle was blackening too, 
 while the blotch on the temple spread daily. 
 
 Saratoga is a very stupid place to people who do not 
 care for fashion, show, or horse-racing. There is but 
 one pleasant drive near it, and walking is dreary and 
 difficult in the sand-barrens or yellow-pine groves on 
 its outskirts. June was not well over before Judge 
 Fontaine was as weary of it all as Mariana of the 
 Moated Grange ; and he and Stephen set off for the 
 mountains of Vermont, finding a resting-place on a 
 lonely, but lovely, mountain side, where some enter-
 
 A HARD LESSON. 443 
 
 prising Yankee had built a tavern and now took summer 
 boarders. There the judge grew stronger ; but tbe 
 plague-spot spread more and more rapidly. To be brief, 
 by the time September set in, the blackness on his 
 temple had invaded his face, his arms, his hands, his 
 legs and feet, and a part of his body. Louis Fontaine 
 was a negro to every eye but his own ; and, at last, 
 an overheard conversation between two of the hotel 
 servants opened his e\ T es to his condition. 
 
 Words are very weak sometimes ; never weaker than 
 in the attempt to express the darkest and most evil 
 experiences of man ; the inward hurricane and tempest 
 of rage, despair, and agony, that sometimes ravage and 
 lay waste the soul which is helpless to avoid or avert 
 an overwhelming calamity. There was but one thing 
 left to Louis Fontaine, that which is left to the mor 
 tally smitten wild beast, and is the instinctive action 
 of man ; he must go home and hide himself. But to 
 Stephen, a slave, a man with more than half white 
 blood, running its subtle currents under his dark skin, 
 here was an opportunity. 
 
 The Fontaines had been fairly kind to their slaves, 
 not sparing of castigation, to be sure, a little more 
 than ordinary parental discipline demands. Stephen's 
 mother was the daughter of Louis Fontaine's uncle, 
 and General Fontaine's favorite slave. 
 
 Favorite ! What depths of degradation that same 
 word means from a master to a slave ! Her daughter, 
 an exquisitely beautiful quadroon, had held the same 
 relation to Louis Fontaine's father, and, being found 
 in the house by Colonel Fontaine's bride, a French 
 Creole heiress from New Orleans, had been, by sev 
 eral instalments, to save appearances, whipped to
 
 444 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN 
 
 death by Anastasie Fontaine's orders, and her baby 
 given to an old woman in the slave-quarters to 
 " raise." 
 
 Stephen, the grandson of Louis Fontaine's uncle, 
 and his father's son, had double portions of the fiery 
 Fontaine blood in his veins, and yet he had not escaped 
 the lash or forgotten the story of his mother's death. 
 For years he had been madly athirst for freedom ; but 
 the Caucasian subtlety he inherited taught him to con 
 ceal his wishes and intent till the time should come. 
 It had come now. 
 
 Judge Fontaine had regained his physical health 
 almost entirely, and when he set out for home he had 
 money enough to take him and his servant to Rosieres, 
 and some to spare for emergencies. Stephen possessed 
 himself of half the gold in his master's trunk, and half 
 the judge's wardrobe. 
 
 AVhat did he know about the rights of property? He 
 had never even owned himself ! 
 
 At the station where he should have taken the train 
 southward two trains met, one for New York, one 
 for Canada. Stephen dutifully checked his master's 
 baggage, bought his ticket, and as the northern train 
 slipped on to a siding for the other to pass, the son of 
 the bondwoman, valise in hand, with his master's stiff 
 hat on his fine head, and his master's coat on his back, 
 stepped into the Canada train, a well-behaved, good- 
 looking, rather dark-complexioned gentleman, who sat 
 down in that first-class car a slave, and emerged from 
 it, five hours later, a free man on Canadian soil. 
 
 For, dear reader, this was ante-bellum. 
 Judge Fontaine, quite forgetful of his own aspect 
 for the moment, and supposing Stephen, as usual, was
 
 A HARD LI'S SON. 445 
 
 in another car, entered that at whose door his valet 
 had left him, and proceeded to a seat. 
 
 " You can't sit here ! " bawled the conductor, a little 
 way from the door ; but Mr. Fontaine did not at all 
 understand that the remark was intended for him. 
 The conductor came forward just as the judge seated 
 himself by the window. " Say ! You can't sit here, 
 I tell ye. Come along to the back car," the peremptory 
 official said. 
 
 "What do you mean, sir?" retorted the angry 
 planter. 
 
 " Mean ! I mean niggers aint allowed on this car." 
 
 " Good God, sir ! " roared the judge, " do you mean 
 to insult me? Me ! Judge Fontaine, of Louisiana." 
 
 A general laugh echoed the statement. 
 
 " Put him out, conductor ! " said the nearest man, 
 and " Put him out ! " was reechoed all about. 
 
 "Come along," said the sturdy conductor, "or I'll 
 hev to fetch ye." 
 
 And promptly the irate judge knocked him down. 
 
 This was too much. Ready hands caught the ag 
 gressor's arms, set the conductor on his feet, and Judge 
 Fontaine, of Louisiana, was ignominiously hustled into 
 a baggage-car, locked in, and left to digest his wrath. 
 
 He roared and swore, and planned vengeance on his 
 captors, but wondered where was Stephen. At the end 
 of the route he must find him, and prove to the officials 
 his status as a gentleman. 
 
 Before that came, however, the conductor of the 
 train left at a station, and when the cars were again 
 moving another one unlocked the door and came in. 
 
 " Look here ! " he said quietly to Mr. Fontaine ; " the 
 conductor of t'other half told me to look after you.
 
 446 TI1E SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 What's the matter'tyou blew out so, my man? Haven't 
 you never travelled before ? Don't you know colored 
 folks aint allowed in first-class cars?" 
 
 "Good God, man! do you take me for a black 
 boy?" burst out the unfortunate judge. 
 
 " I don't know what else you be, to look at you," 
 said the cool Yankee. 
 
 "I tell you I'm Judge Fontaine, of Louisiana; I'm 
 a white man. This dreadful color of my skin is a dis 
 ease." 
 
 " Oh, come now," said the conductor, " that's rather 
 too steep ; don't tell yarns that are too big to swaller, 
 mend. Sam was goin'to have you up for kuockin' him 
 over, but he thought better on't ; he couldn't afford to 
 be off for lawiu' of it, and I'm tryin' to deal reasonable 
 with you. Don't try to stuff me." 
 
 " But my servant is on board somewhere ; he'll swear 
 to my identity. Find him, for God's sake ! he's a light 
 mulatto, with curly brown hair and an aquiline nose. 
 He's in the rear car." 
 
 " No, he isn't. No such feller round. You're 
 addin' too many circumstances." 
 
 " But, look here ! " said the baffled judge. " Here's 
 my check ; find the trunk and see if m}- name isn't on 
 it, if that will convince you." 
 
 The conductor poked about among the baggage and 
 came back. 
 
 " It's there ; but I smell a rat, young feller ! It looks 
 to me as though you was goin' off with your master's 
 trunk and things without his pussonal knowledge an' 
 consent, as you may say ; but you'd ought to have 
 headed for Canady, if that is so ; your ticket was 
 bought pretty near the border."
 
 A HARD LESSON. 447 
 
 Judge Fontaine started ; a new idea struck him. But, 
 no, it was nonsense. Stephen never would have left 
 so good a master, so pleasant a home ; he must have 
 been confused, and taken the wrong train. 
 
 The conductor stood glaring at him with stern sus 
 picion. 
 
 " Prove it, then, if you can," said the judge, his 
 legal training coming to his aid. 
 
 " Well, I shan't try ; if you're a poor devil tryin' to 
 run away from them nigger-owners down South, as I 
 mistrust you be, why, joy go with ye ; I wouldn't lift a 
 finger to hender." And the kindly conductor went his 
 way, little guessing that the rushing wheels alone pre 
 vented his hearing the epithet Judge Fontaine hurled 
 after him : " Damned abolitionist ! " 
 
 But silence and solicitude brought counsel ; in a few 
 hours the train would reach the ferry and New York. 
 He could go at once to the hotel where he had stayed 
 before, and from there telegraph back to Split Rock 
 House, the mountain hotel he had just that morning 
 left, and have Stephen come after him. The conductor 
 had left the door unlocked, and the judge had no trouble 
 in finding his way out of the station. It was night by 
 this time, and tying a handkerchief about the lower 
 part of his face, and slouching his soft hat far on his 
 forehead, he managed to secure a carriage and have his 
 trunk brought to it. He gave the order to drive to 
 Blank Hotel, and drew a relieved breath, sure of a place 
 where he should be known, and could wait till his body- 
 servant returned. Poor man ! he had not yet discov 
 ered that people with black bodies could have no ser 
 vants, nor 3'et serve themselves alone. He paid the 
 hackman, and, following his trunk into the hotel, walked
 
 448 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 up to the desk in the office, and addressed the 
 clerk : 
 
 " Peters, how are you? Give me a good room, will 
 you ? The one I had before, if you can." 
 
 The dapper clerk, famous for never forgetting a coun 
 tenance, turned to look at the new-comer, and his face 
 blazed with anger. 
 
 " You can't have a room here, my man. Don't you 
 know better than to ask for it ? " 
 
 " Peters, don't you know me? Don't you remember 
 Judge Fontaine? Why, I was here a month in May." 
 
 " Come, now, that is cheeky. Judge Fontaine ought 
 to be here. You'd get your quietus and a flogging be 
 side. Go off, fellow, or I'll call the police ! " 
 
 " I tell you I am Judge Fontaine," angrily answered 
 the poor planter, wrath and distress raging in his 
 breast. " This skin is the result of a dreadful disease. 
 I am a white man ! " 
 
 " I like that ! " sneered the clerk. " About as white 
 as coal, you are. But the disease dodge is a new one. 
 By George ! " seizing the judge by the collar, and draw 
 ing him to a near gas-jet, which he turned on to its full 
 blaze, "I've got you now. I thought I knew your 
 features. You're Stephen, the judge's body-servant, or 
 else his twin-brother ! " 
 
 Just then his eye fell on the trunk, a foreign article 
 of luggage, which he had noticed when Mr. Fontaine 
 was there before. 
 
 " And there's his trunk, by Jove ! Rascal, what have 
 you done with your master ? " 
 
 A pang, keener than any blade of Damascus, went 
 through the judge's soul. Some long-past time, when 
 he had been to church with his old grandmother in the
 
 A HARD LESSON. 449 
 
 city, himself only a youth at school, he had heard in 
 the lesson for the day certain quaint morals about the 
 sins of the fathers being visited on the children ; and 
 now, by some divinely-ordered palimpsest, the fearful 
 sentence returned on him. Stephen was his brother, if 
 he was his slave His father's sin, hitherto scarce a 
 peccadillo in the son's judgment, stared him close in 
 the face, and threatened vengeance. The likeness 
 that was Stephen's right was to be his own condem 
 nation 
 
 In a moment the clerk had a porter at his side, and 
 between them the angn r planter was shut into a small 
 bedroom, the door locked, and the proprietor of the 
 house summoned to a consultation. To arrest the man 
 on suspicion of murdering his master was the clerk's 
 first idea ; but the cooler head of the landlord de 
 murred. 
 
 The} 7 had no proof except the trunk, which he prob 
 ably had stolen. It was not like a murderer to attempt 
 to pass himself off as a white man. The story he told 
 the clerk looked more like the figment of a disordered 
 brain than the subterfuge of a criminal, and at last, 
 after much conversation pro and con, the landlord re 
 solved to see and question the man himself. 
 
 But the man was not there ! Shut up by main force 
 to await the judgment of his fellows no, the judg 
 ment of white men on a black Louis Fontaine per 
 ceived how hopeless was his case. 
 
 He remembered, almost against his will, by a reluct 
 ant recollection, how little reliance he had ever placed 
 on the word of a slave ; how protestations, prayers, 
 cries, had vainly interceded with him for mercy when 
 his superior intellect had once decided on guilt even
 
 450 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 on mere disobedience. Had not Stephen himself 
 his brother according to the flesh been beaten with 
 stripes, mangled, and scarred, because he refused to 
 take to himself a wife picked out for him by the over 
 seer, and add other items to the sum of slavery's wrong 
 and woe? 
 
 He began to see that "If lions could paint," works of 
 art would depict men as sometimes victims rather than 
 always conquerors, and that a slave might tell a differ 
 ent and sadder story than the master, could he only 
 have the gift of tongue and pen. 
 
 But the practical result of these meditations as re 
 lated to his own case was the immediate resolve to 
 escape rather than await justice white justice. 
 
 Luckily for him a painter had been at work on the 
 outside of the house, and left his ladder hanging on an 
 awning fixture outside the little window-balcony of Mr. 
 Fontaine's temporary prison ; this he perceived as he 
 cautiously lifted the sash and peered about him for 
 means of flight. His hands were strong, the street 
 was a side street, the room he was in on the corner of 
 a gangway shut in by an iron grating and door from 
 the sidewalk ; in a few moments he had made his way 
 to the ground, climbed the iron fence where it was 
 in shadow, and on the platform of a horse-car, that 
 came by at an opportune moment, he rode as far as 
 the belt-line went, and found himself at a pier on the 
 North river. That night Louis Fontaine, with abun 
 dance of money about him, a man used to all luxury 
 and elegance, to sleep soft and eat daintily, curled 
 himself up in an empty hogshead and tried to forget 
 his fate till day should dawn. 
 
 He did not occupy his thoughts, however, with great
 
 A HARD LESSON. 451 
 
 questions of wrong and right ; it was not in him to 
 accept the awful lesson set him, with eager desire 
 to learn ; he was far more disturbed about the imme 
 diate future of Judge Fontaine than the whole slave 
 population of creation, and he at last resolved to push 
 homeward at once, leaving the dangerous trunk behind 
 him. 
 
 ' He ventured out at early dawn from his tub, feeling 
 much less philosophic than Diogenes, and at a coffee- 
 stall kept by a fat old negress made a rude, but pala 
 table, breakfast, and set out for his home. It would take 
 a volume to relate what a week of torture he passed 
 before he could reach the great river : scorned, flouted, 
 sworn at for a " damned nigger," treated to even viler 
 and severer pellets of profanity, relegated to dirty emi 
 grant cars, forced to sleep in the unclean attics of 
 hotels, where he had to eat with the black servants, if 
 there were any, or have food served to him in wash-house 
 or shed, as a dog might be served, if none of the ob 
 noxious color were at hand to befriend him ; ordered 
 here and there by " high-toned" gentlemen, of the sort 
 whose boon-companion he once had been, the poor 
 wretch suffered agonies of humiliation and rage. 
 
 At last he reached St. Louis, and took a deck 
 passage all he could take on one of the splendid 
 steamers where he had been used to the airest state 
 room and the best seat at table. Now he carried his 
 food in a great basket, for he must provide for the 
 rest of his journey ; and his cheap valise served for 
 pillow by night and seat by day, holding as it did only 
 a few changes of linen purchased at a shop in New 
 York. Here, coiled up in a corner, he watched men 
 and women whom he knew at least by sight, some of
 
 452 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 them personally, promenading on the upper deck, 
 laughing and talking together as once he had laughed 
 and talked with his compeers. 
 
 Now his sole notice was a rough jest from the hands 
 of the boat, or a curse from some official thrown at the 
 " sulky nigger," who never offered a helping hand in 
 any strait, but kept himself in his nook, neither eating 
 nor drinking with any of his color, nor exchanging 
 cheery word or wholesome laughter with his kind. 
 Gangs of slaves were driven on and driven off, but he 
 never looked at them ! What were their deprivations 
 to his ? They were born into an estate of sin and mis 
 ery in a sense the divines of Westminster never knew ; 
 he had been hurled out of Paradise, his birthright, 
 into a howling wilderness full of thorns and briers. 
 But there was one gleam of light that led him on : he 
 was going home, home to his wife, his children ; there, 
 in the solitude of Rosieres, healing and rest awaited 
 him. Marie, the most devoted wife and mother, a 
 woman of women, given soul and body to him and 
 their children, living utterly for and in them, on her he 
 could rely to console him for these agonies of flesh and 
 spirit ; for, with all outside tortures, there came also 
 the horrors of prophetic imagination, pictures rising 
 before him of all the future could, must, bring; even 
 his dreams were lurid with horrid or fantastic situa 
 tions, all turning on the pivot of his discolored visage. 
 
 Weak and weary with all this, at length the boat 
 reached that lovely landing where he and Stephen had 
 embarked on their northern journey. 
 
 No luxurious carriage waited for him here ; he had 
 not sent for it when he wrote that he was coming ; he 
 did not want to face his slaves, to assert and vindicate
 
 A HARD LESSON. 453 
 
 to them his identity ; his one thought was to reach 
 home and Marie, to find counsel as well as comfort, 
 lie could hire neither horse nor wheeled vehicle here ; 
 there was nothing at the landing but a negro hut and a 
 wood-yard. With a sinking heart Judge Fontaine set 
 out for the plantation on foot. He dared not be out at 
 night without a pass, still less dared he sleep in the 
 malarious open air ; his pride fell to its lowest depth, it 
 seemed to him, when he was forced to ask shelter at the 
 quarters of some plantation, and sleep beside the slaves 
 of a friend or acquaintance. The fourth day of his pil 
 grimage, which was neither a penance nor an enthu 
 siasm, but a heart-broken journe^y, he arrived just 
 before sunset at Rosieres. He did not enter at the 
 front door, but stole through a young orange-grove 
 planted close to the veranda, on which his room opened, 
 as well as his wife's morning-room, and, sheltered by 
 the glossy boughs, went softly up to the open window. 
 There sat Marie, in a light dress that set off her delicate 
 loveliness, a single pomegranate blossom flaming in her 
 shining hair, and with one cry of relief and joy he 
 stepped in beside her. 
 
 She rose to her feet swiftly, and looked at him with 
 colorless lips ; but her courage was high. 
 /' What do you want here? " she asked, haughtily. 
 
 " Marie! " 
 
 The name burst from his lips like the cry of a mur 
 dered man. She moved toward the bell, but he was 
 nearest it and stepped before her. 
 
 " Marie ! Don't you know me? I am Louis." 
 
 A look of disgust and terror passed over her pale 
 face ; before he could prevent it she drew a little dog- 
 whistle from her belt, and, at its shrill call, a great
 
 454 TEE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 mastiff hustled itself through the door and flew at the 
 intruder. 
 
 Fontaine lifted his hand and said, "Down, Bear ! " 
 
 The great brute knew his master ! He crouched, 
 fawned, slavered on the black hand, leaped to the stal 
 wart shoulder, and licked the black face, taught by the 
 instinct, that had shown the wife nothing, to recognize 
 the man he loved, and loved still, spite of color. 
 
 Judge Fontaine looked at Marie with bitter sadness. 
 " The dog knows me, but you" 
 
 She trembled from head to foot ; every inborn preju 
 dice of race and usage revolted at the assertion that 
 this black was her husband ; but Bear's glad recogni 
 tion, the well-known voice, the peculiar growth and 
 color of the hair, what could she think of these ? how 
 account for them? With burning anguish at his heart, 
 Louis Fontaine controlled himself sternly, for he must 
 explain before there was any interruption. 
 
 "Sit down, Marie!" he said. "Let me tell my 
 story ; I dared not write it." And, with the eloquence 
 of a hunted slave added to the power of thought and 
 language owed to his education, he laid before her in 
 every wretched detail the life he had led since the un 
 pardonable color had invaded for once the skin of a 
 master. Her lips quivered, her eyes poured floods of 
 tears ; she overflowed with pity, but her heart fainted 
 at his aspect. 
 
 He could only see the tears, and the}* fell like balm 
 on the wounds he had bared before her ; he came 
 toward her with eager steps and opened wide his arms 
 to embrace her. Alas ! she shuddered and recoiled. 
 She could no more help it than she could help breath 
 ing. A black her husband !
 
 A HARD LESSON. 455 
 
 It was loathsome, unnatural, impossible. And the 
 revolt of her whole nature was evident in face and 
 form. 
 
 Louis Fontaine stood paralyzed ; this was an ab3'ss 
 he had never imagined. What could be done ? Where 
 was the end ? With a dreadful effort he recalled him 
 self to sense and composure. 
 
 "Marie!" he said, coldly and curtly, "you must 
 face the situation. I will go to m} T room and to bed. 
 Tell the servants I have come home ill ; let none of 
 them come to me, but send a bo}' over to Lone Palm 
 for Levis. Has Stephen come back ?" 
 
 " Stephen ! Is he not with 3 - ou?" she asked, feebty. 
 
 Then he knew what had happened. Stephen had 
 taken to himself the liberty his father and his brother 
 denied him ; and now Judge Fontaine understood why 
 his money had seemed to melt awa\-, for, with the 
 lavish carelessness of his kind, he had never counted 
 the gold he had carried always hidden about him when 
 he travelled, and its deficiency had not troubled him 
 since he had enough to reach home ; but he wondered 
 vaguely that so little was left. Stephen had spared 
 him ample means ^to reach home, but he did not ask 
 himself if, in a reversed situation, he would have been 
 so considerate of Stephen. The lesson was far from 
 learned as yet. 
 
 It was midnight before the rapid hoofs of Dr. Levis's 
 horse rattled up the approach, and when Marie, pallid, 
 sad, agitated, told him the story, and brought him into 
 the same chamber where he last saw the judge, and 
 confronted him with this blackened white man, curses 
 deeper and more savage than had ever passed his rough 
 lips before were his welcome to his friend. That useful
 
 456 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 creation of Sterne, the well-known recording angel who 
 forgave Uncle Toby's oath, must have had a hard 
 time with Hubert Levis ! And yet there was not a 
 particle of intended profanit} 7 in his words ; they were 
 the outcome of strong, indignant sympathy and emo 
 tion, and surely for this once were unrecorded against 
 him. 
 
 A sadder conclave could scarce have been held than 
 these three formed that night in the judge's chamber. 
 Already mental torture, and what to him were physical 
 privations, had hollowed Louis Fontaine's cheek and 
 sharpened his temples. Marie's eyes were red with 
 weeping, and her face drawn and sallow with the fear 
 ful shock, while Dr. Levis wore the aspect of a grimmer 
 sphinx than ever glared over the sands of an Egyptian 
 desert. 
 
 Yet, after all, there was but one decision to arrive 
 at. Judge Fontaine must be kept in hiding till time 
 and skill should be brought to bear on this calamity, 
 and to that end a suite of rooms were set apart for 
 him, and no one but his wife and Levis, through all 
 that weary winter, allowed to see bis face. He heard 
 his children's prattle and laughter outside. He gazed 
 at them through the half-turned blinds as a soul in pur 
 gatory might regard the cherubs of heaven ; but he 
 could not feel their soft kisses, their clinging arms, 
 their exuberant caresses. From them ah, worst fate ! 
 from his wife, he was parted by an abyss neither 
 hand nor foot might cross. 
 
 Dr. Levis wrote to all the physicians at home or 
 abroad whom he knew by name or reputation, and paid 
 fees untold for their advice ; but none of their experi 
 ments availed anything. Some inscrutable change in
 
 A HARD LESSON. 457 
 
 the pigment of the true skin had taken place, and no 
 human power could blanch it. Louis Fontaine had 
 been relegated to the place of his slaves in a deeper 
 fashion than he was ready to understand. But could 
 he understand it? 
 
 His father, his grandfather, his ancestors for genera 
 tions, had held and accepted slavery as the natural and 
 needful adjunct of their lives. They were born to it, 
 steeped in it, made by it what they were. It was not 
 to them an accident, or a fiat voluntas, but a thing as 
 matter-of-course as the air they breathed, or the earth 
 they trod on. Not even this personal convulsion of 
 nature opened Louis Fontaine's heart to perceive the 
 woes and wrongs of bondage and bondsmen ; he could 
 only feel his own. 
 
 But another, mightier revolution was at hand ; for, 
 while he la}- secluded in the lonel}' luxury of his cham 
 bers, Lincoln was elected, and war inaugurated. It 
 was long before the news reached Rosieres, but it fired 
 Judge Fontaine's heart and soul with indignant fury. 
 Lie there he could not and would not, nor did Marie 
 seek to detain him. She had no longer a husband, and 
 yet he was there. Love and loathing set her in a con 
 dition as unnatural as painful. In her heart she was 
 glad to evade it for a time, for she knew the South must 
 triumph ! 
 
 So, as Dr. Levis's body-servant, Louis Fontaine 
 joined a Louisiana regiment. 
 
 By one of those incidents we call " dramatic," as if 
 the drama were not an inadequate expression of life, 
 instead of its imaginative exaggeration, at the first 
 great battle of his experience, rushing, in defiance of 
 discipline or his position, to the front, Louis Fontaine
 
 458 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 was shot through the lungs, and the bullet that sped 
 him came from Stephen "Fontaine's" rifle. For 
 Stephen, too, had risen at the call of his brethren, and 
 Cain met Cain on the red field of war ! 
 
 Yet it was Stephen who picked up Louis from the 
 ground where he fell, and carried him to the surgeon's 
 tent. 
 
 The doctor shook his head as he lifted it from the 
 examination. " No hope ; but he deserved it for fight 
 ing against his race," he said. 
 
 "He is a white man, doctor," answered Stephen, 
 sadly; "born white, blackened by what you doctors 
 call disease, and I call God. He was put into our place 
 to see what was the curse of the slave ; but, after all, 
 you see that he did not learn it." 
 
 " My brother," said the grave, strong voice of the 
 chaplain, who stood beside the dying man, " do not be 
 too harsh in your judgment. ' Who did sin, this man or 
 his parents, that he should be born blind?' "
 
 'LIAB'S FIRST CHRISTMAS. 459 
 
 'LIAB'S FIRST CHRISTMAS. 
 
 " THERE'S yer punkin ! " 
 
 And he set down on the kitchen table a small, 
 irregular-shaped pumpkin ; not a big, smooth, golden 
 sphere, such as lay heaped on the barn-floor in hundreds. 
 
 "O father!" said his wife, very gently, being a 
 little, wan, meek-faced creature, with scarce the pun 
 gency of a mouse, or the spirit of a weakly lamb. 
 
 "Well! what now?" snapped Eliab Hoskius, turn 
 ing on the door-sill to look at her under his shaggy 
 eyebrows. 
 
 "Why, haint ye got no better than that? It's real 
 slim-lookin' ; seems as though we'd ought to kinder put 
 the bes' foot foremost, seein' Abner's comin' to Thanks- 
 givin', and Netty's comin' to stay." 
 
 " It's good 'nough, Sary Ann. I got a first-rate 
 offer for the rest on 'em to Hickory farm, and they 
 won't take no runts there, now I tell ye. It's good 
 'nough. I do'no' why folks has got to guzzle and 
 stuff jest because it's a Thanksgivin' day. It's bad 
 enough to have ye set to that the bronze turkey had 
 to be slartered for't. I never see his ekel for a faowl, 
 and I begrutch him to be used to hum, when he's 
 worth five dollars good money to the city, 'most any 
 where." 
 
 Sary Ann held her peace, and the tyrant of the
 
 460 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 family took himself off. In his remarks about that 
 bronze turkey he said nothing of the fact that his wife 
 had given her black silk apron to a neighbor's wife in 
 exchange for six eggs of this mighty breed, three of 
 which hatched out into two cocks and a hen ; a pair 
 were kept for breeding, and this one, foreordained to 
 be the chief figure at Thanksgiving, Mrs. Hoskins had 
 petted, pampered, waited on, watched over, and run 
 after with an anxious care its real parent never could 
 have equalled. She had put pepper-corns on its un 
 willing tongue for the good of its digestion ; she had 
 rubbed sulphur and lard, kerosene oil, wormwood tea, 
 and nobody knows what else, into its infant feathers ; 
 and chopped onion-tops and scalded meal and "pussley " 
 for it till the kitchen was odoi'ous ; and now it was 
 plump and glossy as a ripe chestnut, and all ready to 
 be killed for the feast. Yet 'Liab grudged it. There 
 are "more than four" people like Eliab Hoskins in 
 the world. He had been born into a state of sin and 
 misery, as the catechism says ; ground into the dust by 
 penurious and narrow parents, and the awful poverty 
 that is the lot of some New England farmers, who 
 drag out a life on its lonely hill-sides more frugal in 
 its fare than a hermit's, and far more dreadful to eu- 
 dure, since its privations and distress are not to be 
 endured alone. 
 
 'Liab had inherited, however, the fruit of all this 
 laborious poverty in the shape of a farm more extensive 
 than profitable ; but free from mortgage or debt of any 
 kind. Principally woodland, it had been unproductive 
 enough, and when he married Sarah Ann Parks he 
 inducted the gentle, shy, young girl into a life of hard 
 work and of self-repression which had almost worn her
 
 'LIAB'S FIRST CHRISTMAS. 461 
 
 out ; but for her children she would have been very 
 glad to take the place ready for her in the lonely little 
 graveyard at the foot of Saltash mountain, where her 
 father and mother had slept this long time ; but she 
 had that motherly heart that is faithful to the very 
 end, and she resolved not only to live, but to be as 
 cheerful as her life would allow, for the sake of Abner 
 and Netty, her boy and girl. 
 
 Abner had long since left home and the stern rule of 
 his father, and worked his way up from the youngest 
 clerk in a country store to be cashier in Haverford 
 bank, and now he was married, and had a little girl of 
 three years old ; but he had not seen his home for ten 
 years. He was coming home to this Thanksgiving for 
 the second time only since he left the farm, twenty 
 years ago, a boy of fifteen. Perhaps if he had stayed 
 with his father, and spent his life in that hand-to-hand 
 battle with the elemental forces of nature that farming 
 means on the highlands of New England, Abner would 
 have repeated him in character ; but what was greed in 
 the elder man developed only into care, economy, and 
 thrift in the younger ; and to his work he carried the 
 same energy, persistence, and shrewdness that dis 
 tinguished Eliab. Living among other people he 
 learned his own powers and failings soon enough to 
 balance and correct them, and marrying a woman of 
 generous temper, high spirit, intelligence, and warm 
 heart, all that was best within him grew and prospered. 
 Netty was much younger than Abuer ; and when she 
 was fourteen years old her father suddenly discovered 
 that his acres of wild woodland had become valuable ; 
 a railroad was laid out through the valley just below 
 the Hoskins farm, and wood for ties and sleepers
 
 462 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN: 
 
 were in demand. Every cent Eliab Hoskins received 
 he laid out in buying more wild land, till he owned 
 forests far up on the Canadian border, sold for nominal 
 prices by owners who did not see, as he did, that the 
 railroad meant an outlet and a sale for the lumber 
 hitherto valueless for want of transportation. 
 
 If Mrs. Hoskins had asked her husband, when she by 
 chance discovered he was selling timber to the Northern 
 Railway Company, for new dresses, or furniture, or 
 household conveniences, she would have received but 
 one answer, brief and hard enough, and she knew it; 
 but when she took her life in her hand, as it were, and 
 asked him to let Netty go to Haverford to school he 
 did not refuse to consider the matter. It is the glory 
 and the strength of New England that education is to 
 its people an inborn necessity ; the Gospel is a matter 
 of choice as to its support and furtherance : highlj- 
 respectable, and not to be set aside if it can be sup 
 ported cheaply enough ; but even a New England infidel 
 if there be such an anomaly on its lonely hills (an 
 infidel in open opinion, I mean ; practical infidelity is 
 another matter) would be unwilling enough to let his 
 son or daughter grow up without a certain amount of 
 " book-learning." So it was at last decided that Netty 
 should go to Haverford, as Abner would give her her 
 board ; and there she stayed for three years, brief to 
 her gay girlhood, suddenly emancipated from home 
 solitude and thrift ; but, oh ! how lonely to the weary 
 mother, who toiled on in solitude without her. 
 
 They were all coming home now, and Netty's school 
 ing was over ; if she had learned other lessons than 
 
 O ' 
 
 Haverford Academy included in its scholastic year she 
 did not report them ; nor dared she confess certain
 
 'LIAS'S FIRST CHRISTMAS. 463 
 
 strayings from the church of her fathers, induced as 
 much by the grave young rector as by the beautiful 
 liturgj* of his church. She was half glad and half sad 
 to come back to the mountain farm ; but her tender 
 heart leaped when she saw how her mother's wan face 
 glowed to see her again, and at first, when Abner and 
 Lizzy and tiny Ruth were all there, she did not feel 
 regret sharply ; but when mother had toiled through 
 the festival, made hard work by her devices to spread a 
 generous feast, for out of home products, only grudged 
 at that, she wrought the dinner of the day ; when 
 Abner and his family had just endured the solitude and 
 bare cleanliness of the farm-house for three days and 
 gone away, then life shut down on Netty like a blank 
 cloud. There was nothing to do but strain milk, peel 
 potatoes, churn, mend, bake, sweep and dust, except 
 the early week's change of work in washing and iron 
 ing. Netty had to question of what use was her 
 education ; to what end her narrow life ? Suddenly she 
 bethought herself of another holiday approaching, one 
 she had kept in Haverford so joyfully, and yet her 
 memory never recalled the least observance of the day 
 at home. 
 
 "Mammy," she said abruptly, one afternoon, ten 
 days after Thanksgiving, as they sat together at the 
 week's mending, " what shall we do for Christmas this 
 year?" 
 
 44 What? " said the astonished woman ; " what be you 
 talkin' about, Netty?" 
 
 "Why, Christmas, dear! We used to keep it at 
 Abner's, have a real time hanging up stockings and 
 giving things, you know, and greens all over the house. 
 Don't you ever do it here ? "
 
 464 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 A smile sadder than tears stole over Mrs. Hoskins's 
 tried face. 
 
 "Why, Netty! we don't keep Thanksgivin' most 
 years. Father aint one of them that b'lieves in play- 
 spells, ye know. Come to think, I've read about it 
 somewheres ; mebbe 'twas in the paper Amarinthy Snow 
 sent over one time for me to see about that medicine 
 that's good for rheumatiz. I guess I did ; some folks 
 think the Saviour was born that da}-, I b'lieve. I 
 do'no' how they know." 
 
 "Well, but, mammy, supposing they don't know 
 just the very time, isn't it good to take a day to be 
 glad in, for all that? And I don't feel sure they don't 
 know ; folks that know more than I do have thought 
 He was, for years untold ; and it seems as if we ought 
 to do something to tell what day it is thought to be, 
 anyway." 
 
 Mrs. Hoskins's face fell. 
 
 "I don't b'lieve I'd try, dear. Father aint one to 
 give in to new-fangled ways a mite. I don't b'lieve 
 he'd like it." 
 
 Netty laughed ; so far she had not come into opposi 
 tion with her father, and she had most abundant faith 
 in her powers of pleasing. 
 
 "We'll see," she said, confidently. "I could trim 
 up the house beautifully ; there's lots of young hem 
 locks up the hill, and it's such mild weather the ground 
 hasn't frozen yet, and I remember that old lot full of 
 sumachs, where there are three kinds of ground pine ; 
 and I'll coax father to give me some money, and we'll 
 have your first Christmas-day kept in good fashion, 
 mammy." 
 
 Mrs. Hoskins turned her head away, and pretended
 
 ALIAS'S FIRST CHRISTMAS. 465 
 
 to see something out of the window. She hated to nip 
 Netty's hopes in the bud ; she knew the girl might as 
 well hope to move that dismal old gray bain she was 
 staring at, with its littered yard and rickety fences 
 telling the story of neglect and penuriousness, as to 
 move her father ; and yet poor mother ! it was 
 perhaps possible that those clear, sweet, gray eyes, that 
 rippled wealth of hair, those firm, red lips and warm, 
 flushing cheeks she found so irresistibly lovely, might 
 touch 'Liab's heart as she herself had never touched it. 
 Yet so small was her faith that when after supper was 
 over and the dishes washed, and Netty drew up her 
 own low chair to 'Liab's side, as he sat in the chimney- 
 corner warming his feet, Mrs. Hoskins went away up 
 stairs on some poor pretext, and shivered in Netty's 
 cold bedroom rather than see her darling hurt. 
 
 But of all this Netty was unaware ; she had never 
 yet since she came home from Haverford asked her 
 father to do ai^thing for her, and her courage was like 
 all untried courage, very strong. 
 
 " Father," she began, " didn't you ever keep Christ 
 mas when you were a boy ? " 
 
 " What?" growled 'Liab. 
 
 " Didn't you hang up your stocking and give people 
 things, Christmas?" 
 
 " I don't know what you're talkin' about, girl. I 
 put my stockins' on my feet since I was big enough to 
 do't. I wa'n't fetched up to no nonsense." 
 
 " Well ! " said Netty, a little less cheerily, " I sup 
 pose, come to think of it, there weren't any Episcopa 
 lians round here then any more than there are now ; 
 but we always kept it at Abner's, and everybody gave 
 presents all around, and we went to church, aud I
 
 466 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 thought if you'd give me some money, dear, ten or 
 fifteen dollars, why, I would make Christmas here, 
 and have it so nice for mother and " 
 
 " Stop sech talk right off. I won't hear to't ! Ten 
 dollars ! Why. be ye out of your head, girl? TiscoprJs, 
 indeed ! rneetin'-house is good enough for me, an' I've 
 been a purfessor this forty odd year. I guess not ! 
 It's darned nonsense, the hull on't. I haint got no 
 money to throw away on sech stuff, nor Sary Ann 
 don't want no sech notions put into her head, now I 
 tell ye ; nor don't ye go to doiu' on't. Ten dollars ! 
 I wonder ye don't want a hundred ! I aint no man to 
 throw away dollars. I've spent a heap too much on 
 yer edicatiou a'ready, partickler if this notion comes 
 on't ; hevin' food an' raiment you had ought therewith 
 to be content, as Scriptur' says. Moreover an' where 
 withal I don't mean to hev ye a-idlin' round all yer 
 days ; there's a school deestrict over to 'Sable Four 
 Corners, where they're a-goin' to want a teacher next 
 spring. I'm school committee, and I'll give ye your 
 time so't you can take that school come April, and 
 'arn your livin'. Come to that, I guess you won't 
 hanker after no Christmas nonsense. Well it's bed 
 time pootty near. I'll go'n' shake down a little fodder 
 for them caows, and you'd better go 'long up charm- 
 ber." 
 
 Netty did not answer ; she sat quite still in her chair, 
 like one after a blow which has stunned. 'Liab got up, 
 lit his lantern, and tramped off by the shed-door ; but 
 she never moved. She had been away from home 
 three years, and the halo of separation had softened 
 her remembrance of her father much. She herself had 
 changed, too, and whatever was painful in that memory
 
 'L TAB'S FIRST CHRISTMAS. 467 
 
 she had learned to think might have been caused by 
 her own childish waywardness. In the fewda}^ Abuer 
 and his wife and child had been with her at home her 
 father, who had a certain respect for Abner's success 
 in life, had been as agreeable as he knew how ; and 
 since then he had been so busy that Netty had scarcely 
 seen him except at meals, and never before had she 
 had occasion to ask of him a favor. Now all her de 
 lusions were gone : she saw him as he was, a hard, 
 cold man, penurious and insensitive even to the only 
 child left him ; and a man so intrenched in his profes 
 sion of religion that he could not see himself to be in 
 the wrong. That he was honest, thrifty, and a con 
 stant attendant at meeting, though it was a five-mile 
 ride to the church in the valley, went for nothing in 
 Netty's mind ; for her heart was hurt, and she was a 
 woman. She bent her head on her hands and cried 
 bitterly and silently, lest mother should hear ; it was 
 not the mere disappointment of the daj-, that she could 
 have borne ; but it was the blank, chill outlook on a 
 denied and repressed life lying before her ; a life of 
 exacted labor and loveless thrift. Netty had a gen 
 erous soul, ready to lavish itself and all its possessions 
 on those she loved as freely as the odorous ointment 
 wns poured out by Mary on the feet of Him whom she 
 adored ; but she had also sense and courage. If it had 
 been her lot to marry the aforesaid young rector in 
 Haverford she would have spared and pinched and 
 twisted and turned his small salary till ever}' cent was 
 put to good purpose, burnt her fingers ironing his bands 
 and cooking his savory dinners, spoiled her eyes making 
 his shirts, and broken down her health taking care of 
 him and, that clerical blessing that never fails, his
 
 468 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 children ; but she would have dispensed wealth, had it 
 fallen to her share, with the liberality of a born queen. 
 Now she was not thinking of the ten dollars or the 
 Christmas gifts, but of her father's hard heart and 
 niggard nature. 
 
 She sat there when 'Liab came back ; he had left 
 his boots at the shed-door and came in to hang up his 
 lantern and cap, so softly Netty never moved. Some 
 thing in her dejected attitude stirred a throb deep down 
 in his rugged nature ; there is sap even in the gnarled 
 boughs of an apple-tree that, bent and broken by the 
 stormy wind of year on year, looks dead to the core ; 
 and even in 'Liab Hoskins there was nature, though he 
 had overridden and starved it. 
 
 But he did not speak, and as he crept back into the 
 shed and clattered about with his boots, dropping one 
 of them in the dark, Netty jumped up from her chair 
 and fled. "When he came back she was gone ; and he 
 went into his own room, where Sary Ann la} 7 , having 
 retreated there from Netty's chamber, when she heard 
 the girl come upstairs, b} 7 a back way, and slipped 
 into her place speedily while 'Liab raked up the fire. 
 Mrs. Hoskins was naturally a frank woman, if a coward 
 ever can be frank ; but she was so afraid of her husband 
 that she had learned all those domestic deceits which 
 are the shield of weak women ; nobody could be more 
 deaf than she when she preferred not to hear, or more 
 forgetful when she did not care to remember. She 
 made cream-cookies for Netty when 'Liab went to mill, 
 and told her that her father never ate such things, they 
 did not agree with him ; which was true in a sense. 
 She was asleep now ; so fast asleep that she heard 
 every breath her husband drew and every movement he
 
 LIAS'S FIRST CHRISTMAS. 469 
 
 made ; so fast asleep that she did not close her eyes 
 till near dawn, her tender motherly heart aching for 
 Netty, and shrinking from hearing 'Liab's hard, sneer 
 ing story of the girl's presumption. 
 
 When they all met at the early breakfast neither 
 of the three looked at each other. 'Liab ate like a 
 bear at its meal of throttled game ; it is true he had 
 a knife, and a symbolic fork, which helped him to hold 
 fast the thick sliced pork and spear the potato floating 
 in hot fat that he bolted ravenously ; but he none the 
 less ate and drank like a beast of the forest, and 
 neither knew nor cared that Netty nibbled only a crust 
 of bread and sipped the decoction they called coffee 
 with a pallid face and heavy eyes, and his wife did not 
 eat or drink at all. 
 
 At last he pushed his chair away, and, wiping his 
 mouth with the back of his rough hand, made for the 
 door, turning back to say, " Sary Ann, fetch them 
 old saddle-bags down from up charmber, will ye, and 
 put in a change of things? I'm a-goin' up to them lots 
 on the Canady line this afternoon. It's nothin* more'n 
 a trail after ye get to the Forks, so't I might as well 
 go a hossback all the way, and I expect it'll take me 
 full a week ; and like enough I shall get soaked afore 
 I get through, and want them red flannels the wust 
 way. Darn rheumatiz ! " 
 
 Netty's heart gave a leap of joy, and then stink again 
 to think how undutiful she was. " Honor thy father 
 and thy mother," what does it mean in a case like 
 this? Netty's conscientious New England soul began 
 to torment itself, but her natural heart did feel 
 enlivened and glad for all that ; and by and by, 
 opening her Bible for the daily reading, another text
 
 470 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN, 
 
 flashed upon her with that aptness texts of Scripture 
 have, " Fathers, provoke not your children to anger," 
 and seemed to restore her balance ; people who oc 
 cupy themselves with ethics sometimes forget that duty 
 is individual, not natural. 
 
 Buther mother had no scruples of this kind ; her con 
 science toward her husband had long been dulled. She 
 had enough to do to evade his exactions and cruelties 
 when and how she could. Love for him she had never 
 known, marrying him because he asked her to, and she 
 was afraid to refuse him, and exchanging one bondage 
 for another. She was heartily glad 'Liab was going 
 away, and packed his saddle-bags with the flannel he 
 grudged carrying, with a light in her eyes not at all 
 flattering to a husband ; but 'Liab did not care. Neither 
 had he loved her ; it was needful to have a woman on 
 the place when his mother died, and old Parks's daugh 
 ter was a good worker, and not a talker or gad-about. 
 So he mounted the old sorrel horse, adjusted his saddle 
 bags, and rode off with only a nod. He did look 
 through the open door as if he missed something, to be 
 sure ; but Sary Ann did not notice it, nor did she or 
 Netty, who was in no mood to be tender now, know 
 how the thought of his child's bent head and dropping 
 tears would recur to 'Liab now and again on his cold 
 ride, till he angrily fought the unpleasing vision away, 
 and began to cipher out in his head the probable feet of 
 lumber his saw-mill on that mountain-brook in the for 
 est would run out this }'ear ; or the prospect of snows 
 heavy enough for his loggers to draw their squared logs 
 down to the nearest slide from which it would pay to 
 haul them to the railway station. It was two days be 
 fore Eliab reached the end of his tiresome journey ;
 
 'LIAS'S FIRST CHRISTMAS. 471 
 
 two nights he slept in log-cabins, or shanties, by the 
 wayside, and the third day found him at the mill, ener 
 getic and harsh. The men who worked for him dreaded 
 his coming, and bestirred themselves while he sta} 7 ed 
 with an activity put on for the occasion. He went 
 from one camp to another, found fault, rated them in 
 terms more forcible than kindly, planned for transpor 
 tation, estimated time and costs, and pared down ex 
 penses with a shrewd thrift that made him unpopular 
 enough with the loggers, who swore at him behind his 
 back with alacrity and energy. The fifth day he set 
 out for the farthest camp. He had already outstayed 
 the time he allowed himself, and was impatient to have 
 his business over, for he had been more than once wet 
 through with cold rain, and the rheumatism he so 
 dreaded twinged ominously in his bones ; but he was 
 not a man to mind an endurable ache, so he set out on 
 his long ride over a mountain trail, not on the old sorrel, 
 which had given out entirely, but on a little, rough, 
 Canadian pony. He had not gone ten miles when the long- 
 delayed snow set in ; fine, small flakes filled the darkening 
 air, beat in his face, gathered thickly on his shaggy 
 brows, and chilled him to the heart. He went on, how 
 ever, trusting to his pony's sagacity some ten miles far 
 ther, when it seemed to him, from the thick bushes and 
 crowded trees through which the little beast scrambled, 
 that it had lost the trail. He dismounted to brush 
 away the snow and see if any track could be discovered, 
 stepped on a slippery stone, and, trying to recover his 
 footing, slipped again, for the rocks were covered with 
 ice, fell headlong, and lost his consciousness entirely. 
 "When it returned, he was lying alone in the dark forest, 
 the snow still whirling and whispering in air all about
 
 472 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 him with the omi-nous hiss and rustle of a heavy storm, 
 his pony gone, and night coming on. 'Liab IToskins 
 was a man of courage ; his heart did not fail. He was 
 strong in constitution, and used to the shifts of a woods 
 man's life enough to feel no dread of being lost ; but 
 when he tried to rise to his feet he could not : his right 
 leg was broken. 
 
 Then despair set in ; never before had he been help 
 less ; and here he was, in a lonely forest, with a broken 
 leg, neither food, fire, nor shelter to be had, and no 
 prospect of help at hand ; while his nerves, of which he 
 had never before been conscious, at last rebelled. It 
 seemed to him that through the dark pine vistas, for all 
 the whirling storm, he saw his home-fire, the clean, bare 
 kitchen, the low flicker of the dying blaze, and before 
 it, not Sary Ann, as she was at that moment, busy 
 in cooking a savory supper of cream toast and dried 
 beef with gravy ; but Netty, her bright face hidden in 
 her hands, and tears dropping down and glittering 
 against the flashes of the fire. 
 
 Persistently the vision haunted him ; much as he 
 longed to be in his own bedroom, to be fed and tended 
 by his wife's patient hands ; hungry as he was, cold, 
 weary, and almost desperate, he could not get that 
 sorrowful little figure from his thought ; and the wind, 
 sighing bitterly in the pine-boughs, the hissing hush of 
 that relentless snow, the stealing and increasing gloom 
 about him, only intensified his anguish, which began to 
 be pain of mind as well as body. He must die there 
 in the storm ; there was no doubt of that. Would any- 
 bod\' ever find him? The}' would not even know where 
 he died, there at home. There would be no funeral ; 
 pleasing and solemn prospect as a funeral always
 
 'LIAB'S FIRST CHRISTMAS. 473 
 
 is to the genuine New Englnnder, he must forego it. 
 With the curious perversity of that intangible and way 
 ward comrade we call the soul, he figured to himself 
 how it all should have been : the decent coffin, and this 
 old body, instead of lying a shrivelled wreck for the 
 wild creatures to prey on, and the stormy wind to rob 
 of all its proper covering, dressed in his Sunday suit, 
 a shocking waste of good clothes, to be sure ; but then 
 Abner wouldn't wear them, and the women couldn't, 
 neighbors flocking in from far-off homesteads, tip 
 toeing into the cold parlor and eying the corpse with 
 that ghoulish delight characteristic of country funeral- 
 goers. He knew how Granny Griggs would peer at him 
 and say to Mis' Mather: " Looks very nateral, don't 
 he ? " and how Priest Dyer would make a long prayer 
 including the heathen and the isles of the sea ; then 
 how they would sing China, that was what the wind 
 was wailing now, rising and falling in funereal 
 shrieks and sobs, frozen into a despairing calm by 
 harmony of parts and rhythm of verse ; then " friends 
 will view the remains ; " and then He started, for the 
 dream had been too real ! He was alone in the forest, 
 and the storm singing his funeral hymn, while still he 
 could hear it. And Netty ? she would lift up her head 
 when he didn't come home and stop crying ! What 
 had he ever done to make her cry for him ? Educated 
 her? Well, that was what he must do, and he had 
 looked to making it pay. He meant to have her take 
 herself out of his care, and he had even looked forward 
 to repayment of her school expenses. And Sary Ann ? 
 What on earth could she cry for? She never had her 
 own way, or what she wanted ; now she would have it 
 all ! He meant to make a will, and leave something
 
 474 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 handsome to Foreign Missions and Blank College ; it 
 would sound well ; but be hadn't done it. Sary Ann 
 and the children woud have it all, and The New York 
 Deserver never would print an obituary notice of him, 
 saying how much he had left to deserving institutions, 
 and what a good man he was ; and how he was now 
 reaping the reward of He started again ; going to 
 die ; and where after that? It was the very blackness 
 of darkness, that outlook ! Nobody to mourn him 
 here, was there anybody to welcome him there? What 
 could he do where there was no farm, no lumbering 
 tract, no bank to keep his gold in, no gold to keep? 
 Another of those plaguing texts that he had heard in 
 the meeting-house as if he heard them not, and laid up 
 in the dark chambers of his brain all unknowing, rung 
 now in his car : 
 
 " Lay up to yourselves treasures in heaven, where 
 moth and rust do not corrupt." 
 
 He had not ; no, he had not even shared his money 
 with good works on earth, nor even by will ; how should 
 he show his face in that glorious country where loving 
 and giving are the breath of life? Perhaps this was 
 not his conscious thought ; it was rather an instinct of 
 unfitness that made him shrink from the transference 
 to a nobler sphere ; but another word pierced his soul 
 again, and made him cower in spirit as if under a 
 lash : 
 
 " Friend ! how earnest thou in hither not having a 
 wedding-garment ? " 
 
 What grave, calm voice, having in it an awful au 
 thority, spoke thus to him? At that moment a soft 
 rush came through the snow, something cold and wet 
 touched his cheek, and a hound threw up his head and
 
 'LIAB'S FIRST CHRISTMAS. 475 
 
 bayed loud and long. "What a thrill ran through 'Llab 
 Hoskins at the sound ! His old hard, practical nature 
 slipped back to him like a coat of armor. He did not 
 think about Netty, or dying, or heaven am^ more ; not 
 he ! Here was a chance for life, dear life ! sweet life ! 
 so bitter and tasteless and weary to live as we all find 
 it, yet so hard to lose and leave ! 
 
 He lifted himself a little on his elbow and spoke to 
 the dog ; it bayed again, and presently he saw a gleam 
 of light, and heard a voice call, " Brave ! Brave ! " and 
 the dog bounded to meet his master and another man. 
 They were two French Canadians, burning charcoal on 
 the next tract to Hoskins's lumbering lots. The pony 
 had, it seemed, once belonged to Jacques Dupont, and 
 had taken the track to its old home on the coaling 
 instead of that to the lumber camp. It had gone on 
 after losing its rider, and when Jacques came home 
 from the pits at night he found it at his shed, and 
 gathered from its saddle and the bags that something 
 had happened on the track. Fortunately he had a 
 helper boarding with him, and the two set out with their 
 dog to help or rescue, as the case might be. 
 
 It was with much difficulty that they managed to 
 get 'Liab to Dupont's shanty, though the distance was 
 not great. Once there Dupont's wife made up a clean 
 bed on the floor and laid the weary man on it, cut off 
 parts of his clothes, and laid warm cloths on the broken 
 leg, which was beginning to swell and be painful ; 
 then they fed him with tea and crackers, their best and 
 carefully hoarded luxuries, and the two men sat down 
 to supper, leaving the wayfarer to meditate and plan 
 the next step. That, no doubt, was to get a doctor ; 
 he would not trust his leg to the rude surgery of a
 
 476 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 charcoal-burner. Dnpont, being promised a reward for 
 his services, left early the next day for a Canadian 
 village, where he said lived a surgeon of repute in the 
 wild country, where he had enough of such practice to 
 keep his skill from rusting. The slow days went by 
 wearily. Mrs. Dupont was kind, neat, and voluble ; 
 she did her utmost for her guest, and now and then 
 her broken speech brought a grim smile to 'Liab's face ; 
 but the food she had for him was not to his liking, and 
 the fever and rheumatism that set in to enhance the 
 pangs of his broken leg made him loathe the dark 
 bread, the slapjacks drowned in molasses, the constant 
 pot of beans, the potato soup, and herb tea that were 
 the daily fare of the coal-burners. When the doctor 
 came at last he had to stay three days to reduce the 
 swelling of the leg so that the bone could be set, and 
 the only promise he could hold out to the patient was 
 that in six weeks he might be able to be set on a pony 
 and led down to the village on the lake below, thence 
 go by sled to the nearest town where there was a railway 
 station, and so home. 
 
 Eliab groaned ; this was a prospect of bondage ! 
 Six weeks to lie here and think, he did not enjoy 
 thinking, he had tried that in the forest. 
 
 The doctor read his face. 
 
 " It is a long time, I know," he said, kindly. " But 
 you are no more 3*oung, my friend ; it is the young 
 bones that knit themselves quickly ; you must wait ; 
 yes, it is necessary." 
 
 "O-h!" groaned Eliab; he knew it was truth, but 
 what a prospect lay before him ! He had asked the 
 surgeon to write to his wife : she could not come up 
 there, nor could Netty ; women could not endure the
 
 'L TAB'S FIRST CHRISTMAS. 477 
 
 peril and fatigue of such a journey, nor was there a 
 place for them. Jacques and the doctor together had 
 contrived a sort of cot for him, which was at least 
 better than the floor, and Jeanne did all a tender heart 
 and womanly instincts could do with her poor means 
 and appliances ; but he heard his sentence with dis 
 gust and revolt. Six weeks of helplessness at home 
 would have been wretched ; here it was unendurable ! 
 Yet he had to endure it. The five rosy children who 
 danced and clamored about the shanty were a great 
 nuisance, too, though they were banished out of doors 
 whenever the weather allowed, and set to such helpful 
 tasks as they could fulfil when storms prevented them 
 from playing outside. But after a time, for want of 
 any other interest, 'Liab grew to watch them from his 
 cot as a diversion to the cruel and weary thoughts 
 which harassed him. How they loved their mother! 
 Naughty, mischievous, provoking as they were, she 
 had a divine patience with them that almost exasper 
 ated this spectator. Her mild, sweet, dark eyes never 
 flashed with anger ; her hand never lit in wrath on 
 round cheek or curly head. She was grieved and hurt 
 sometimes at their waywardness, but never impatient 
 or angry. And they loved their father as well ; though 
 they feared him more, for Jacques had the despotic 
 element in him, and ruled with stern justice his small 
 kingdom ; but the children always ran to meet him, 
 hung round him, waited for him with eager expecta 
 tion. 'Liab was forced to reflect that neither of his 
 own children had ever greeted him so ; but rather 
 shrunk from his presence and kept out of his way. 
 
 Then there came one night he long remembered. 
 Jacques had been down to the village below for sup-
 
 478 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 plies, which was a two days' journey ; the children 
 had brought in from the shed long wreaths of ground- 
 pine and boughs of fir, with which they adorned the 
 rude shanty till it was like a bower. Jeanne strung 
 threads with scarlet cranberries, and festooned them 
 here and there among the evergreens, and in one corner 
 of the room, behind a screen of old quilts, gave every 
 one of her brood such a thorough scrubbing that when 
 the} r emerged in their Sunday clothes they shone and 
 glowed like new dolls. A certain joyful decorum 
 pervaded their manners, astonishing to behold ; but 
 when Jacques entered, loaded with bundles, the de 
 corum vanished ; they threw themselves on him like a 
 pack of busy wolves, as he laughingly called them. 
 
 " Will you cease then ? " called the mother, in laugh 
 ing tones. 
 
 " Leave the father for one time; he is tire, terrible 
 children ! He have hunger, I say." 
 
 " Get down, rascals ! " thundered Jacques. Then, 
 exchanging a few voluble French sentences with his 
 wife, he hurried up into the loft with the basket he 
 carried, and Jeanne put his other bundles into the old 
 red chest. 
 
 " Come now! " he called to the children, who were 
 skylarking about the fire, not at all abashed by their 
 dispersion. " Come now ! it is to sing the hymn of 
 Noel ; here is the father again." 
 
 The little crowd ranged themselves in line, folded 
 their hands, and, looking up like adoring cherubs, began 
 to sing in sweet, childish voices' that hymn of the ages, 
 in its stately Latin syllables : 
 
 " Adcstc fidcles ! laeti triumphantes."
 
 'LIAB'S FIRST CHRISTMAS. 479 
 
 Not a word of its meaning did 'Liab understand, or 
 the rapt look of Jeanne's face and the glistening eyes 
 of Jacques as they listened ; but the tones were sweet, 
 the harmony pure, and his heart softened unconsciously 
 under its influence. Had he heard it pealing through 
 the high arched ceiling of some vast cathedral, with 
 all the splendor and color of religion's most gorgeous 
 ritual to illustrate it ; or from the lips of cloistered 
 virgins, in a dim convent chapel, it could not have 
 impressed him as it did in this bedecked shanty, from 
 these red childish lips. It was only when the children 
 gathered about the table for their supper, to-night 
 made a feast for them by certain sugar-cakes Jeanne 
 had baked, and raisins in their porridge, that 'Liab 
 got a chance to speak. 
 
 " 'Taint Sunday, is't? " he asked Jacques. 
 
 " No ; it is the what you call? night of before 
 Noel." 
 
 " Well, I thought I'd lost my reck'nin' ef 'twas 
 Sundaj' ; but what the dickens is Nowell ? " 
 
 ' ' I forget to say it to you right ; it is the French I 
 tell you ; it is in your talk the Chrees-mas ! " 
 
 " Hm ! " growled 'Liab, moving uneasilj" on his cot. 
 
 Jacques shot a keen glance at him, whispered under 
 his breath, " Heretique ! " and moved away to the 
 table for his own share of cakes and porridge. 
 
 Strangely enough Netty's bent head and dropping 
 tears rose up before him ; it was Christmas to-morrow, 
 then, and she had wanted to celebrate it, if he would 
 have let her. 
 
 Presently the children were despatched to their bed 
 in the loft, and Jeanne began to tie small stockings, of 
 graded sizes, to the fir-boughs here and there, till five
 
 480 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 dangled limply along the wall ; then Jacques fetched 
 down the basket he had brought, and with happy faces 
 and sparkling eyes the simple couple began to fill the 
 stockings with their gifts. What poor little treasures 
 they were ! A stick of candy to each, a red pin-ball 
 in one, a rough wooden top in another, a pair of gay 
 mittens, a long blue comforter, a rattle-box made from an 
 old sleigh-bell with a knit cover, all these home-made 
 by Jeanne's tired fingers, as she sat by the fire at night 
 after the children's bedtime. There was a knife for 
 Paul, the oldest ; a ribbon, cheap but scarlet, for each 
 of the twin girls ; a pair of good, stout shoes for four- 
 year-old Jean, and a wooden doll for the baby, these 
 Jacques had fetched from the village ; then a red apple 
 atop in every woollen leg, and the father and mother 
 rubbed their hands and congratulated each other in 
 rapid French. 'Liab watched it all ; he had a question 
 to ask, but not yet ; he, however, asked another of 
 Jacques : 
 
 " Say ! why don't ye allus talk French, if 'tis that 
 you're a-talkin' now. Seems to come a sight easier to 
 ye than Yankee." 
 
 " It is that; the French is my born tongue, friend; 
 but for the children it is. Some time we shall move 
 down, when the forest burns away, when. I do stop the 
 coal job ; it is then the children, must speke Ingleesh 
 for to school. You see?" 
 
 'Liab nodded. He was a man keen enough to per 
 ceive issues and draw conclusions in his business; he 
 was not dull now, but stared with a certain pained won 
 der at these poor, ignorant people with their tender 
 parental feeling. He did not understand it. Pretty 
 soon Jeanne sat down by the fire and surveyed her
 
 FIRST CHRISTMAS. 481 
 
 work ; Jacques went out to feed his goat and tie it for 
 the night. 'Liab seized the opportunity. 
 
 " Say, Mis' Dupont, what do ye make all this fuss 
 for about Chris'mas ? " 
 
 Jeanne started. 
 
 " Eh? " said she. " For why? and does not sir also 
 keep holiday at the house ? " 
 
 "I? No, marm ! I wa'n't fetched up to no sech 
 goin's-on. What's it for, anyway?" 
 
 "Ah! do you not know, poor friend? Why, it is 
 that the good God did come to-night, oh, many, very 
 man}-, long years ago. He was to the poor born, a 
 leetel poor one ; it is in hay of the manger where beasts 
 eat that they laid him. Oh, the good, good G-od ! to die 
 on that cross he came for men. He gave, yes, him 
 self he did give ; and it is to-day he was leetel child, so 
 we give to the childs. You see?" 
 
 " But you hev to work real hard to get them things, 
 and Jack has to foot it a long stretch to fetch 'em ; ef 
 'twas to give to missionaries now, why, 'twould look 
 reasonable." 
 
 "I know not those; I have my children. Ah! I 
 should to them give heart's blood, so not to forget their 
 little Jesus, the good God's child. Him in the manger, 
 so poor as we, so troubled, and die on the cross, that 
 Son of God, so as Paul is my son. Ah ! it is not much, 
 but it is dear." 
 
 And Jeanne's honest face glowed with such tender 
 devotion, such earnest love, that 'Liab fell back on his 
 pillow awed. He slept little that night ; the message 
 of Bethlehem had found him literally a sheep lost in the 
 wilderness ; yes, the Shepherd had left the rest, and 
 gone out upon the mountains seeking him.
 
 482 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN'. 
 
 There, in the dull glow of the dying fire, he recalled 
 his heartless fatherhood, his loveless home, his sins of 
 omission, that mocked the outward cold uprightness of 
 his life ; before him, in this nook of the forest, were 
 piety and affection, the like of which never blossomed 
 out of his money and lands ; here were children who 
 loved their parents ; here a father and mother ready to 
 give up all things and do all things for the happiness 
 of their children ; what had he ever done for his ? 
 Abner had gone out from him as soon as he possibly 
 could, and made his own home. Netty had stayed, and 
 he had made her wretched. Poor Netty ! her first 
 innocent request cruell}' denied and scorned ! It was 
 not a merry Christmas Eve for 'Liab ; not even the 
 joyful shouts of the five children next morning, as they 
 rifled their stockings, caused more than a transient 
 smile on his rugged face ; but he had set that face in 
 a new direction at last, even toward Bethlehem, and 
 the New Song was creeping, note by note, faintly, yet 
 surely, into his heart ; even as the herald angels sang it 
 above that lowly manger cradling their King : 
 
 " Glory to God in the highest; and on earth peace, good-will 
 toward men." 
 
 Yes, Eliab Hoskius was an old scholar, but he 
 learned his lesson at last ; not in days, or weeks, or 
 mouths ; nay, not in all his life did he learn it fully, 
 or without struggle ; but when at length he rose up 
 from that cot-bed, and left the shanty to go home, he 
 wondered at himself that it was so easy, even so 
 pleasant, for him to overpay Jacques Dupont for his 
 care and shelter ; and still more he wondered to find
 
 ALIAS'S FIRST CHRISTMAS. 483 
 
 how his lips quivered when he tried to say good-by to 
 Jeanne and the children. Netty was unfeignedly glad 
 to see him, and Sary, placid as usual, did not refuse a 
 slow smile as he came to his own door. It is true she 
 confided to Netty, months after : 
 
 " I thought pa was struck with death cert'in, when 
 he come home ; he was real flabby and meechin' for 
 a spell ; and to my mind he haint never been himself 
 sence." 
 
 He never had. The old things had passed away from 
 'Liab ; but he said nothing ; like all his tribe he had no 
 speech for the best and deepest feelings of his soul. 
 He changed in all his ways, however, slowly and se 
 curely. Netty was never permitted to teach the school 
 at 'Sable Four Corners, and she and her mother were 
 both well supplied with food and raiment, even in their 
 own opinion, thereafter. The bare, niggardly aspect 
 of the house also softened by degrees, and at Netty's 
 instigation, Abner, too, was asked to let his wife and 
 child come home to spend the summer ; and sometimes 
 when he drove over to see them that grave young 
 rector came too, not altogether to 'Liab's satisfaction, 
 who did not like the prospect ; but, to his credit be it 
 said, spoke no word of objection, and did his best to 
 be gracious. 
 
 And when Christmas drew near again Netty had so 
 relearned her father that, without fear or hesitation, she 
 said once more : 
 
 " Can't we keep Christmas this year, father?" and 
 'Liab answered : 
 
 " Cert'in ! cert'in, child ! only I want ye to fix up 
 a box of things for them folks up on the coaliu' who 
 took sech care of ine last winter. There's five children,
 
 484 THE SPHINX'S CHILDREN. 
 
 they'll like most anything, and I'll fetch a gown from 
 Haverford for Mis' Dupont, and I guess I'll get him an 
 overcoat. The rest ye must fix to suit ye, Netty. I'll 
 pay the bills." 
 
 Never in his life had 'Liab received such a hearty 
 hug and kiss ; he turned away without a word and 
 stared out of the window ; the old barn stood there still, 
 but he was moved ! 
 
 "I do wonder what made father change his mind 
 so ! " said Netty to her mother, after joyfullj' reporting 
 her success ; but neither of them ever knew ; nor that 
 God had changed his heart, too, in that coal-burner's 
 hut in the forest, by the power of His life, love, and 
 death, who came to us at the sacred Christmas-tide.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA AT LOS ANGELES 
 
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