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 V 7 " 
 
 ; WM. H. BARTLi
 
 A 
 
 BOOK o NINE TALES 
 
 ARLO BATES 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS 
 1891
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Tale the First : A STRANGE IDYL .... 7 
 
 Interlude First: AN EPISODE IN MASK . . 55 
 
 Tale the Second : THE TUBEROSE 67 
 
 Interlude Second: AN EVENING AT WHIST. . 89 
 
 Tale the Third : SAUCY BETTY MORK . . . 101 
 
 Interlude Third: MRS. FRUFFLES is AT HOME 131 
 
 Tale the Fourth : JOHN VANTINE 141 
 
 Interlude Fourth : THE RADIATOR 155 
 
 Tale the Fifth : MERE MARCHETTE . . . 163 
 Interlude Fifth : "SUCH SWEET SORROW" . 189 
 Tale the Sixth : BARUM WEST S EXTRAVA 
 GANZA 201 
 
 Interlude Sixth : A BUSINESS MEETING . . 221 
 
 Tale the Seventh : A SKETCH IN UMBER . . 233 
 
 Interlude Seventh : THIRTEEN 253 
 
 Tale the Eighth : APRIL S LADY 263 
 
 Interlude Eighth : A CUBAN MORNING . . . 283 
 
 Tale the Ninth : DELIA GRIMWET .... 301
 
 A STRANGE IDYL.
 
 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 A STRANGE IDYL. 
 
 I. 
 
 E lay upon an old-fashioned bed 
 stead whose carved quaintness 
 would once have pleased him, but 
 to which he was now indifferent. 
 He rested upon his back, staring at the ceil 
 ing, on whose white surface were twinkling 
 golden dots and lines in a network which even 
 his broken mind knew must be the sunlight 
 reflected from off the water somewhere. The 
 windows of the chamber were open, and the 
 sweet summer air came in laden with the per 
 fume of flowers piquantly mingled with pun 
 gent sea odors. Now and then a bee buzzed 
 by the casement, or a butterfly seemed tempted 
 to enter the sick-room apparently thought 
 better of it, and went on its careless way. 
 
 Of all these things the sick man who lay 
 there was unconscious, and the sweet young
 
 10 A BOOK Cf NINE TALES. 
 
 girl sitting by his bed was too deeply buried 
 in her book to notice them. For some time 
 there was no movement in the chamber, until, 
 the close of a chapter releasing for an instant 
 the reader s attention, she looked to discover 
 that the patient s eyes were open. Seeing 
 him awake, she rose and came a step nearer, 
 thereby making the second discovery, more 
 startling than the first, that the light of rea 
 son had replaced in those eyes the stare of 
 delirium. 
 
 "Ah," she said, softly, "you are awake !" 
 
 The invalid turned his gaze toward her, far 
 too feeble to make any other movement ; but 
 he made no attempt to speak. 
 
 "No," she continued, with that little purr 
 ing intonation which betrays the feminine 
 satisfaction at having a man helpless and un 
 able to resist coddling; "don t speak. Take 
 your medicine, and go to sleep again." 
 
 She put a firm, round arm beneath his 
 head, and bestowed upon him a spoonful of 
 a colorless liquid, afterward smoothing his pil 
 lows with deft, swift touches. He submitted 
 with utter passiveness of mind and body, ig 
 norant who this maiden might be, where he 
 was, or, indeed, who he was. Painfully he 
 endeavored to think, to remember, to under 
 stand ; but with no result save confusing
 
 A STRANGE IDYL II 
 
 himself and bringing on an ache in his head. 
 His nurse, at the convenient end of another 
 chapter, observed a look of pain and trouble 
 upon the thin face, scarcely less white than 
 the pillow against which it rested. 
 
 " You are worrying," she observed with 
 authority. " Go to sleep. You are not to 
 think yet." 
 
 And, staying himself upon the resolution 
 and confidence in her tone, he abandoned 
 himself again to the current of circumstances, 
 and drifted away into dreams. 
 
 The girl, watching closely now, with mind 
 distracted from her story to the more tangi 
 ble mystery involved in the presence of the 
 sick man, gave a little sigh of relief when 
 his even breathing indicated that he had 
 fallen asleep. She removed softly to a seat 
 near the window, and looked out upon the 
 tranquil beauty of the afternoon. Long 
 Island Sound lay before her, dimpling and 
 twinkling in the sunshine, while nearer a 
 sloping lawn stretched from the house to the 
 shore. Glancing backward and forward be 
 tween the sunny landscape and the bed where 
 her patient slept, the maiden fell to wonder 
 ing about him, recalling the little she knew, 
 and straining her fancy to construct the story 
 of his life.
 
 12 A BOOK Cf NINE TALES. 
 
 Three weeks before a Sound steamer had 
 been wrecked so near this spot that through 
 the stormy night she had seen the glare of 
 the fire which broke out before the hull sank, 
 and the next morning s tide had brought to 
 shore this man, a floating waif, saved by a 
 life-preserver and some propitious current. 
 A terrible wound upon his head showed 
 where he had experienced some blow, and 
 left him hesitating with distraught brain be 
 tween life and death. In his delirium he had 
 muttered of varied scenes. He must, the 
 watcher reflected, have travelled extensively. 
 Now there were words which showed that he 
 was sharing in wild escapades; cries of defi 
 ance or of encouragement to comrades whose 
 shadowy forms his disordered brain sum 
 moned from the mysterious past ; strange 
 names, and words in unknown tongues min 
 gled themselves with incoherent appeals or 
 bitter reproaches. 
 
 To the girl who had been scarcely less at 
 his bedside than the old woman who nom 
 inally nursed him, these broken fragments 
 of wild talk had been like bits of jewels 
 from which her mind had fashioned a fan 
 tastic mosaic. The mystery surrounding 
 the stranger would, in any case, have ap 
 pealed strongly to her quick fancy, but when
 
 A STRANGE IDYL. 13 
 
 to this was added the brilliancy of his deliri 
 ous ravings, it is small wonder that her imag 
 ination took fire, and she wove endless ro 
 mances, in all of which the unconscious sick 
 man figured as the hero. Scraps of talk in 
 an unknown tongue, a few sonorous foreign 
 words, a little ignorance concerning matters 
 in reality commonplace enough, have, in 
 many a case before, been the sufficient foun 
 dations for a gorgeous fata morgana of fancy. 
 The stranger had been thrown ashore only 
 partially dressed, and with nothing upon him 
 which bore a name. A belt around his waist 
 contained about fifteen hundred dollars in 
 bills and a small quantity of gold-dust. From 
 the presence of this latter they had specu 
 lated that the wounded man might be a re 
 turning Californian, yet his clothing was of 
 too fine texture and manufacture for this sup 
 position. Several persons, seeking for friends 
 lost in the disaster from which he came, had 
 vainly endeavored to identify him, and his 
 description had been given in the New York 
 papers ; but without result. There seemed, 
 upon the whole, to be no especial hope of 
 obtaining any satisfactory information regard 
 ing the sick man until he was able to furnish 
 it himself ; and to-day for the first time the 
 watcher found in his eyes the light of return-
 
 14 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 ing reason. She felt as if upon the threshold 
 of a great discovery. She smiled softly to 
 herself to think how eager she had become 
 over this mystery; to recognize how large a 
 place the stranger occupied in her thoughts ; 
 yet she could but acknowledge to herself that 
 this was an inevitable consequence of the 
 existence which surrounded her. 
 
 The life into which the wounded man had 
 been driven by the currents of the sea and 
 those stronger currents of the universe which 
 we call Fate was a sufficiently monotonous 
 one. The household into which he had 
 been received consisted of an old gentleman, 
 broken alike in health and fortune, so that 
 while the establishment over which presided 
 his only child was not one of absolute want, 
 it was often straitened by the necessity of 
 uncomfortable economies. Alone with an 
 old family servant, the father and daughter 
 lived on in the homestead which the wealth 
 of their ancestors had improved, but which 
 their present revenues were inadequate to 
 preserve in proper state. One day with them 
 was so like every other day that the differ 
 ences of the calendar seemed purely empir 
 ical, even when assisted by such diversity as 
 old Sarah, the faithful retainer, was able to 
 compass in the matter of the viands which,
 
 A STRANGE IDYL. 15 
 
 at stated periods in the week, appeared upon 
 their frugal table. 
 
 Old Mr. Dysart would have failed to per 
 ceive the justice ot the epithet " selfish " as 
 applied to himself ; yet no word so perfectly 
 described him. He was absorbed in the com 
 pilation of a complete genealogy of the entire 
 Dysart family, with all its ramifications and 
 allied branches. What became of his daugh 
 ter while he delved among musty parchments 
 in his stately old library; how the burdens of 
 the household were borne ; and how a nar 
 row income was made to cover expenses, 
 were plainly matters upon which he could 
 not be expected to waste his valuable time. 
 The maiden could scarcely have been more 
 alone upon a desert island, or in a magic 
 tower. Her days followed each other with 
 slow, monotonous flow, like the sands in an 
 hour-glass, each like the one before, and 
 each, too, like the one to follow. 
 
 Amid such a colorless waste of existence 
 the rich mystery of the wounded stranger 
 appeared doubly brilliant by contrast ; and 
 it is small wonder that to the watcher the 
 first gleam of returning intelligence in the 
 sick man s eyes was as the promise of 
 the opening of a door behind which lay an 
 enchanted palace.
 
 1 6 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 II. 
 
 IT was yet a day or two before the sick 
 man spoke. He was very weak, and lay for 
 the most part in a deathlike but health-giving 
 sleep. At length the day came when he said 
 feebly : 
 
 (i Where am I ? " 
 
 " Here," his nurse answered, with truly 
 feminine irrelevancy. 
 
 " Where ? " 
 
 " At Glencarleon." 
 
 He lay silent for some moments, evidently 
 struggling to attach some meaning to the 
 name, and to collect his strength for further 
 inquiries. 
 
 His eyes expressed his mental confusion. 
 
 " You were hurt in the steamer accident," 
 she explained. " You came ashore here, 
 and are with friends. Don t try to talk. It 
 is all right." 
 
 He was too feeble to remonstrate, too 
 feeble even to reason, and he obeyed her 
 injunction of silence without protest. She 
 retreated to her favorite scat by the window, 
 and took up her sewing ; but her revery 
 progressed more rapidly than her stitches,
 
 A STRANGE IDYL. 1 7 
 
 and when she was relieved from her post by 
 old Sarah, she stole softly out of the room 
 to continue her dreaming in an arbor over 
 looking the water, where, in pleasant weather, 
 she was wont to spend her leisure hours. 
 
 The next day, when she gave her patient 
 his morning gruel, he watched her with ques 
 tioning eyes, as if endeavoring to identify 
 her, and at last framed another inquiry. 
 
 " Who are you? " he asked. 
 
 " I am Columbine." 
 
 " Columbine? " 
 
 " Columbine Dysart." 
 
 That he knew little more than before was 
 a consequence of the situation, and Mistress 
 Columbine was wise enough to spare him the 
 necessity of saying so. 
 
 " You do not know us," she said ; " but we 
 will take good care of you until you are well 
 enough to hear all about it." 
 
 " But " he began, the puzzled look upon 
 his wan face not at all dissipated. 
 
 "No," she returned, "there is no but 
 about it. It is all right." 
 
 " But," he repeated with an insistence that 
 would not be denied, "but " 
 
 " Well? " queried she, seeing that something 
 troubled him too much to be evaded. 
 
 " But who am I ? " he demanded, so ear-
 
 1 8 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 neatly that the absurdity of such a question 
 was lost in its pathos. 
 
 "Who are you? "she echoed, in bewilder 
 ment. Then, with the instant reflection that 
 he was still too near delirium and brain-fever 
 to be allowed to trouble himself with specu 
 lations, she added, brightly, and with the air 
 of one who settles all possible doubts, " Why, 
 you are yourself, of course." 
 
 She smiled so dazzlingly as she spoke that 
 a complete faith in her assurances mingled 
 itself with some dimly felt sense of the ludi 
 crous in the sick man s mind, and although 
 the baffled look did not at once disappear 
 from his face, yet he said nothing further, 
 and not long after he fell asleep, leaving 
 Columbine free to seek her arbor again and 
 ponder on this new phase of her interesting 
 case. She attached no serious importance 
 then to the fact that her patient seemed so 
 uncertain concerning his identity; but, as the 
 days went by, and he was as completely 
 unable to answer his own query as ever, a 
 strange, baffled feeling stole over her ; a teas 
 ing sense of being brought helplessly face to 
 face with a mystery to which she had no key. 
 
 His convalescence was somewhat slow, the 
 hurts he had received having been of a very 
 serious nature ; but when he was able to leave
 
 A STRANGE IDYL. 19 
 
 his room, and even to accompany Columbine 
 to her favorite arbor, he was still grappling 
 vainly with the problem of who and what he 
 was. 
 
 This first visit to the arbor, it should be 
 noted, was an event in the quiet life at the old 
 house. Columbine was full of petty excite 
 ment over it, her fair cheeks flushed and her 
 hair disordered with running to and fro to 
 see that the cushions were in place, the sun 
 shining at the right angle, and the breeze 
 not too fresh. She insisted upon supporting 
 the sick man on one side, while faithful old 
 Sarah, her nurse in childhood, and since 
 promoted to fill at once the place of house 
 keeper and all the departed servants, took 
 his arm upon the other to help him along 
 the smoothly trodden path through the neg 
 lected garden. Mr. Dysart was as usual in 
 his library, and to disturb him there was a 
 venture requiring more daring than either of 
 the women possessed. They got on very tol 
 erably without him, however, and the patient 
 was soon installed amid a pile of wraps and 
 shawls in the summer-house, where he was 
 left in charge of Miss Dysart, while Sarah 
 returned to her household avocations. 
 
 It was a beautiful day in the beginning of 
 September, warm and golden, with all the
 
 20 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 mellowness of autumn in the air, while yet 
 the glow of summer was not wholly lost. 
 The soft sound of water on the shore was 
 heard through the chirping of innumerable 
 insects, shrilling out their delight in the heat ; 
 while now and then the notes of a bird min 
 gled pleasantly in the harmony. The con 
 valescent drew in full breaths of the sweet 
 air with a sigh of satisfaction, leaning back 
 among his cushions to look, with the pleasure 
 of returning life, over the fair scene before 
 him. 
 
 For some time nurse and patient sat silent, 
 but the girl, watching him intently, was in no 
 wise dissatisfied with the other s evident ap 
 preciation of her favorite spot. Indeed, she 
 had dreamed here of him so often that some 
 subtle clairvoyancy may have secretly put 
 him in harmony with the place before he 
 saw it. Columbine liked him for the pleas 
 ure so evident upon his handsome, wasted 
 face, while inly she was aware how great 
 would have been her disappointment had he 
 been less alive to the charms of the view. 
 
 " How lovely it is ! " he said, at length. 
 " It is, perhaps, because you liv r e in so lovely 
 a place," he added, after a trifling pause, and 
 with a faint smile, " that you are so kind to a 
 waif like myself."
 
 A STRANGE IDYL. 21 
 
 " Perhaps,", she answered, returning his 
 smile. " But, really, we only did what any 
 one would have done in our place." 
 
 " Oh, no ; and besides, few could have done 
 it so well. It is so pleasant, I seem to have 
 lived here always." 
 
 " It may be," Columbine suggested, with 
 deliberation, " that it recalls some place you 
 have known." 
 
 A shadow came over his face. 
 
 " It is a pity," he said, " that if that un 
 lucky disaster could spare me nothing of my 
 baggage, it could not at least have left me my 
 few poor wits. I might make an interesting 
 case for psychologists. They might discover 
 from me in what part of the brain the faculty 
 of memory is located, for that wretched wound 
 seems to have let mine all ooze out of my 
 cranium. I do not feel, Miss Dysart, like an 
 idiot in all respects, since I certainly know my 
 right hand from my left ; and I have found, 
 by experiment in the night-watches, that I 
 could still make myself understood in two or 
 three languages." 
 
 " You had much better have slept," inter 
 polated his listener. 
 
 " But as far as my personal history goes," 
 he continued, replying to her words by a 
 smile, " my mind is an absolute blank. I
 
 22 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 can give you several interesting pieces of 
 information concerning ancient history and 
 chronology; but I haven t the faintest idea 
 what my name is ; and you must acknowl 
 edge that it is a little hard for a man to be 
 ignorant of his own name." 
 
 " Yes," Columbine assented, bending for 
 ward and clasping her hands in front of her 
 knees. " Yes ; and it is so strange ! Try 
 and remember; you must surely recollect 
 something." 
 
 "I have tried; I do try; but I can only 
 conjure up a confused mass of shifting im 
 ages ; things I seem to have been and to have 
 done, all indistinguishably mixed with what I 
 have only dreamed or hoped to do and be." 
 
 " How strange ! ".she said again, fixing her 
 wide-open dark eyes upon him, and then 
 turning her gaze to the sea beyond ; " but it 
 will come to you in time." 
 
 " Heavens ! " he exclaimed, energetically, 
 " I hope so, else I shall regret that you pulled 
 me out of the water. To-day I do seem to 
 have a glimpse of something more tangible. 
 Since I sat here I almost thought I remem 
 bered " 
 
 He broke off suddenly, his bright look fading 
 into an expression of helpless annoyance. 
 
 " What? " cried Columbine, eagerly.
 
 A STRANGE IDYL. 23 
 
 " I cannot tell," he groaned. " It is all 
 gone." 
 
 " Oh, what a pity! " exclaimed she, spring 
 ing to her feet in a flush of sympathy and 
 baffled curiosity. " Oh, how cruel ! " 
 
 Then she remembered that she was abso 
 lutely disobeying the doctor s orders, and 
 was allowing her patient to become excited. 
 
 " There, there," she said, " how wrong of 
 me to let you worry ! Everything will come 
 back to you when you are stronger. Now 
 it is time for your luncheon. It is so warm 
 and bright you may have it here if you will 
 promise not to bother your head. For I 
 really think," she added, wisely, giving his 
 wraps a deft touch or two, " that the best 
 way to remember is not to try." 
 
 " I dare say you are right," he agreed. 
 " At least trying does n t seem to accomplish 
 much." 
 
 She flitted away, to return a moment or 
 two later with an old-fashioned salver, upon 
 which, in dainty china two or three genera 
 tions old, Sarah had arranged the invalid s 
 luncheon. She drew the rustic table up to 
 his side and served him, while he ate with 
 that mixture of eagerness and disinclination 
 which marks the appetite of one in the early 
 stages of a convalescence.
 
 24 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 "That pitcher," he observed, carelessly, as 
 she poured out the cream, " ought to belong 
 to my past. It has a familiar look, as if it 
 could claim acquaintance if it would only 
 deign." 
 
 " It was my grandmother s," Columbine 
 said. " When we were little, Cousin Tom 
 used to tease me by saying my cheeks looked 
 like those of that fat face on the handle. I 
 was more buxom then than now." 
 
 Instead of replying, her companion laid 
 down his spoon and looked at her in de 
 lighted amaze. Then he struck his hands 
 together with sudden vigor. 
 
 " Tom ! " he cried. " Tom ! " 
 
 "Well?" queried she, looking at him as if 
 he had gone distraught. " It isn t so strange 
 a name, is it ? " 
 
 "But, don t you see?" he exclaimed, 
 joyously, "I m Tom! I have found my- 
 name ! " 
 
 III. 
 
 THE rest of Tom s name, however, re 
 mained as profoundly and as provokingly 
 concealed in the wounded convolutions of 
 his brain as ever. Columbine called him Mr. 
 Tom, and it is not unlikely that the famil-
 
 A STRANGE IDYL. 2$ 
 
 iarity of the monosyllable, which seemed to 
 place them at once upon an intimate footing, 
 had a strong influence upon their relations. 
 The maiden had a crisp way of pronouncing 
 the name, as if she were half conscious of a 
 spice of impropriety in a term so familiar, 
 and felt it, too, to be something of a joke, 
 which was so wholly fascinating that the pa 
 tient did not have to be very far advanced 
 toward his normal condition of health and 
 spirits to enjoy it so well as to reflect that 
 the name so rendered ought to be enough 
 for any man. 
 
 Mr. Tom soon began to gather up a few 
 stray bits from his childhood, his memory 
 apparently returning to its former state by 
 the same slow road it had travelled from his 
 birth to reach it. 
 
 " I remember a few beginnings," he had 
 said, hopefully, on the day following that of 
 his first visit to the arbor. " I had a carved 
 coral of a most luscious pink color. It is 
 even now vaguely connected in my mind 
 with the idea of eating; so I infer that I 
 must have cherished a fond delusion that it 
 was good to eat." 
 
 " It is at least good to remember," Colum 
 bine returned, laughing. " It would n t be a 
 bad idea to open an account of things re-
 
 26 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 covered from the sea of the past. You can 
 begin by putting down: Item, one coral." 
 
 " Yes ; and one nurse. I distinctly recall 
 the nurse. She had a large mole on her 
 chin. Yes ; I can certainly swear to the 
 nurse." 
 
 He was in excellent spirits to-day. The 
 dawning of recollection gave promise of 
 the restoration of complete remembrance; 
 the day was enchanting; his appetite and his 
 luncheon came to a wonderfully good agree 
 ment, while a prettier serving-maid than Miss 
 Dysart could hardly be found. 
 
 " It must be very like being a child again," 
 she observed, thoughtfully ; " and that is a 
 thing, you know, for which the poets are 
 always sighing." 
 
 " You will have the advantage of growing 
 up with me," was his gay retort, " if this 
 process continues. Only you ll have the ad 
 vantage of superior age." 
 
 After that he told her each morning what 
 he had been able to recover from forgetful- 
 ness since the previous day. It is difficult 
 to imagine the strangeness of this relation. 
 It possessed all the piquancy of fiction to 
 which its ingenious author added new inci 
 dents from day to day ; yet it had, too, the 
 strong attractiveness of truth and personal
 
 A STRANGE IDYL. 2/ 
 
 interest. Columbine listened and commented, 
 deeply engrossed and fascinated by the novel 
 experience which gave her an acquaintance 
 with the entire past life of her stranger guest, 
 yet an acquaintance which was etherealized 
 and marked by a certain charm not to be 
 found in actual companionship. Had she 
 really shared the childhood thus narrated to 
 her it would have been in no way remark 
 able ; but now she seemed to live it herself, 
 with a vitality and interest more vivid each 
 day. Often the freakish faculty, upon whose 
 vigor depended the continuity of Mr. Tom s 
 narration, would for days concern itself with 
 the veriest trifles, advancing the essentials 
 of the story not a whit ; or, again, it \vould 
 seem to turn perversely backward, although 
 no efforts availed to speed it forward. 
 
 The main facts of Mr. Tom s story, so far 
 as they were gathered up in the first week of 
 this odd story-telling, were as follows: He 
 made his acquaintance with the world doubly 
 orphaned, his father being lost at sea upon 
 a return voyage from India before the boy s 
 birth, and his mother dying in childbed. 
 Reflecting upon what he was able to recall, 
 Tom concluded that his parents were persons 
 of wealth. His surroundings had at least 
 been luxurious. The truth was, as he came,
 
 28 A BOOK a NINE TALES. 
 
 in time, to remember, that, being left without 
 near relatives, he had been, by his guardian, 
 confided to the care of trusty people, who 
 spoiled and adored him until he was trans 
 ferred to boarding-school. 
 
 " I have grown to be a dozen years old," 
 Tom remarked to Miss Dysart one afternoon 
 as they sat in the arbor, she sewing, and he 
 idly pulling to pieces a purple aster. " I 
 have even conducted myself to boarding- 
 school, and I cannot conceive why I can t 
 get hold of my family name. I must have 
 been called by it sometimes. I remember 
 being dubbed Tom, Tommy, Thomas, that 
 was when I was stubborn ; Tom Titmouse 
 that was by nurse; Tom Tattamus that by 
 the particularly odious small boy next door; 
 but beyond that I might as well never have 
 had a name at all. My trunks, I know, were 
 marked with a big W, but all the names be 
 ginning with that letter that I can hit upon 
 seem equally strange to me. I do not see 
 why, of all things, it is precisely that which 
 I cannot remember." 
 
 " It is because you worry about it," his 
 companion suggested; "probably that par 
 ticular spot in your brain where your name 
 is lodged is kept irritated by your impa 
 tience."
 
 A STRANGE IDYL 29 
 
 " Heavens ! " laughed he. " How psycho 
 logic and physiological you are ! Well, if 
 I Ve no name, I can invent one, I suppose." 
 
 " Or make one. Do you realize what a 
 fascinating position you are in? Common 
 mortals have only the consolation of specu 
 lating about their future ; but you can also 
 amuse yourself with boundless speculations 
 concerning your past. You are relieved from 
 all responsibility " 
 
 " Oh, no," he interrupted ; " that is the 
 worst of it. I have responsibilities without 
 knowing what they are. The past holds me 
 like a giant from behind, and I cannot even 
 see my captor." 
 
 " Oh, you look at it all too seriously ! " 
 Columbine returned. " You can fashion your 
 past, as we all do our futures, just as you like. 
 I think you are decidedly to be envied." 
 
 " Envied ! " 
 
 The bitterness of the exclamation brought 
 to her a sudden realization of the difference 
 of their points of view, and revealed how 
 deep was the man s humiliation at his help 
 less position. A quick flush of pity and sym 
 pathy mantled her cheek. 
 
 "Forgive me," she exclaimed, impulsively. 
 " I had no right to be so thoughtless. I 
 beg your pardon."
 
 30 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 " There is no occasion. You are right. It 
 is certainly better to laugh than to cry over 
 the inevitable, especially as things are right 
 ing themselves. But we, or, rather, I, must 
 go into the house. It is growing cool." 
 
 IV. 
 
 LlFE at the old Dysart place went forward 
 in a slow and decorous fashion, little allied 
 to the bustling manners of the present day. 
 Mr. Dysart was getting now to be an old 
 man, albeit it is doubtful if in any abundant 
 sense he can ever have been a young one. 
 In any case he had, by long burrowing among 
 musty records and genealogical parchments, 
 acquired a dry and antique appearance, as, 
 to use a somewhat presumptuous yet not in 
 exact metaphor, certain scholarly worms had 
 taken on a brown hue from continued dining 
 on the bindings of his venerable folios. He 
 inhabited a remote and essentially unworldly 
 sphere, from which the existence of his 
 daughter was wholly separate. He was con 
 scious of her presence in an unrealizing 
 way; was even aware that just now she had 
 in the house a guest who had come ashore 
 from a wreck. But that was the affair of
 
 A STRANGE IDYL, 31 
 
 Columbine and old Sarah; he could not of 
 course be expected to loosen his hold upon 
 the clew which he hoped would lead him to 
 the exact connection between the Dysarts 
 and the Van Rensselaers of two generations 
 back, to pay attention to a chance waif from 
 that outer world with which he had never 
 considered it worth his while to concern 
 himself. 
 
 As far as Mr. Tom was concerned, Mr. 
 Dysart might as well not have existed. They 
 did once meet in the passage before the 
 study door when the invalid in his first days 
 of walking was one rainy morning wandering 
 restlessly about the halls ; but the owner of 
 the house hurried furtively past, as if he were 
 the interloper and the other lord of the 
 manor; and even when the convalescent was 
 well enough to join the family at table, Mr. 
 Dysart was very seldom there, so that the 
 meals were for the most part taken tete-a-tete 
 by Columbine and her patient. 
 
 The result of such a situation is evident 
 from the beginning. Exceptional natures 
 might be imagined, perhaps, that would not 
 have grown dangerously interested in each 
 other under such circumstances; but at least 
 these two drew every day closer together. 
 Neither had any tie belonging to the past;
 
 32 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 or, more exactly, Columbine had none, and 
 he, for the time being, at least, had no past. 
 His helplessness and the mystery enshroud 
 ing him would have appealed to the heart of 
 any woman, and Columbine had no distrac 
 tions to fill her life and crowd out this ever- 
 deepening interest. Of Mr. Tom, her beauty 
 and freshness, her simplicity, which \vas so 
 far removed from insipidity, her innocence, 
 which never suggested ignorance, won the re 
 spect and admiration long before he was con 
 scious that love, too, was growing in his heart. 
 
 There came a day, however, when he could 
 no longer be ignorant of the nature of his 
 feelings. 
 
 The two had gone past the arbor and down 
 to the shore. Columbine was seated upon a 
 rock, while Tom lay at her feet, idly tossing 
 pebbles into a pool left among the sea-weed 
 by the ebbing tide. The maiden wore that 
 day a dress of gray flannel, almost the color 
 of the stone upon which she sat, trimmed 
 with a velvet of orange which no complexion 
 less brilliant than hers could have endured. 
 She twisted in her fingers a spray of golden- 
 rod, yellow-coated harbinger of autumn. 
 
 " The summer is gone," Columbine re 
 marked, pensively. " It is getting late even 
 for golden-rod."
 
 A STRANGE IDYL. 33 
 
 " Yes," he echoed, " the summer is gone. 
 I lost so much of it I hardly realize " 
 
 lie broke off suddenly, a new thought seiz 
 ing him. 
 
 " Why ! " he exclaimed, " how long I have 
 been here ! I ought to have taken myself oft" 
 your hands long ago. How you must think 
 I abuse your hospitality ! " 
 
 "Nonsense!" she returned, brightly ; "you 
 of course cannot go until you are well. It 
 is necessary that you at least conjure from 
 the past the rest of your name before you 
 start out into the world again. Make your 
 self as comfortable as you can, Mr. Tom ; 
 you won t be let loose for a long time to 
 come yet." 
 
 Despite the lightness of her manner her 
 companion fancied he detected a shade of 
 some hitherto unnoted feeling in her words; 
 but whether dread of his departure or desire 
 to be rid of him he could not divine. The 
 latter thought struck him with a sudden chill. 
 The love which had been fostered in his mind 
 by this close and intimate companionship 
 was not unmixed at this moment with a fear 
 of being thrown upon his own resources while 
 ignorant alike of his place and his name. He 
 clung strongly to Columbine as to one who 
 understood and sympathized with his strange 
 3
 
 34 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 mental weakness. The color flamed into his 
 pale cheeks with a sudden throb of intense 
 emotion ; then faded, to leave him whiter 
 than ever. 
 
 " Besides," Columbine continued, after a 
 moment s pause, her glance still downcast, 
 "why shouldn t you stay? Your being here 
 make no difference to papa; he smokes and 
 grubs after the roots of his ancestral tree the 
 same as ever; and as for me," lifting her 
 eyes with a sudden smile that showed all her 
 dimples, " you know how much you amuse 
 me. You are as good as a continued story, 
 and are alive, too, the last being a good 
 deal in this desert." 
 
 He returned her smile with effort. His 
 moment of intense feeling had so overpow 
 ered him that he felt weak and faint. 
 
 " How white you are ! " she exclaimed, 
 noting the wanness of his face ; " you should 
 have had your bouillon long ago. A pretty 
 condition you are in to go roaming off by 
 yourself ! " 
 
 She tripped lightly off towards the house 
 for the forgotten nourishment, and Mr. Tom 
 was left to his reflections. He raised himself, 
 as her graceful figure vanished, then sank 
 back upon his rug with something like a 
 groan. All in an instant the knowledge had
 
 A STRANGE IDYL. 35 
 
 come to him that he loved her. He had gone 
 on from day to day conscious only of thinking 
 of his own history, which, bit by bit, -he was 
 disinterring from the past, as men bring to 
 light some buried city, and insensibly Col 
 umbine had become dear to him before he 
 was aware. 
 
 He buried his face in his hands in a despair 
 which was in part the result of his strange 
 mental confusion ; in part arose from his phy 
 sical weakness. He did not reflect then that 
 his case was not necessarily hopeless ; that 
 nothing in his life which remembrance had 
 recovered need raise a barrier between him 
 self and Columbine. Afterward this thought 
 came to him and brought comfort; now he 
 was overwhelmed by a sense of impotent mis 
 ery. Helpless in the hand of fate, it seemed 
 to him that this love, of which he was newly 
 aware, was but a fresh device of malignant 
 destiny. He did not even consider whether 
 his affection might be returned ; he only felt 
 the impossibility of offering his broken life to 
 Columbine, of binding her to a past that 
 was uncertain and a future that was insecure. 
 
 Tears of weakness, and scorn of that weak 
 ness, came into his eyes. Their traces were 
 still visible when Columbine returned. 
 
 " Come," she said, ignoring the signs of
 
 36 A BOOK a NINE TALES. 
 
 his agitation, " you have told me nothing on 
 the story to-day. Just down there," indicat 
 ing by a pretty sweep of the hand a little 
 pebbly cove lying just below them, " is where 
 Sarah and I found you." 
 
 " And I would to God," cried poor Tom 
 with sudden fierceness, "that you had left me 
 there." 
 
 Columbine made, for the moment, no reply 
 to this outburst. She insisted upon his drink 
 ing his bouillon, despite his protests of disin 
 clination, and then brought him back to the 
 tale of his life. 
 
 . "There is an air of improbability about 
 my story," he said, after a little musing. 
 " Indeed, so much so that I myself begin to 
 doubt the truth of it. In the first place it 
 seems particularly arranged to baffle inquiry. 
 Whenever I recall a person to whom I might 
 send for verification or information, I straight 
 way remember that he is dead, or that my 
 wanderings have carried me beyond his 
 knowledge. I am apparently as far as ever 
 from knowing who I am or what I am. And, 
 besides, suppose your beautiful theory, that 
 my memory acts as it does because the im 
 pressions of youth are strongest, is not true? 
 You put me in the same category with those 
 whose memory is weakened by age ; but this
 
 A STRANGE IDYL. 37 
 
 may be all moonshine. Perhaps this history, 
 to which I am painfully adding every day, is 
 something I have read, and only a fiction 
 after all." 
 
 " But why suppose so many tormenting 
 things? " returned Columbine, brightly. "The 
 fault of the age, they say, we know very 
 little of it here, but cousin Tom sends me a 
 paper occasionally, is unrest; and whoever 
 you are, a little tranquillity will scarcely be 
 likely to harm you. Go on with the life and 
 adventures, and never mind now whether 
 they are true or not. At least they are in 
 teresting. You broke off yesterday in a most 
 exciting account of a tiger hunt." 
 
 "Ah, yes; I got the rest of it together 
 this morning. Where did I leave off ? Had 
 we reached the second jungle? " 
 
 V. 
 
 TlIE salt meadows were on fire. The pun 
 gent odor of burning peat and saline grasses 
 floated over the Dysart place and about the 
 arbor one October morning when Tom sat 
 there meditating. He was thinking of Col 
 umbine, and of his passion for her. His 
 health now seemed firmly re-establishing it 
 self, and his memory had gone on over the
 
 38 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 old track of his life in its singular method of 
 progression until he felt confident that he 
 should ultimately be in possession of all his 
 past. He reviewed what he remembered, as 
 he sat this morning inhaling the aromatic 
 scent of the burning lowlands, and the result 
 was not unsatisfactory. He had recovered 
 from oblivion his life up to the time, three 
 years before, when he took passage home 
 from India, and his financial affairs at that 
 period were in an eminently satisfactory posi 
 tion. He recalled that he had been regarded 
 on shipboard as a person of more conse 
 quence than the British officer who, with his 
 daughter, occupied the cabin of the India- 
 man with him ; and he trusted that no un 
 toward circumstances of the interval had 
 placed him in a condition less desirable. 
 
 He had reconciled himself to remaining at 
 the Dysart mansion by turning over to old 
 Sarah a goodly portion of the money con 
 tained in his travelling-belt, and blessed him 
 self that his wandering life had led him to 
 form the habit of always going thus provided. 
 He sat now waiting for Columbine to appear, 
 and fondly picturing to himself the delight 
 of telling his love when the time came that he 
 dare speak. Each day increased his attach 
 ment, and he believed, as every lover will,
 
 A STRANGE IDYL. 39 
 
 that his love was returned. A smile of 
 brooding contentment, so deep that even the 
 impatience of his passion could not disturb 
 it, dwelt upon his face as he inhaled the fra 
 grant odors from the burning marshes, and 
 listened for the step of the maiden he loved. 
 
 She came at last, moving along the garden 
 paths between the faded shrubs, a gracious 
 and winning figure. She was dressed that 
 morning in a gown of russet wool, with a 
 bunch of gold and crimson leaves at her 
 throat, and never, in Tom s eyes, had she 
 looked so lovely. 
 
 " I should n t have been so late in getting 
 here," she said, as she took her accustomed 
 seat, " but Sarah is greatly concerned about 
 the fire in the salt marshes. She says it is 
 thirty years since they burnt over, and she 
 presages all sorts of dire calamities from that 
 fact." 
 
 "That they haven t burnt over for thirty 
 years? " 
 
 " Well," Columbine returned with a pout, 
 " she is not at all clear what she does mean, 
 so it is n t to be expected that I shall be. 
 We will go on with the life and adventures, 
 if you please." 
 
 " But suppose I have n t remembered any 
 thing more?"
 
 40 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 "Nonsense," retorted pretty Columbine; 
 "you never really remember. I am con 
 vinced that you make it all up as you go 
 along; but you tell it so seriously that it 
 might as well be true. And in any case it 
 does credit to your powers of imagination." 
 
 His story now was of his voyage from 
 Calcutta. He told of moonlight nights in 
 the Indian ocean, of long days of sunny 
 idling on deck, and all the pleasant details 
 of a prosperous voyage over Southern seas. 
 
 " Miss Grant was n t very pretty," he ob 
 served, lying lazily back and looking up into 
 the blue October sky, " at least not as I re 
 member her ; but she was very good com 
 pany, only a little given to sentimentalizing. 
 She had a guitar, and I will confess I did 
 hate to see that guitar come out." 
 
 " She would be pleased if she could hear 
 you," laughed Columbine. " What was there 
 so frightful about her guitar?" 
 
 " Oh, when she had that she always sang 
 moony songs, and after that " 
 
 "Well?" demanded Miss Dysart, mischiev 
 ously. 
 
 " Oh, after that," he returned, with an im 
 patient shake of his shoulders, " she was sure 
 to talk sentiment." 
 
 His companion laughed merrily. The
 
 A STRANGE IDYL. 41 
 
 faint, almost unconscious feeling of jealousy 
 which had risen at the mention of this en 
 gaging young lady had vanished entirely in 
 the indifference with which Mr. Tom spoke 
 of her. She moved her head with a happy 
 little motion not unlike that with which a 
 bird plumes itself. Her soft, low laugh did 
 not really end, but lost itself among the 
 dimples of her cheeks. 
 
 Tom regarded her with shining eyes. 
 
 " Not that I should mind some people s 
 talking sentiment," he said with a smile. 
 
 She raised her laughing gaze to his, and, 
 as their eyes met, the meaning of the look 
 in his was too plain to be mistaken. She 
 flushed and paled, dropping her gaze from 
 his. 
 
 "And did nothing especial happen on the 
 voyage?" she asked, with a strong effort to 
 regain her careless manner. 
 
 " Not that I recall," he answered, putting 
 his hand beside hers upon the rustic table so 
 that their fingers almost touched. 
 
 A moment of silence followed, broken only 
 by the chirping of a few belated crickets, 
 that, despite the advancement of the season, 
 had not yet discontinued their autumnal con 
 certs. The two, so quiet outwardly, sat with 
 beating hearts, when suddenly a wandering
 
 42 A BOOK a NINE TALES. 
 
 breeze brought into the summer-house a puff 
 of smoke from the burning salt meadows. It 
 was laden with the fetid odor of consuming 
 animal matter, and so powerful was it that 
 both involuntarily turned away their heads. 
 
 " Bah ! " Columbine cried. " How horri 
 ble ! There must be a dead animal of some 
 sort there that the fire has reached." 
 
 She stopped speaking and gazed with sur 
 prise at Tom, who had buried his face in his 
 hands with a groan. 
 
 "What is it? Has it made you ill? It is 
 gone now." 
 
 He lifted a face white with emotion. 
 
 "No," he said, "it has not made me ill, 
 physically, that is ; but it has done worse, it 
 has made me remember." 
 
 " Ah ! " she exclaimed. " What is it? is it 
 so terrible? " 
 
 She leaned toward him, and to poor Tom 
 she looked the incarnation of enticing loveli 
 ness. Sympathy and interest not unmixed, 
 she being a woman, with curiosity sparkled 
 in her eyes, yet he nerved himself to tell her 
 all that had come back to him. 
 
 " That smell of burning hide," he began, 
 " brought it all up in a flash. The ship got 
 on fire; Miss Grant clung to me; there was 
 just such an odor leaking out around the
 
 A STRANGE IDYL. 43 
 
 hatches from the hold where the flames were 
 at the cargo; she I when everything else 
 was right, when the fire was out, I was all 
 wrong." 
 
 " I do not understand," Columbine said. 
 
 She drew away from him, her cheeks pale, 
 her very Tips wan. She did not meet his 
 gaze, but sat with downcast eyes. 
 
 " I was engaged to Miss Grant. I did not 
 pretend to love her, but I thought we were 
 all bound for the bottom, and" 
 
 He stopped helplessly; her eyes flashed 
 upon him. 
 
 " And if a lie would soothe her last mo 
 ments," she said, bitterly, " you No, no ; I 
 beg your pardon." 
 
 " I remember more," he went on, wrench 
 ing each word out as if by a strong effort of 
 will. " The shock, and, perhaps, previous 
 seeds of disease, were too much for her 
 father; he died the day before we landed. 
 She was alone in the world, she had no 
 protector, and I I married her at once, to 
 protect her." 
 
 A sparrow flew up into the lattice outside 
 the arbor without noticing the pair within, 
 so dead was the stillness which now fell upon 
 them. At length Columbine rose and stood 
 an instant by the table which had been be-
 
 44 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 tween them. She wavered an instant, then 
 stooped and kissed him upon the forehead. 
 Then without a word she turned from the 
 arbor and fled swiftly to the house. 
 
 VI. 
 
 LEFT alone in the summer-house Tom s 
 first feeling was a great throb of joy; but 
 it gave place almost instantly to an aching 
 pang of misery. To be assured of Colum 
 bine s love would have been intense happi 
 ness an hour before ; now it could only add 
 to his pain. He raged against the toils in 
 which fate had entangled him, yet defiance 
 to helplessness and every paroxysm of rage 
 at destiny ended in a new and humiliating 
 consciousness of his own impotence. He felt 
 like one who walked blindfolded, with light 
 granted him, not to avoid missteps, but merely 
 to see them after they were taken. 
 
 One thing at least was clear to Tom,- that 
 he must leave the Dysart mansion. To go 
 on seeing Columbine day after day, with the 
 knowledge at once of their love and of the 
 barrier that stood between them, was a posi 
 tion too painful and too anomalous to be 
 endured. Both for his own sake and for Miss
 
 A STRANGE IDYL. 45 
 
 Dysart s it was necessary that he delay no 
 longer. Where he was going he was not at 
 all clear; that he left to circumstances to 
 decide. He quitted the arbor and walked 
 toward the house, so intent upon his painful 
 thoughts that at a turning of the path he 
 ran plump against old Sarah, who was hurry 
 ing along with a face full of anxiety. 
 
 " Oh, mercy gracious, Mr. Thomas ! " the 
 faithful creature cried; " I m sure I beg your 
 pardon ! But you look as if you d seen a 
 ghost ! " 
 
 " So I have/ he answered. " Where are 
 you going with that spade? 
 
 " To the salt meadows," she answered. 
 " The fire s sure to come into the lower 
 garden if we don t ditch it, and if it docs, 
 there 11 be no stopping it from the house." 
 
 "What!" exclaimed Tom. "Where are 
 the men? " 
 
 " There ain t no men," old Sarah returned, 
 philosophically. " Why should there be?" 
 
 " But you arc not going down to ditch 
 alone?" 
 
 " D I be likely to stop in-doors and let 
 the house where I ve lived fifty years burn 
 over my head?" demanded she, grimly. 
 
 " Give me the spade," was his reply. "A 
 little work will do me
 
 46 A BOOK O NINE TALE. 
 
 Old Sarah remonstrated, but it ended in 
 the strangely matched pair going together 
 to the meadows below. 
 
 The dry sphagnum was readily cut through 
 with the spade, and it was not a difficult, 
 although a slow task, to dig a wide, shallow 
 trench between the stretch of burning moss 
 and the gardens. Once the ditch was com 
 plete, it would be easy to fight the fire on the 
 home side, since there was nothing ,swift or 
 fierce about the conflagration, it being rather 
 a sullen, relentless smouldering of the moss 
 and grass-roots, dry from the long drought. 
 
 Zealously as the two labored, the fire gained 
 upon them, and as they worked, they could 
 not but cast despairing glances at the long 
 stretch of garden which lay still unprotected. 
 
 Meanwhile Columbine from her window 
 had seen the laborers, and, in a moment real 
 izing the danger, she flew to the library. 
 
 "Father," she cried, "the salt marshes 
 have been burning all day, and the fire is 
 almost up to the garden." 
 
 " Good heavens, Columbine, how impetu 
 ous you are ! You have quite driven out of 
 my head what became of the second son 
 of" 
 
 " But, father," she interrupted, impatiently, 
 " do you realize that if you sit here pother-
 
 A STRANGE IDYL. 47 
 
 ing about second sons the house may be 
 burned over our heads?" 
 
 " Burned ! " exclaimed the genealogist, in 
 dismay ; " and all my papers scattered about ! 
 Oh, help me, Columbine, to pack up my 
 notes ; but don t take up anything without 
 asking me where it goes. Do you think that 
 iron-bound trunk will hold them all?" 
 
 Fearing to trust herself to reply, Columbine 
 darted from the library, leaving her father to 
 the half-frenzied collection of his papers, and 
 betook herself to the salt meadows, where, 
 grimed with smoke, Tom and the old serv 
 ing woman were sturdily laboring. The pun 
 gent smoke eddied about them, and already 
 old Sarah s gown showed marks of having 
 been on fire in a dozen places. Columbine 
 stood upon the descending path a moment 
 and regarded them ; then, with a step which 
 bespoke determination, she went on and 
 joined them. 
 
 " Go back ! " shouted Tom, hoarsely, as 
 she approached; "don t you see how the 
 sparks are flying about? You ll be a-fire 
 before you know it." 
 
 And, indeed, the fire was becoming % more 
 active as it crept nearer to the edges of the 
 meadows, where the grass was taller. The 
 word of warning had hardly left Tom s lips
 
 48 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 before she found her dress burning, and 
 while, being of wool, it was easily extin 
 guished, Tom found in it an excuse for tak 
 ing her in his arms to smother the flame. 
 
 " Go back to the house, he said, in a voice 
 which was full of feeling, yet which it would 
 have been impossible to disobey. " We shall 
 save the place ; but I cannot work while you 
 arc in danger." 
 
 "And you?" she demanded, clasping her 
 hands upon his arm. 
 
 " Nonsense ! there is no danger for me," 
 he returned, smiling tenderly. " Don t think 
 of me." 
 
 It was not until late in the night that the 
 contest against the fire was concluded. Tom 
 worked with an energy in which desperation 
 had a large place, while old Sarah, with the 
 pathetic fidelity of an animal, labored by his 
 side, indefatigable and unmurmuring. Faint 
 
 O c!> 
 
 streaks of light had begun to show in the 
 east when Tom flung down the spade, upon 
 which he had been leaning, for a last close 
 scrutiny. 
 
 " It is all right no\v, he said ; " there can t 
 possibly be any fire left on this side of the 
 marshes. It was lucky for us that the tide 
 rose into the lower part of the trench." 
 
 Undemonstratively, as she had worked, old
 
 A STRANGE IDYL 49 
 
 Sarah gathered herself together, grimy, stoop 
 ing, quivering with weariness and hunger, and 
 crept back to the house they had saved ; 
 while Tom, with tired step, climbed the path 
 and took his way past the summer-house 
 toward the other side of the mansion. As he 
 passed the arbor something stirred within. 
 
 "Columbine! " he said, in surprise, recog 
 nizing by some instinct that it was she. 
 "Why, Columbine, what are you here for? 
 You will be chilled to death." 
 
 " You sent me away," returned the girl, 
 with a trace of dogged protest in her voice. 
 " You would n t let me help." 
 
 " I should hope not," laughed Tom, nerv 
 ously, taking off his hat and passing his hand 
 through his hair, from which odors of smoke 
 flowed as he stirred it. " You were hardly 
 made to fight fire." 
 
 " No/ she answered, with sudden and sig 
 nificant vehemence, " I was not made to fight 
 fire." 
 
 He moved uneasily where he stood in the 
 darkness ; then he took a stride forward and 
 sat down beside her. The}- were silent a mo 
 ment, his eyes fixed upon the first far sign of 
 dawn, while hers searched the gloom for his 
 features. 
 
 " Columbine," he began, at length, in a 
 4
 
 50 A BOOK a NINE TALES. 
 
 voice of strange softness, " it would have been 
 better for us both if I had never come here." 
 
 " No, no," was her eager reply; " I cannot 
 have you say that. You have put savor into 
 my life that was so vapid before." 
 
 "But a bitter savor," he said. 
 
 " Bitter, yes," Columbine returned in a 
 voice which, though low and restrained, be 
 trayed the fierceness of her excitement. 
 " Bitter as death ; but sweet too, sweet as 
 
 She left the sentence unfinished. Below 
 on the shore the full tide was lapping the 
 stones with monotonous melody. Save for 
 their iterance, the stillness was almost as 
 deep as the marvellous silence of a winter 
 night which no sound of living thing breaks. 
 
 " Whatever comes," Columbine murmured 
 a moment later, her voice changed and soft 
 ened so that he had to bend to catch her 
 words, " I am glad of all that has happened ; 
 glad of you ; glad, always glad." 
 
 He caught her passionately in his arms 
 and covered her downcast head with kisses, 
 while she yielded unresistingly to his em 
 brace, although she sobbed as if her heart 
 would break. In the east the promise of the 
 dawn shone steadily, increasing slowly but 
 surely. It became at last so strong that 
 Columbine, opening her swollen lids, was
 
 A STRANGE IDYL. 51 
 
 able to distinguish objects a little. At that 
 moment she became conscious that the arms 
 of her lover had loosened their hold upon 
 her. She looked into his face with sudden 
 alarm. Mr. Tom had fallen into a dead faint. 
 
 VII. 
 
 THE afternoon sun was shining into Tom s 
 chamber windows when he awoke. Ten hours 
 of heavy sleep had had a wonderfully revig- 
 orating effect upon him, and despite some 
 stiffness he awoke with a sense of renewed 
 power. His repose had, too, a far more re 
 markable effect than this. Before his eyes 
 were open he said aloud, as if he \vere sol 
 emnly summoning some culprit before the 
 bar of an awful tribunal : 
 
 " Thomas Wainwright! " 
 
 The sound of his own words acted upon 
 him like an electric shock. He started up 
 in bed, wide awake, his eyes shining, his 
 whole manner alert, joyous, and confident. 
 He was nameless no longer. Treacherous 
 memory had yielded up its tenaciously kept 
 secret, and at last he emerged from the shad 
 owy company of the nameless to be again a 
 man among men.
 
 52 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 He sprang from his couch and made his 
 toilet with impatient eagerness. As he 
 dressed he remembered everything in an in 
 stant. That baffling mystery of his family 
 name seemed the key to all the secrets of 
 his past, and, having yielded up this prime- 
 fact, his memory made no further resistance. 
 His whole life lay before him, no longer la 
 boriously traced out, bit by bit, but unrolled 
 as a map, visible at a single coup d &il. 
 
 Little that he recalled was of a nature to 
 change the conclusions he had formed of his 
 circumstances, except the single fact that his 
 wife had not outlived her honeymoon. The 
 shock of her father s death, and, perhaps, 
 some seeds of malaria contracted in India, 
 had proved too much for her delicate consti 
 tution, and Tom, eagerly reviewing his newly 
 recovered past, felt a pang of unselfish sor 
 row for the unloved bride who had for so 
 short a time borne his name, that name which 
 he now kept saying over to himself, as if he 
 feared he might again forget it. 
 
 He hurried downstairs, and in the old- 
 fashioned hall, stately with its wainscoting 
 and antique carved furniture, he met Colum 
 bine coming towards him. Like his, her eyes 
 shone with a new light, her lips were parted 
 with excitement, and her step was eager.
 
 A STRANGE IDYL. 53 
 
 " Good-morning, Mr. Wainwright," she 
 fluted in a voice high with excitement and 
 joyousness. " I heard your step, and could 
 not wait for you to get to the parlor." 
 
 " Good heavens ! " cried he, stopping short 
 in amazement. " How die! you know? Are 
 you a witch? " 
 
 " No," she laughed, pleasure and excite 
 ment mingling rather dangerously in her 
 mood. "Nothing of the sort, I assure you; 
 though one of my ancestors was tried for 
 witchcraft at Salem. Cousin Tom sent me 
 this advertisement, and I knew at once that 
 it must be you." 
 
 The advertisement she showed him was cut 
 from a New York paper, and called, with a 
 detailed description of the personal appear 
 ance of the missing man, for tidings of one 
 Thomas Wainwright, of Baltimore, supposed 
 to have perished in the wreck of the Sound 
 steamer, and whose large estate was un 
 settled. Tom read it over with mingled 
 feelings. 
 
 " Bah ! " he said. " When I get home I 
 shall only have to look over a file of the 
 daily papers to read my obituary. Fortu 
 nately I have been back from India so few 
 years that they cannot say a great deal about 
 me."
 
 54 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 " De mortnis" returned Columbine, smil 
 ing. " They will only say good of you. I 
 congratulate you on having found your 
 name." 
 
 " I had it before you told me," he said. 
 
 He took her hands in his and looked at 
 her tenderly. 
 
 " I have all my past, too," he went on. " I 
 am free ; I have nothing to hide ; nothing 
 stands between us. Will you be my wife, 
 Columbine? " 
 
 She grew pale as ashes ; then flushed celes 
 tial red ; but her eyes did not flinch. 
 
 " I trust you utterly," she answered him. 
 " And I love you no less."
 
 AN EPISODE IN MASK.
 
 AN EPISODE IN MASK. 
 
 \_Scene: A balcony opening by a wide, curtained 
 window from a ball-room in which a masquerade is 
 in progress. Two maskers, the lady dressed as a 
 peasant girl of Britany and her companion as a 
 brigand, come out. The curtains fall behind tJiem 
 so that they are hidden from those within.~\ 
 
 He. You waltz divinely, mademoiselle. 
 
 She. Thank you. So I have been told before, 
 but I find that it depends entirely upon my 
 partner. 
 
 He. You flatter me. Will you sit down? 
 
 She. Thank you. How glad one is when a ball 
 is over. It is almost worth enduring it all, just to 
 experience the relief of getting through with it. 
 
 He. What a world-weary sentiment for one so 
 young and doubtless so fair. 
 
 She. Oh, everybody is young in a mask, and by 
 benefit of the same doubt, I suppose, everybody is 
 fair as well. 
 
 He. It were easy in the present case to settle 
 all doubts by dropping the mask. 
 
 She. No, thank you. The doubt does not 
 trouble me, so why should I take pain s to dispel 
 it ? Say I am five hundred ; I feel it.
 
 58 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 He. What indifference ; and in one who waltzes 
 so well, too. Will you not give me another turn? 
 
 She. Pardon me. I am tired. 
 
 He. And you can resist music with such a sound 
 of the sea in it? 
 
 She. It is not melancholy enough for the sea. 
 
 He. Is the sea so solemn to you, then? 
 
 She. Inexpressibly. It is just that solemn. 
 It is too sad for anger, and too great and grave for 
 repining ; it is as awful as fate. 
 
 He. I confess it never struck me so. 
 
 She. It did not me always. It was while I was 
 in Britany where I got this peasant dress; isn t 
 it quaint ? that I learned to know the sea. It 
 judged me ; it reiterated one burden over and over 
 until it seemed to me that I should go mad ; yet 
 at the same time its calmness gave me self-control. 
 If there had been the slightest trace of anger or 
 relenting in its accusations, I could have turned 
 away easily enough, and shaken its influence all 
 off. But it was like an awful tribunal before which 
 I had to stand silent, and review my past as inter 
 preted by inexorable justice, with no palliations, 
 no shams, nothing but honest truth. But why 
 should I say all this rigmarole to you? You must 
 be amused, if you are not too much bored, that is. 
 
 He. On the contrary, I thank you very much. 
 
 She. For what? 
 
 He. First, for your confidence in me ; and sec 
 ond, for telling me an experience so like my own.
 
 AN EPISODE IN MASK. 59 
 
 It was not the sea, but circumstances that deliv 
 ered me over to myself, a long, slow convales 
 cence, in which I, too, had an interview with 
 the Nemesis of truth-, and found a carefully built 
 structure of shams and self-deception go down as 
 mist before the sun. The most frightful being 
 in the world to encounter is one s estranged better 
 self. 
 
 She. That is true. No one but myself could 
 have persuaded me that it was I who was to blame. 
 The more I w r as argued with, the more I believed 
 myself a martyr, and my husband 
 
 He. Your husband ? 
 
 She. I have betrayed myself. I am not mad 
 emoiselle, but madame. 
 
 fie. But I see no 
 
 She. No ring? True; I returned that to my 
 husband before I went to Britany. 
 
 He. And in Britany? 
 
 She. In Britany I would have given the world 
 to have it back again. 
 
 He. But your husband ? Did he accept it so 
 easily ? 
 
 She. What else can a man do when his wife 
 casts him off? 
 
 He. Do? Oh, it is considered proper in such 
 cases, I believe, for him to make a violent pretence 
 of not accepting his freedom. 
 
 She. You seem to be sure he considered it 
 freedom !
 
 60 A BOOK a NINE TALES. 
 
 He. Pardon me. I forgot for the moment that 
 you were his wife. 
 
 She. Compliments do not please me. 
 
 He. Then you are not a woman. 
 
 She. Will you be serious? 
 
 He. Why should I be at a ball? 
 
 She. Because I choose. 
 
 He. Oh, good and sufficient reason ! 
 
 She. But tell me soberly, you are a man, 
 what could my husband have done? 
 
 He. Do you mean to make my ideas standards 
 by which to try him ? 
 
 She. Perhaps yes ; perhaps no. At least tell 
 me what you think. 
 
 He. A man need not accept a dismissal too 
 easily. 
 
 She. But what then? 
 
 He. He might have followed ; he might have 
 argued. It is scarcely possible that you alone were 
 to blame. W T as there nothing in which he might 
 have acknowledged himself wrong, nothing with 
 which he should reproach himself? 
 
 She. How can I tell what took place in his 
 heart? I only know my own. He may have re 
 pented somewhat, or he may not. As for follow 
 ing You do not know my husband. He is 
 just, just, just. It was his one fault, I thought then. 
 It took time for me to appreciate the worth of 
 such a virtue. 
 
 He. But what has that to do with following yo^ ?
 
 AN EPISODE IN MASK. 6 1 
 
 She. She has chosen, he would reason. Let 
 the event punish her ; it is only right that she 
 should suffer for her own act. 
 
 He. But is his justice never tempered by mercy? 
 
 She. The highest mercy is to be just. To pal 
 liate is merely to postpone sentence. 
 
 He. You are the first woman I ever met who 
 would acknowledge that. 
 
 She. Few women, I hope, have been taught by 
 an experience so hard as mine. But how dolefully 
 we are talking. Do say something amusing ; we 
 are at a ball. 
 
 He. I might give you an epigram for the one 
 with which you served me a moment ago, and 
 retort that to be amusing is to be insincere. 
 
 She. Then for we came to be amused why 
 are we here ? 
 
 He. Manifestly because we prize insincerity. 
 
 She. You are right. I came to get away from 
 myself. One must do something, and even the 
 dissipations of charity pall after a time. 
 
 He. We seem to be in much the same frame 
 of mind, and perhaps cannot do better than to stay 
 where we are, consorting darkly, while the others 
 take pains to amuse themselves. So we get through 
 the evening, that is the main thing. 
 
 She. You have forgotten to be as complimentary 
 as you were half an hour since. 
 
 He. Have I ? And yet the greatest compliment 
 a man can pay a woman is sincerity.
 
 62 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 She. If he does not love her, yes. 
 
 He. Ah, then you agree with Tom Moore : 
 
 " While he lies, his heart is yours ; 
 But oh ! you ve wholly lost the youth, 
 The instant that he tells you truth ! " 
 
 She. Perhaps ; but it is no matter, since we were 
 not talking of love. 
 
 He. But if we were? 
 
 She. If we were we should undoubtedly say a 
 great many foolish things and quite as many false 
 ones. 
 
 He. You are cynical. 
 
 She. Oh, no. Cynicism is like a cravat, very 
 becoming to a man if properly worn, but always 
 setting ill upon a lady. 
 
 He. Did you learn that, also, in Britany? It is 
 a country of enlightenment. Would that my wife 
 had gone there. 
 
 She. Or her husband ! 
 
 He. You are keen. Her husband learned bitter 
 truths enough by staying at home. I am evidently 
 your complement ; for I had a wedding-ring sent 
 back to me. 
 
 She. And why? 
 
 He. Why? Why? Who ever knows a woman s 
 reason ! Because I refused, perhaps, to call black 
 white, to say I was pleased by what made me 
 angry; because No; on the whole, since I am 
 not making love to her, it is hardly worth while to 
 lie to a peasant from Britany, though it is of course
 
 AN EPISODE IN MASK. 63 
 
 necessary to sustain the social fictions with people 
 nearer home. It was because the wedding-ring 
 was a fetter that constrained ray wife, body and 
 soul ; because I was as inflexible as steel. My 
 purposes, my views, my beliefs were the Procrustean 
 bed upon which every act of hers was measured. 
 Voila tout! 
 
 She. I understand, I think. 
 
 He. Oh, I have learned well enough where the 
 blame lay in the three years since she left me. 
 
 She. Three years ! 
 
 He. Why do you start ? 
 
 She. It is three years, too, since I 
 
 He. Who are you? 
 
 She. It is no matter ; my husband is far from 
 here. 
 
 He. That is more than I can say of my wife. 
 
 She. Where is she, then? 
 
 He. Heaven knows ; not I. But let that go. 
 Why may we not be useful to each other? Our 
 cases are similar ; we are both lonely. 
 
 She. And strangers. 
 
 He. Acquaintance is not a matter of time, but 
 of temperament. Should we have found it possible 
 to be so frank with one another had we been 
 merely strangers? 
 
 She. You are specious. 
 
 He. No ; only honest. 
 
 She. But what 
 
 He. What? Why, friendship. We have found
 
 64 A BOOK a NINE TALES. 
 
 it possible to be frank in masks ; why not out of 
 them ? 
 
 She. Then you propose a platonic friendship? 
 
 He. I want a woman who will be my friend, 
 to whom I can talk freely. There are words a 
 man has no power or wish to say to a man, 
 yet which must be spoken or they fester in his 
 mind. 
 
 She. I am, then, to be a safety-valve. 
 
 He. Every man must have a woman as a lode 
 star ; you are to be that to me. 
 
 She. And your wife ? 
 
 He. My wife? She voluntarily abandoned me. 
 I have n t seen her for three years ; and surely she 
 ought to cease to count by this time. 
 
 She. You are heartless. 
 
 He. Heartless? 
 
 She. You should be faithful to your lost 
 
 He. Lost fiddlestick ! 
 
 She. You are very rude ! 
 
 He. I don t see 
 
 She. And very disagreeable. 
 
 He. But 
 
 She. If you had really loved your wife, you d 
 always mourn for her, whatever she did. 
 
 He. Good Heavens ! That is like a woman. 
 A man is expected to bear anything, everything, 
 and if at last he does not come weeping to kiss the 
 hand that smites him, he is heartless, forsooth ! 
 Bah ! I am not a whipped puppy, thank you.
 
 AN EPISODE IN MASK. 65 
 
 She. Your love was, perhaps, never distinguished 
 by meekness ? 
 
 He. I m afraid not. 
 
 She. It might be none the worst for that. The 
 ideal man for whom I am looking will not be too 
 lamblike, even in love. 
 
 He. You look for an ideal man, then? 
 
 She. As closely as did Diogenes. 
 
 He. And your husband ? 
 
 She. Oh, like your wife, he should, perhaps, 
 begin not to count. 
 
 He. Good. We are sworn friends, then, until you 
 find your ideal man. 
 
 She. If you will. 
 
 He. Then unmask. 
 
 She. Is that in the bargain? 
 
 He. Of course. Else how should we know each 
 other again ? 
 
 She. But- 
 
 He. Unmask ! 
 
 She. Very well, when you do. 
 
 He. Now, then. [They unmask.~\ 
 
 She. Philip ! 
 
 He. Agnes ! 
 
 She. You knew all the time ! 
 
 He. Who told you I was here? 
 
 She. I did n t know it. 
 
 He. I thought you went to Russia. 
 
 She. Well, I did n t. I hope you feel better ! 
 Good night. 
 
 5
 
 66 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 He. Wait, Agnes. I 
 
 \There is a momenfs silence, in which they look 
 at each other intently. He takes her hand in both 
 his. } 
 
 He. Agnes, I am not your ideal man, but 
 
 She. Nor I your ideal woman, apparently. Your 
 wife does not count, you say. 
 
 He. No more than your husband ; so we are 
 quits there. 
 
 She. It s very horrid of you to remind me of 
 that. 
 
 He. I acknowledge that I was always very honid 
 in everything. 
 
 She. Oh, if you acknowledge that, Phil, it is 
 hardly worth while to spend any more time in ex 
 planations while this divine waltz is running to 
 waste. 
 
 He. But you were tired and out of sorts. 
 
 She. You old goose, don t you see that I m 
 neither ! 
 
 He. And you do waltz divinely. 
 
 [ They attempt to adjust their masks, but somehow 
 get into each other s arms. In a few moments more, 
 iiowever, they are seen among the dancers within. }
 
 tfje 
 
 THE TUBEROSE.
 
 THE TUBEROSE. 
 
 I. 
 
 SHALL feel honored, Mistress 
 Henshaw, if you will accept this 
 posie as a token which may per 
 chance serve to keep me in re 
 membrance while I am over the sea." 
 
 " I am extremely beholden to you," replied 
 the old dame addressed, her wrinkled face 
 illuminated with a smile of pleasure. " But 
 for keeping you in remembrance it needs not 
 this posie or other token. I do not hold my 
 friends so lightly." 
 
 " I thank you for counting me one of your 
 friends," John Friendleton said frankly. " I 
 have no kindlier memories of Boston than 
 of the home under your roof." 
 
 He had placed upon the many-legged 
 table a flower-pot containing a thrifty tube 
 rose, and with a kindly smile upon his hand 
 some and winning face, he stood regarding 
 the old dame into whose custody he had just 
 given the plant. The dress of the period, 
 the days of the end of the seventeenth cen-
 
 70 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 tury, plain though it was, accorded well 
 with the sturdy honesty and kindness of his 
 face and the compact and strong build of 
 his figure. The wrinkled crone returned 
 his smile with one of frosty but genuine 
 warmth. 
 
 "This plant is none the less pleasing to 
 me," she said, "though I by no means need 
 it as a reminder. I shall be very careful in 
 its nourishing." 
 
 " It is by no means an ordinary herb," 
 Friendleton returned lightly. " There may 
 be magic in it for aught I can tell. My 
 uncle, who sent me the bulbs from even so 
 far away as Spain, hath a shrewd name as 
 a wise man ; and to say sooth he belike doth 
 know far more than altogether becometh a 
 good Christian. I give you fair warning that 
 there may be mischief in the herb ; though 
 to be sure," he added laughing, "the earth 
 in which it grows is consecrated, for I rilled 
 the pot from Copp s Hill graveyard hard by 
 here." 
 
 A momentary gleam shot with a sinister 
 light its fiery sparkle across the black eyes of 
 Mistress Hcnshaw. 
 
 " To one who feareth no harm," she an 
 swered, " it seldom haps. I trust the wind 
 may hold fair for your sailing," she added,
 
 THE TUBEROSE. 71 
 
 glancing from the small-paned window, " and 
 that you may safely return to Boston as you 
 are minded." 
 
 " Thank you, I have hitherto been much 
 favored by Providence in my journeyings. 
 Farewell, Mistress Henshaw." 
 
 The old dame received his adieu, and a 
 moment later she watched from the window 
 his active young figure as he walked briskly 
 away. She regarded it intently until a cor 
 ner hid him from sight. Then she turned 
 back to her room and her occupations. 
 
 " Providence, indeed ! " she muttered half 
 aloud, with a world of contempt in her tone. 
 
 Then she turned to the thrifty, healthy 
 tuberose and caressed its leaves with her 
 thin old fingers as if it were alive and could 
 understand her attentions. 
 
 The house in which this conversation took 
 place was still standing a few years since, the 
 oldest in Boston, at the corner of Moon and 
 Sun Court streets. It was erected in 1669; 
 its timber, tradition says, being cut in the 
 neighborhood. The upper story projected 
 over the lower like a frowning brow, from 
 beneath which the windows shone at night 
 like the glowing eye-balls of a wild beast. 
 It was a stout and almost warlike-looking 
 edifice, which preserved even up to the
 
 72 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 day when, in 1878, it was at length pulled 
 down by the hand of progress, a certain 
 strongly individual appearance, which if less 
 marked at the time when John Friendleton 
 bade Mistress Henshaw good-by, and the 
 building was thirty years old, must always 
 have distinguished the dwelling from those 
 
 O O 
 
 about it. 
 
 Dwellings, however, take much of their air 
 from dwellers, and Mistress Henshaw was 
 likely to impart to any house she inhabited 
 a bearing unlike that of its neighbors. She 
 was a dame to all appearances of some three 
 score winters, each frosty season having left 
 its snow upon her hair. Her figure was still 
 erect, while her eyes were piercing and black 
 and capable of a glance of such strength and 
 directness as almost to seem supernatural. 
 
 It may have been from the power and fer 
 vor of this glance that Mistress Henshaw 
 acquired the uncanny reputation which she 
 enjoyed in Boston. As she moved with sur 
 prising energy about the house, overseeing 
 and directing her dumb negro servant Dinah, 
 the eyes of passers-by who saw her erect 
 figure flit by the windows were half averted 
 as if from some deadly thing which yet held 
 them with a weird fascination ; and at night 
 fall the children whom chance belated in the
 
 THE TUBEROSE. 73 
 
 neighborhood went skurrying past Dame 
 Henshaw s house like frightened hares. 
 
 It is not perhaps to be told why Satan 
 should have been able to establish his king 
 dom among a people so devout and pious as 
 the godly inhabitants of the Massachusetts 
 colony; yet we have it upon the testimony 
 of no less a man than the sage and reverend 
 Cotton Mather, whose sepulchre is with us 
 unto this day, and upon the word of many 
 another scarcely less wise and devout, that 
 the Father of Evil did establish a peculiar 
 and covenant people of his own in the midst 
 of the very elect of New England. It may 
 be that it is always as it was in the days of 
 Job, and that the sons of God never assemble 
 without finding in their midst the dark form 
 of Lucifer ; for certain it is that the devil, to 
 quote the Rev. Cotton Mather s own words, 
 broke in upon the country after as aston 
 ishing a manner as was ever heard of." 
 
 " Flashy people," quaintly and solemnly 
 remarks the learned divine, " may burlesque 
 these things, but when hundreds of the most 
 sober people in a country where they have 
 as much motJicr-tvit certainly as the rest of 
 mankind, know them to be true, nothing but 
 the absurd and forward spirit of Saddncisin 
 can question them." From all of which,
 
 74 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 and from much more which might be cited, it 
 is evident that there was plenty of witchcraft 
 abroad in those days, whether Mistress Hcn- 
 shaw was concerned therein or not. 
 
 It is sufficient to note that certain gossips 
 scrupled not to declare that Dame Henshaw 
 was one of the accursed who bore the mark 
 of the beast and kept tryst at the orgies 
 of the witches sabbath, and the report once 
 started the facts in the case made little dif 
 ference. Some of her neighbors went so far 
 as to declare that if the dame s residence 
 were forcibly changed from Sun Court street 
 to Prison lane, the community would be the 
 better off. 
 
 Governor Belamont, however, in this last 
 year of the century, was far more exercised 
 about pirates than concerning witches ; and 
 better pleased at the capture of Captain Kidd, 
 who had just fallen into his hands, than if he 
 had discovered all the wise women in the 
 colonies. Public feeling, moreover, was still 
 in a reactionary state from the horrors of the 
 Salem delusion of 1692; and thus it came 
 about that Mistress Henshaw was left un 
 molested. 
 
 The second person in the dialogue given 
 above, John Friendleton, was an Englishman, 
 and, if tradition be true, the son of an old
 
 THE TUBEROSE. 75 
 
 lover of Mistress Henshaw. He had taken 
 up his abode with that lady upon his arrival 
 in the New World, whither he had been led, 
 like many another stout young blade of his 
 clay, by the hope of finding fair fortunes in 
 the growing colonies, and from the first he 
 had been a favorite with the old lady. It 
 was whispered over certain of those tea-cups 
 which we now tenderly cherish from a re 
 spect for the memory of very great grand 
 mothers and an aesthetic enjoyment of the 
 beauties of old china, that it was by the aid 
 of unhallowed power exercised in his behalf 
 that the young man was always so fortunate 
 in his undertakings. There were sinister tales 
 of singular coincidences which had worked 
 for his good, and behind which the gossips 
 believed to lie the instigating will of his 
 powerful landlady. Whether he himself was 
 aware of this supernatural aid, opinion was 
 divided, but he was so frank and handsome 
 withal that the weight of opinion leaned 
 toward acquitting him. The habit of New 
 England thought, moreover, was so opposed 
 to imagining a witch as exercising her power 
 for anything but evil, that these rumors after 
 all gained no great or general credence. 
 
 The friendship between the dame and her 
 lodger was perhaps based upon mutual need.
 
 76 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 The young man gave her that full confidence 
 which a pure-minded youth enjoys bestowing 
 upon an elderly female friend ; while in turn 
 the childless old lady, alone and otherwise 
 friendless, regarded him with tender affec 
 tion. She cherished any chance token from 
 him, and especially did she seem touched by 
 this gift of a tuberose which he had given her 
 at parting. She knew how carefully he had 
 tended and cherished the plant, more rare 
 then than now, and long after the sails of the 
 ship which conveyed him to England, whither 
 he had been summoned by the serious illness 
 of a relative, had dipped under the horizon, 
 the old witch if witch she were sat re 
 garding the flower with eyes in which the 
 tears glistened. 
 
 II. 
 
 IT was early springtime when John Friend- 
 leton once more caught sight of the beacon 
 upon Trimountain, and the walls of the fort 
 standing upon a hill which has itself been re 
 moved by the enterprise of Boston. The few 
 months of the young man s absence, and the 
 progress of time from one century to another 
 for it was now 1700 had brought no
 
 THE TUBEROSE. 77 
 
 great changes to the town ; but to him it 
 seemed far from being the same he had left. 
 
 The first tidings he had received from Bos 
 ton, after landing in England, had been a 
 letter telling of the death of Mistress Hen- 
 shaw. She had set out from Boston, so 
 the letter informed him, to visit a sister living 
 somewhere in the wilds toward far Pemaquid, 
 and had never returned. The letter was 
 written by one Rose Dalton, who claimed 
 to be a niece of the deceased, and who 
 had come into possession of the small prop 
 erty of Mistress Henshaw by- virtue of a 
 will made before the adventurous and fatal 
 journey. The writer added to her letter the 
 information that she should live on with 
 dumb Dinah, holding as nearly as possible 
 to the fashion of her aunt s housekeeping. 
 
 When John stood once more upon the well- 
 remembered threshold, he felt half disposed 
 to turn away and enter no more a place in 
 which every familiar sight could but call up 
 sad memories. Then, endeavoring to shake 
 off his melancholy, he knocked. 
 
 Alight, brisk step approached from within, 
 and the door opened quickly. 
 
 John stood in amazement, unable to utter 
 a word, so bewildered was he by the beauty 
 of the maiden who stood before him ; a
 
 78 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 beauty which now, after nearly two centuries, 
 is still a tradition of marvel. Something 
 unreal and almost supernatural there might 
 seem in the wonderful loveliness of this ex 
 quisite creature, were it not that she seemed 
 so to overflow with life and vitality. Her 
 soft and dove like eyes \vere full of gleams 
 of human energy, of joy, of passion; she 
 had all the beauty of a perfect dream with 
 out its unreality; and then and there the 
 young Englishman s heart fell down and 
 worshipped her, never after to swerve from 
 its allegiance. 
 
 " You must be Mr. Friendleton," the 
 maiden said, courtesying bewitchingly. " I 
 knew your ship was in." 
 
 "I I have been minding my luggage," 
 he stammered, rather irrelevantly, his eyes 
 fastened upon her face. 
 
 " Be pleased to enter," said she, smiling a 
 little at the boldness and unconsciousness of 
 his stare. " Your room has been preserved 
 as you left it at your departure. My aunt, 
 good Mistress Henshaw, as I wrote you, 
 straitly enjoined in her will that everything 
 should be kept for you as you had left it. 
 Her affections were marvellously set upon 
 you." 
 
 That he should be allowed to enter under
 
 THE TUBEROSE. 79 
 
 the same roof with this beautiful creature 
 seemed to John Friendleton the height of 
 bliss, and he had no words to express his 
 delight when he learned that Mistress Rose 
 expected him to take up his abode there as 
 in former times. Her aunt had wished it; 
 had especially spoken of it in her will, and 
 so it was to be. 
 
 It would be impossible to pretend that 
 Friendleton struggled much against this pro 
 position, when inclination so strongly pleaded 
 for the carrying out of the wishes of his 
 dead friend ; and in this way he became 
 the lodger of young Mistress Rose. 
 
 III. 
 
 IT did not long escape the eye of the 
 young man that his new landlady wore 
 always at her throat a cluster of the white, 
 waxy blossoms of the tuberose. The cir 
 cumstance was in itself sufficiently curious 
 and unusual to excite his attention, and it 
 recalled to his mind the plant he had given 
 to Mistress Henshaw. He wondered what 
 had been the fate of his gift, and one day he 
 ventured to ask Mistress Rose about it. For 
 reply she led him to the room formerly occu-
 
 80 A BOOK a NINE TALES. 
 
 pied by her aunt, and showed him the tube 
 rose in a quaint pot. It had grown tall and 
 thrifty, and half a dozen slim stalks upon it 
 stood up stoutly, covered with buds, which 
 showed here and there touches of dull red 
 evolved in their transformation from green to 
 white. 
 
 " I marvel how it hath increased," John 
 said. 
 
 "It hath thriven marvellously," she replied. 
 " Never before hath it been known that the 
 plant would bloom throughout all the year, 
 but this sends out buds continually. I daily 
 wear a blossom, as you may see, and I find 
 its odor wonderfully cheering, although for 
 most it is too powerfully sweet." 
 
 " It is an ornament which becometh you 
 exceedingly well," he responded, flushing. 
 
 " My neighbors," returned she smiling, 
 " regard it as exceeding frivolous." 
 
 The fragrance of the flower which Mistress 
 Rose wore at her throat floated about John 
 wherever his daily occupations led him, and 
 doubly did the delicious perfume steal through 
 his dreams. He never thought of the maiden 
 without feeling in the air that divinely sweet 
 odor; and a thousand times he secretly com 
 pared her to the flower she wore. Nor was 
 the comparison inapt ; since her beauty was
 
 THE TUBEROSE. 8 1 
 
 rendered somewhat unearthly by the strange 
 pallor of her face, while the intense and 
 passionate intoxication it produced might, 
 without great straining of the simile, be di 
 rectly compared to the exaltation which the 
 delicious and powerful fragrance produces 
 in sensuous and sensitive natures. 
 
 The intimacy between the young people 
 was at first hindered by the shyness of 
 Friendleton, who was only too conscious of 
 the fervor and depth of his passion ; but as 
 Rose had many of the well-remembered ways 
 of her aunt, and, stranger yet, appeared well 
 versed in his own past history, he soon 
 became more at his ease. In defiance of 
 the proverb which condemns all true lovers 
 to uneven ways and obstructed paths, the 
 wooing of lovely Mistress Rose by John 
 Friendleton ran smoothly and happily on, 
 seeming to have begun with the young man s 
 first meeting with his lovely landlady. The 
 gossips of Boston town, strangely enough, 
 left the relations of the lovers untouched 
 by any but friendly comment; and in a fash 
 ion as natural as the ripening of the year, 
 their love ripened into completeness. 
 
 It was early autumn when Rose became 
 Mistress Friendleton. The wedding was qui 
 etly celebrated in the old North Church, 
 6
 
 82 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 and never in its century of existence before 
 its timbers went to feed the campfires of 
 British soldiers, did that house shelter a 
 more lovely bride or a more manly and 
 blissful groom. A faint flush softened the 
 pallor of the maiden, the one charm which 
 could add to her beauty. Her only orna 
 ment was her usual cluster of tuberoses, and 
 more than one spectator noted how like the 
 flower was the lady. The circumstance was 
 recalled afterward when the slab was placed 
 above her grave in Copp s Hill burial-ground. 
 There still lingers among certain old gossips 
 of tenacious memory the tradition of a stone 
 which had on it " some sort of a flower." It 
 was the slab upon which John Friendleton, 
 imaginative at sorest need, had caused to be 
 carved simply a bunch of tuberoses. 
 
 If John had been happy in anticipation, he 
 was, if such a thing be possible, no less so in 
 reality. It is as trite to attempt as it is im 
 possible to effect the portraying of the life 
 of two young people who are profoundly 
 happy in each other. Joy may be named, 
 but not painted. Even were it easy to pic 
 ture their existence, their self-absorption 
 would prevent their being interesting. As 
 I have sometimes passed the old house on 
 Moon Street, standing worn and stained with
 
 THE TUBEROSE 83 
 
 the storms of two centuries, a picture has 
 risen before me of the young bride and 
 groom sitting together and inhaling the fra 
 grance of a quaint pot of tuberoses, blooming 
 so wonderfully that the whole house was 
 filled with their odor ; and the memory 
 brings always the tears to my eyes. 
 
 IV. 
 
 NOVEMBER was at its last day. A severe 
 storm, half rain, half snow, was sweeping over 
 Boston. The beacon upon Trimount trem 
 bled in the blast, and on the shores of the 
 peninsula the waves roared sullenly. Few 
 people were abroad, and there was never a 
 watchman in the city who did not for that 
 day at least regret having chosen a calling 
 which kept him out of doors in such weather. 
 
 The house on Sun Court Street was too 
 stoutly built to tremble, yet those within 
 heard the wind howling over the hill as if 
 scourged by all the furies. It was one of 
 those nights when a man sits before his fire 
 and realizes the value of all his blessings. 
 
 John and Rose sat together before the 
 blazing hearth while the husband told sto 
 ries of his boyhood in England. The wife
 
 84 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 nestled close to him, absorbed in the narra 
 tion, yet not forgetting to fondle his hand 
 with her smooth, soft fingers. 
 
 Suddenly into the room burst black, dumb 
 Dinah, wringing her hands and moving her 
 speechless lips with frightful earnestness. 
 In her hands she carried the fragments of 
 the pot which had held the tuberose. 
 
 Rose sprang up with a cry of anguish. 
 
 " Dinah ! Dinah ! My tuberose ! " 
 
 The negress gesticulated wildly, but her 
 mistress rushed past her; and, followed by 
 her husband, hastened to see for herself the 
 extent of the mischief. 
 
 The pot had been overturned by the wind, 
 which had burst in one of the tiny greenish 
 window panes, and the plant was completely 
 crushed in the downfall. Not a single flower 
 had escaped, and mingled with fragments of 
 pottery and with the black church-yard mould 
 in which the flower had perhaps ill-fatedly 
 been planted, were the leaves and petals, 
 torn and stained and mangled. 
 
 In the first sorrow of the discovery of the 
 accident, Rose threw herself into her hus 
 band s arms and burst into tears; but she 
 soon controlled herself, and became perfectly 
 calm. She directed Dinah to remove the 
 debris, and returned to listen to her husband s
 
 THE TUBEROSE. 85 
 
 stories; and, although she was more quiet 
 than before, she seemed no less interested. 
 
 It was late when they prepared to retire. 
 
 "John," Rose said, hesitatingly, as they 
 lingered a moment side by side before the 
 wide hearth, " it is just a year to-night since 
 Mistress Henshaw died. If you are willing, 
 I wish to pass the night alone in her room." 
 
 " I am always willing you should do what 
 ever pleaseth you best," he answered, smiling 
 upon her; " but why do you mean to shut 
 me out from your sorrow? I, too, loved 
 her." 
 
 " I know," Rose returned, bending to kiss 
 the hand he had laid upon hers, " and I fear 
 you can never be shut out from my sorrows, 
 however much I could wish to spare you. 
 Still, I wish it to be so for to-night." 
 
 " Then let it be so. The storm does not 
 fright you? " 
 
 " The storm does not fright me." 
 
 She took from her throat the tuberoses she 
 had worn that day, and gazed at them sadly. 
 
 " I can never wear another," she said. 
 "These are faded like our happy days." 
 
 "You speak but sadly," returned her hus 
 band, with a look of such fondness that the 
 tears started into her eyes despite all her 
 efforts to restrain them. " You would have
 
 86 A BOOK a NINE TALES. 
 
 spoken so had you been bidding me farewell. 
 The destruction of the flower makes you 
 downcast. Mayhap there is still life in the 
 root, and it may be made once more to grow 
 and bloom." 
 
 "John," his wife said abruptly, "John, I 
 have loved you from the first moment I saw 
 you ; I love you now, and I shall love you to 
 all eternity. Whatever happens, remember 
 that and believe it." 
 
 " I have never doubted that you love me," 
 he answered, gathering her into his arms ; 
 "how else could it be that you could have 
 made me so utterly happy?" 
 
 She clung to him passionately a moment. 
 Then with an evident effort at self-control, 
 she kissed his lips fervently, disengaged her 
 self from his embrace, and turned away. 
 
 " Good-night, dear," she said. 
 
 Then upon the threshold of Mistress Hen- 
 shaw s chamber she paused and looked back, 
 tears shining in her beautiful dark eyes. 
 
 " Good-night," she repeated ; " good-night." 
 
 V. 
 
 IT was somewhat past his usual hour of 
 
 rising when John Friendleton next morning 
 
 came downstairs. The storm was over, but
 
 THE TUBEROSE. 87 
 
 everywhere had it left its traces in broken 
 boughs, overturned fences, and dilapidated 
 chimneys, so that as he looked from the win 
 dow, John could see on all sides the evi 
 dences of its violence. 
 
 The house was strangely quiet, and he 
 looked about him with the impatience of a 
 lover for his wife, that she might chase away 
 the unaccustomed sombreness which seemed 
 to have descended upon the place. 
 
 " Dinah," he asked, " has not your mistress 
 risen? " 
 
 The mute regarded him with a strange 
 appearance of wildness and terror, but she 
 replied by a shake of the head, instantly 
 hurrying out of the room as if in fear. 
 
 John looked after her an instant in bewil 
 derment, not understanding her odd manner ; 
 and then approaching the door of the room 
 occupied by his wife, he tapped softly. 
 
 There was no response. 
 
 He tapped again somewhat more loudly. 
 Still there was no reply. A third time he 
 rapped, now with a heavy hand. All within 
 was as silent as the grave. 
 
 Startled by he knew not what fear, .with a 
 sudden impulse he set his strong shoulder to 
 the door, and strained until with a crash it 
 flew open.
 
 88 A BOOK a NINE TALES. 
 
 The heavy curtains were undrawn, and a 
 grey gloom filled the chamber. A fearful 
 silence followed the crash of the breaking 
 lock, and met him like a palpable terror. 
 He saw Rose lying on the bed, her face buried 
 in the pillows ; and by some fantastic jug 
 glery, the light from the open door, as it fell 
 upon her hair, those abundant tresses 
 whose rich, dark glory he so loved, seemed 
 to silver them to the whiteness of hoary age. 
 
 " Rose ! " he cried, starting forward to 
 seize her hand which lay upon the coverlid. 
 
 The hand was cold with a chill which 
 smote him to the very heart. 
 
 " Rose ! Sweetheart ! " he cried in a pierc 
 ing voice, bending over and tenderly turning 
 her dear face up to the light. 
 
 What horrible mockery confronted him? 
 He started back like one stung by a serpent! 
 
 Along the pillow lay a crushed and with 
 ered tuberose, and he looked upon the face, 
 ghastly in death, and old and haggard and 
 wrinkled of Mistress Henshaw.
 
 AN EVENING AT WHIST.
 
 AN EVENING AT WHIST. 
 
 [ The scene is the parlor of a modern house, much 
 adorned, and furnished with a wealth of bric-a-brac, 
 which renders getting about a most difficult and deli 
 cate operation, unless one is wholly regardless of the 
 consequences to the innumerable ornaments. Mrs. 
 Greeleigh Vaughn, a corpulent and well-preserved 
 widow, who passes for forty, and is not less, has just 
 seated herself at the whist-table, with her daughter 
 and two guests. One of these, Air. Amptill Talbot, is 
 one of those young men whose wits seem to be in some 
 mysterious fashion closely connected with the farting 
 of their hair exactly in the middle ; the other is a 
 handsome and keen-eyed gentleman of middle age, who 
 answers to the name Colonel Graha>n.~\ 
 
 Mrs. Vaughn. I am so glad you could and 
 would come, Colonel Graham. Now we shall 
 have a delightful evening at whist. You are such 
 a superb player that I am sure I shall learn more 
 about the game by playing with you a single eve 
 ning than I should by studying the books for a year. 
 
 Colonel Graham. You are too good. I make 
 not the slightest pretence of 
 
 Mrs. V. Oh, of course not. You are too mod 
 est ; but everybody says that you are a wonderful 
 player. I only hope you won t be too hard on me 
 if I make a mistake.
 
 92 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 Miss Vaughn. Oh, I am so glad mamma is 
 your partner, Colonel Graham. I should be fright 
 ened to death if I had to play with you. Mr. 
 Talbot will be a good deal more merciful, I am 
 sure. 
 
 Mr. Talbot. Anything you do is sure to be 
 right, Miss Vaughn. If you can put up with me, 
 I am sure I can afford to overlook any mistakes 
 you make. I play whist so seldom that I am all 
 out of practice. 
 
 Miss V. (dealing ). Oh, I just never play, only 
 when I have to make up the table. I have so 
 many things on hand. Why were n t you at the 
 Wentworths last night, Mr. Talbot? 
 
 Mr. T. I was out of town. I think you gave 
 yourself two cards that time. 
 
 Miss V. Oh, dear ! Have I made a misdeal? 
 I wish you d count your cards. 
 
 Colonel G. You are right. The next card is 
 mine. 
 
 Miss V. Thank you. 
 
 Mrs. V. That came out all right. 
 
 Colonel G. But the trump is not turned. 
 
 Miss V. Oh, which was the last card? I am 
 sure I don t know ; I Ve got them all mixed up 
 now. 
 
 Mrs. V. Well, never mind. Let me draw one. 
 That will do just as well. 
 
 Mr. T. Diamonds ? Can t you draw again ? I 
 have n t
 
 AN EVENING AT WHIST. 93 
 
 Miss V. I don t think it was diamonds. I am 
 almost sure it was spades. 
 
 Mrs. V. No, diamonds suits me, and of course 
 you can t change it now ; can she, Colonel Graham ? 
 
 Colonel G. It isn t customary, I believe, unless 
 we are to play Auction Pitch, and bid for the trump. 
 
 Miss V. Oh, now you are going to be sarcastic ! 
 I don t think that s fair. 
 
 Mrs. V. Do you put your trumps at one end of 
 your hand, Colonel Graham ? 
 
 Colonel G. No, I do not, but some people find 
 it a convenience. 
 
 Mr. T. Is it my lead? 
 
 Colonel G. No, it is my partner s. 
 
 Mrs. V. Oh, is it my lead ? I m sure I don t 
 know what to play. You always lead from your 
 long suit, don t you? There, I hope that queen 
 will be good. 
 
 Mr. T. No, it won t, for I have the ace. 
 
 Mrs. V. Oh, you mean man ! Partner, can t 
 you trump that? 
 
 Colonel G. I have suit. 
 
 Miss V. There, I have got to put the king on, 
 and I think it is mean. 
 
 Mr. T. I am awfully sorry. If I d only known 
 
 Miss V. I shook my head at you, but you 
 would n t look up. 
 
 Mrs. V. That wasn t fair, and you deserve to 
 be beaten. Now my jack is good, any way. 
 
 Mr. T. It is n t your lead. I took the trick.
 
 94 ^ BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 Mrs. V. Oh, I beg pardon. 
 
 Miss V. I would have trumped it, any way. 
 
 Mr. T. I wish I knew what you have. 
 
 Miss V. I wish I could tell you. Don t make 
 it too dark. 
 
 Mr. T. Then I 11 lead diamonds. 
 
 Miss V. That s just right. 
 
 Mrs. V. Diamonds are trumps. 
 
 Miss V. Oh, are they? Oh, that s too bad. 
 I did n t want trumps led. 
 
 Mr. T. But you said Why, can t you go 
 over Colonel Graham s nine-spot? 
 
 Miss V. I made a mistake. I meant to play 
 the ten. 
 
 Mrs. V. Shall I put on a small one or a high 
 one, Colonel Graham? 
 
 Colonel G. The trick is ours as it lies. 
 
 Mrs. V. Then if I put on a high one it will get it 
 out of the way, so you 11 know what to do next time. 
 
 Mr. T. Why, you Ve thrown away the king of 
 trumps ! 
 
 Mrs. V. Wasn t that right? 
 
 Miss V. Why, of course not, mamma. You 
 ought to have put on either the ace or a low one. 
 
 Colonel G. It is your lead, Mrs. Vaughn. 
 
 Mrs. V. She says she 11 trump hearts, and I 
 can t play my knave. I 11 try spades. I hope 
 you 11 take it. 
 
 Mr. T. And he did. How nice to have a part 
 ner do just what you tell him to.
 
 AN EVENING AT IV HIST. 95 
 
 Miss V. That means that I don t. 
 
 Mr. T. You are always satisfactory, whatever 
 you do. 
 
 Miss V. What was led? Clubs? Are clubs 
 trumps ? 
 
 Colonel G. No ; diamonds. 
 
 Miss V. Second hand low. I know that, at any 
 rate, so there s a two-spot. 
 
 Mr. T. Your mother has taken it with the 
 seven. 
 
 Miss V. Oh, and I had the ace, king, and queen. 
 Ought I to have played one of those ? 
 
 Colonel G. If you tell us your hand you must 
 expect us to play to it. 
 
 Miss V. I did n t mean to tell. 
 
 Mrs. V. (leading spades }. That was your suit, 
 wasn t it? 
 
 Mr. T. But I hold the ace. 
 
 Miss V. It was your own lead, mamma. Any 
 way, I 11 trump it. 
 
 Mr. T. Why, you Ve trumped my ace. 
 
 Miss V. Oh, did I? I didn t mean to. Can t 
 I take it back? 
 
 Colonel G. It is a little late, but still 
 
 Miss V. Oh, well, never mind. Let it go. I 
 have the king, any way {leading if). 
 
 Colonel G. But you just trumped a spade. 
 
 Mrs. V. A revoke ! That gives us three points. 
 
 Miss V. Oh, it does n t either ! I did n t see 
 that king at all when I trumped, and that was the
 
 96 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 only spade I had. I 11 change it on the last trick, 
 and then it will be all right. 
 
 Mrs. V. You can t do that ; can she, Colonel 
 Graham? 
 
 Colonel G. It is n t customary. 
 
 Mr. T. Oh, who wants to play the stiff club 
 rules? I don t; there isn t any fun in whist if 
 you are going to be so particular. 
 
 Miss V. Whose lead is it now? 
 
 Colonel G. If it is n t yours it must be Mr. 
 Talbot s, as you decide about that trick. 
 
 Mr. T. Then I 11 lead a spade, and you can 
 trump it. 
 
 Miss V. There, that s better than having that 
 trump wasted on your ace. 
 
 Mrs. V. Did you ever play Stop? We played 
 it last summer at Bar Harbor. It s a Western 
 game, and you have chips, just like poker; and 
 then you stop it if you have the stop cards ; and 
 sometimes you 11 have the meanest little cards left 
 in your hands, and if it is the ace of diamonds you 
 have to pay five chips for it, or the king, or the 
 queen, or the knave, or the ten ; not so much, of 
 course, but it all counts up awfully fast. 
 
 Mr. T. Why, that is ever so much like Sixty-six. 
 Do you remember the time we tried to play Sixty- 
 six on the Bar Harbor boat, Miss Vaughn? 
 
 Miss V. Oh, yes ; and Ethel Mott was such 
 fun. She just would cheat, and there was no stop 
 ping her.
 
 AN EVENING AT WHIST. 97 
 
 Colonel G. It is your lead, Miss Vaughn. 
 
 Mrs. V. Oh, just wait a moment. I want to 
 know if fourth best has anything to do with playing 
 fourth hand? 
 
 Colonel G. Nothing whatever. 
 
 Mr. T, Oh, fourth best is one of those things 
 they ve put in to make whist scientific. For my 
 part, I don t think there s any fun 
 
 Miss V. That s just what I say. When I play 
 whist I want to have a good time, and not feel as 
 if I were going through an examination at a scien 
 tific school. Oh, did you know we are going to 
 have a whist figure at Janet Graham s german, Mr. 
 Talbot? Won t that be fun? 
 
 Mr. T. I am sure then that you 11 be trump. 
 
 Miss V. Thank you. 
 
 Mrs. V. How pretty ! 
 
 Colonel G. It is your lead, Miss Vaughn. 
 
 Miss V. Why, did I take the last trick? What 
 shall I oh, I know, the ace of clubs. 
 
 Mrs. V. The two-spot of diamonds ought to be 
 good for that. 
 
 Miss V. How horrid ! Now the rest of my 
 clubs are n t any good. Well, any way, I can throw 
 them away. 
 
 Mrs. V. Have hearts been led ? 
 
 UTr. T. I m sure I can t remember. 
 
 Miss V. (examining tricks] . Yes, here s one 
 heart trick. 
 
 Mrs. V. Well, I must lead it, and I m sure I 
 
 7
 
 98 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 don t remember about it at all. I 11 lead a small 
 one. Was that right, Colonel Graham? 
 
 Colonel G. You might have led your knave. 
 
 Mrs. V. Why, how did you know I had the 
 knave. I declare, it s like witchcraft, the way you 
 keep run of the cards. I suppose you know where 
 every card is. Who took that? 
 
 Colonel G. I did. 
 
 Mr. T. I ought to have trumped that, but I do 
 hate to trump second hand. 
 
 Colonel G. But you played suit. 
 
 Mr. T. So I did. I forgot that. 
 
 Colonel G. (showing hand). The rest of the 
 tricks are mine. 
 
 Miss V. Why, I have the king and queen of 
 clubs, and you have n t a club in your hand. 
 
 Colonel G. That is why the tricks are mine. I 
 can keep the lead to the end. I am very sorry, 
 Mrs. Vaughn ; but I am suddenly attacked with a 
 nervous headache, so that I cannot possibly go on 
 playing. I shall have to ask to be excused. 
 
 Mrs. V. Oh, don t break up the game when we 
 are getting along so well. 
 
 Colonel G. I am very sorry ; but I must go. I 
 have enjoyed the game extremely. 
 
 Mr. T. Are you out? 
 
 Colonel G. Yes. 
 
 Mrs. V. I m sure it was all owing to you. 
 
 Colonel G. It was all owing to the fall of the 
 cards. I have n t done anything.
 
 JN EVENING AT WHIST. 99 
 
 Miss V. I m sure we did n t have anything on 
 our side at all. I hate whist anyway; you have 
 to be so quiet, and study on it so. 
 
 Mr. T. Yes, I think it s awfully hard work. 
 
 Colonel G. Oh, you 11 have better luck next 
 time. Good-by ; don t rise. 
 
 [And the Colonel goes to the club to relieve his 
 mind by a quantity of vigorous expletives, and then 
 to settle down to an evening of what he calls real 
 whist. ]
 
 ale 
 
 SAUCY BETTY MORK.
 
 SAUCY BETTY MORK. 
 
 I. 
 
 f,UT, Miss Bessie " 
 
 " I have told you a dozen times, 
 Mr. Granton, that my name is not 
 Bessie. I abhor that final ie ; and 
 more than that, I was christened Betty, 
 plain Betty, and Betty I will be." 
 
 " Miss Betty, then, if that suits you ; 
 though why you should be so particular 
 about that old-fashioned name, I m sure I 
 can t conceive." 
 
 " In the first place, it is my name," Betty 
 replied, bending upon him a glance at once 
 bewitching and tantalizing; "that ought to 
 count for something; and in the second 
 place, my family name is n t one that lends 
 itself to soft prefixes. Besides all which, 
 there has been a Betty Mork from time im 
 memorial ; and I shall never be one to spoil 
 the line by changing my name." 
 
 "What?" Mr. Granton demanded mis 
 chievously. " Never change it? Are you 
 vowed to eternal single blessedness, then, or
 
 104 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 shall you imitate the women s-rights women, 
 who 
 
 " It is really none of your affair what I intend 
 to do," returned she, bridling; " only, to go 
 back to what we started on, I do intend to play 
 in the tournament with Frank Bradford. I am 
 not in the habit of breaking my promises." 
 
 The pair walked along the shady country 
 road without speaking for a moment or two, 
 the young man inclined to be sulky, his com 
 panion saucy and good-natured. The drop 
 ping sunshine, falling through the gently 
 waving elm-boughs, struck golden lights out 
 of Miss Mork s abundant chestnut hair, her 
 one beauty, it amused her to call it, although 
 the smile which brought out her dimples and 
 the lustre of her eyes contradicted the words 
 even while they were being spoken. Young 
 Granton was fully alive to the attractiveness 
 of the lithe figure beside him; indeed, for his 
 own peace of mind, far too keenly. He was 
 aware, too, of the difficulty of managing the 
 wilful beauty, whose independence was suffi 
 ciently understood by all the summer idlers 
 at Maugus. 
 
 " But you certainly knew I expected you 
 to play in the tournament with me," he be 
 gan again, returning to the attack. 
 
 " It is n t modest for a girl ever to know
 
 SAUCY BETTY MORK 105 
 
 what a man expects of her until she s told," 
 Betty replied demurely, " even in tennis. 
 And besides, it was presumptuous for you to 
 be so royally certain of my acquiescence in 
 whatever you deigned to plan." 
 
 " I 11 serve a cut so that you 11 never be 
 able to return it," threatened he. 
 
 " I can serve a cut myself," she retorted, 
 with an accent which seemed to indicate a 
 double significance in the words. 
 
 " Confound it ! " he said, incisively, with 
 sudden and inconsistent change of base, " it 
 is perfect folly letting ladies into a tourna 
 ment anyway. Who wants them? They 
 always make trouble." 
 
 " I understood that you wanted one," Betty 
 answered, unmoved, observing the fringe of 
 her parasol with great apparent interest; 
 " but of course I knew your invitation was not 
 to be taken too seriously." 
 
 " Oh, bother ! " the young man cried, slash 
 ing viciously at the head of a late-blooming 
 daisy. " Why do you always insist on quar 
 relling with me? " 
 
 " Are we really quarrelling? " she laughed 
 back with her most exasperating lightness of 
 manner. " How delightful ! If there is one 
 thing that I enjoy more than I do tennis, it is 
 a good quarrel."
 
 106 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 " Tennis ! " Granton retorted, the last 
 shreds of his patience giving way. " It must 
 be allowed that you can quarrel better than 
 you can play. No girl," he went on, with in 
 creasing acerbity, " can ever really play ten 
 nis : she only plays at playing it; and it 
 spoils any man s game to play with her. For 
 my part, I cannot see why they are to be 
 admitted to the tournament at all." 
 
 " Merci! " exclaimed Mistress Betty, stop 
 ping in the sun-dappled way to make him 
 a profound courtesy. " Now I know what 
 your true sentiments are, and how much 
 your invitation was worth. Thank you for 
 nothing, Mr. Nat Granton. I wish you luck 
 of your partner, when you get one. It is 
 a cruel shame that by the rules of the tour 
 nament it must be a girl ! " 
 
 And before Granton was able to reply or 
 knew what she intended, pretty Miss Mork, 
 with her tripping gait, her bright eyes, ugly 
 name, and all, had whisked through a turn 
 stile and was half-way across the lawn of 
 the cottage where her particular bosom- 
 friend Miss Dora Mosely was spending the 
 summer.
 
 SAUCY BETTY MORK. IO/ 
 
 II. 
 
 WHILE Granton continued his perturbed 
 way down the lovely village street to the Elm 
 House, which for the time being was the 
 home of a pleasant colony of summer idlers 
 seeking rest and diversion in Maugus, Miss 
 Betty flitted lightly over the lawn and joined 
 her friend, whom she found reposing in a 
 hammock swung under the cool veranda. 
 
 " Oh, Dolly," was her breathless salutation, 
 " I Ve got the awfullest thing to do ! But I 11 
 do it, or perish in the attempt! " 
 
 " Halloo, Betty! " was Miss Mosely s re 
 sponse and greeting ; " how like a whirlwind 
 you are! What is the matter? What have 
 you got to do? " 
 
 " Beat Mr. Granton at tennis in the tour 
 nament." 
 
 "You and Mr. Bradford, you mean? " 
 
 " No ; I mean all by myself, in a single. 
 I sha n t play in the double at all, if I can 
 get out of it without sneaking." 
 
 " What in the world has happened to bring 
 you to this desperate frame of mind? " 
 
 " Well, Dolly, the fact is, Mr. Granton has 
 been making himself particularly odious be-
 
 108 A BOOK O NINE TALES, 
 
 cause I would n t throw over Frank Bradford 
 to play with him, and " 
 
 " I told you," her friend interrupted judi 
 cially, examining the toe of her slipper with 
 much interest and satisfaction, " that you d 
 be sorry you agreed to play with Frank." 
 
 " But I m not sorry," protested the other, 
 with spirit. " Do you think I m so bound 
 up in Nat Granton that I can t get on with 
 out him? If he wanted me to play with him 
 why did n t he ask me, instead of taking it 
 for granted, in that insufferably conceited 
 way of his, that I d stand about and wait on 
 his lordship s leisure ? Oh, I 11 pay him off! 
 I shall go over to grandmother s every 
 blessed day from now until the tournament 
 and practise, so as to take down his top-lofti- 
 cal airs." 
 
 At which exhibition of spite and determi 
 nation Miss Mosely fell to laughing, and said 
 Betty s manner suggested pickled limes, 
 which in turn reminded her of the chocolate- 
 creams they had at boarding-school, and that 
 brought to mind some particularly delicious 
 marshmallows which had been saved until 
 Betty should come over; and she added that 
 it would be a very good plan to go into the 
 house and devour them. 
 
 Over the flabby and inane confection with
 
 SAUCY BETTY MORK. 109 
 
 which the two friends regaled themselves, it 
 was arranged that Dora should devote herself 
 with Machiavelian shrewdness to bringing 
 about a reconciliation between Frank Brad 
 ford and his betrothed, Flora Sturtevant, 
 whose quarrel had led to the invitation which 
 had involved Betty in her present difficulties. 
 In the meantime, Mistress Mork was to give 
 herself with great assiduity to the practice 
 of cutting, volleying, and such devices of skill 
 or cunning as would make possible the reali 
 zation of her bold plan of conquering Mr. 
 Granton in the tennis tournament, over which 
 all the young people were just then much 
 excited. 
 
 These conclusions were not reached with 
 out much digression, circumlocution, and ir 
 relevant discourse upon various matters, with 
 a good deal of consideration of the dress 
 which would be both convenient and becom 
 ing for the important games. 
 
 " I have almost a mind to try a divided 
 skirt," Betty said thoughtfully. " George 
 saw one at a tournament in England, and it 
 could be fixed so as not Oh, Dora, if 
 George were only here ! He knows all the 
 new English rules and cuts, and all sorts of 
 quirks. Oh, why did you have to quarrel 
 with him just now? Now I shall lose my
 
 1 10 A BOOK a NINE TALES. 
 
 tennis just because you drove him away from 
 Maugus." 
 
 " Why, Betty Mork ! You said yourself 
 you wouldn t stand his lordly ways; you 
 know you did." 
 
 " Of course," returned her friend illogi- 
 cally ; " but we both agreed that you d have 
 to make up with him some time ; and I 
 did n t know then that I should want him." 
 
 " But what could I do? " demanded Dora, 
 divided between a sense of being deserted by 
 her friend and a desire to have difficulties 
 smoothed over. " Any girl with decent pride 
 would have had to send George away. You 
 know how I hated to do it." 
 
 " But you might send for him now." 
 
 " Oh, I could n t. That would be too aw 
 fully humiliating. I wonder you can propose 
 it." 
 
 , " Men are so dreadful," sighed Betty. 
 
 The two forlorn victims of masculine per 
 versity pensively ate marshmallows in silence 
 for a moment, revolving, no doubt, the most 
 profound reflections upon the vanity of 
 human affairs. 
 
 " I 11 tell you what I will do," Betty said at 
 length, reflectively. " I 11 write to George 
 and make him visit grandmother. He has n t 
 been there for a year, to stay; and, as grand-
 
 SAUCY BETTY MORK. 1 1 1 
 
 mother says, she admires to have him. I 11 
 tell him if he 11 stay there, out of sight, I 
 think I can fix things with you." 
 
 " Oh, you delicious, darling hypocrite ! " 
 exclaimed her friend, embracing her raptur 
 ously. " You are a perfect treasure, Bet ! I 11 
 do anything to help you, anything. I ve 
 been perfectly wretched ever since George 
 went away; but of course I could n t say so, 
 if I d died." 
 
 III. 
 
 " So you arc not going to play with Brad 
 ford, after all?" Nat Granton said, flinging 
 himself on the turf at Miss Mork s feet as she 
 sat watching the tennis-players practising for 
 the tournament. 
 
 " No," she answered. " He and Flora have 
 recovered from their temporary alienation, 
 and I was generous and took myself out of 
 the way." 
 
 " Will you* play with me? " 
 
 " Thank you ; no. I shall not go into any 
 team ; and in any case, I know too well your 
 sentiments on the subject of girls playing to 
 trespass on your good nature." 
 
 " Then I shall not play," he said, rather 
 crossly. 
 
 " And pray what do I care if you don t? "
 
 112 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 " It would be polite to pretend to, at any 
 
 rate." 
 
 " The slightest approach to a false pretence 
 Was never among my crimes ; " 
 
 she quoted, twirling her gay parasol swiftly 
 on its handle. " Do see Tom Carruth serve. 
 That cut is my despair." 
 
 " It is simple enough to return," Granton 
 answered, " if you know when it is coming: 
 you ve only to run up." 
 
 " Yes, but how is one to know when it is 
 coming? " 
 
 " One always can tell when I give it," he re 
 plied, laughing, " for I always fling my head 
 back." 
 
 There came a wicked sparkle of intelli 
 gence into Betty s eyes as she made a 
 mental note of this confession for future use. 
 Then the long lashes fell demurely over her 
 cheeks as she gathered together her belong 
 ings and rose. 
 
 " I must go over to grandmother s," she 
 said. " Never spend the summer near your 
 grandmother s, Mr. Granton: she may be ill 
 and absorb all your spare time." 
 
 And away sped the deceitful damsel, on 
 nefarious schemes intent, to play tennis with 
 her cousin George, who had responded with 
 celerity to her summons. She was really im-
 
 SAUCY BETTY MORK. 113 
 
 proving with a good deal of rapidity. She 
 had been a sad romp in her day, and every 
 prank of her tomboy girlhood stood her in 
 good stead now. Every fence and tree she 
 had climbed, to the unspeakable horror and 
 scandal of elderly spinster aunts, every game 
 of ball for which she had been lectured by 
 an eminently proper governess, every stolen 
 fishing-expedition and hoydenish race whose 
 improprieties my lady buried with over 
 whelming scorn in the oblivion of the past, 
 had been a preparation for the struggle into 
 which she now threw herself with the whole 
 force of mind and body. 
 
 Her cousin George Snow, who was suffi 
 ciently fond of his mischievous cousin, and 
 duly grateful for her supposed good offices 
 in arranging the difficulties between himself 
 and Dora, was an invaluable ally. He was 
 taken into full confidence, and embraced the 
 project most heartily. Granton was a right 
 nice fellow, he admitted, but it certainly would 
 not hurt him to be taken down a peg. Snow 
 had just returned from England, where he had 
 seen some of the finest tennis-players perform. 
 
 " You play too near the net," he said. 
 " All American players do. Play well back, 
 and above everything, put all your force 
 into the return."
 
 114 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 " But I shall send the ball out of the court," 
 Betty protested. 
 
 " You must n t. Drive it down as hard as 
 ever you can. Strength or rather swiftness 
 tells; if your service is swift enough it is 
 worth all the fancy cuts in the world. The 
 Renshaws make half their points by volley 
 ing from the service-line, and the rest by 
 swift service." 
 
 " Swiftness is the word," Betty returned 
 gayly. " Anything more? " 
 
 " Get used to striking back-handed ; don t 
 try to turn your thumb down; make a busi 
 ness of an out-and-out back-handed, wrong- 
 side-of-the-racquet stroke." 
 
 How sound all this advice was, tennis play 
 ers may determine for themselves ; but it cer 
 tainly served its purpose well. Betty was a 
 promising pupil. Morning, noon, and night 
 she played, working with an assiduity which 
 nearly fagged her cousin out. 
 
 " You are plucky, Betty," he declared one 
 day. " I m afraid for my own laurels. And 
 by the way, am I to be allowed to be present 
 at this great tournament in which you are to 
 cover yourself and your sex with glory?" 
 
 " Oh, yes; you are to challenge Mr. Gran- 
 ton if he beats me, though he sha n t ! 
 Anybody can challenge the winner, you
 
 SAUCY BETTY MORK. 115 
 
 know. That s a provision I had put in my 
 self to cover my own case." 
 
 " Poor Granton ! " George laughed. " Little 
 does he dream of the awful humiliation in 
 store for him." 
 
 Betty set her lips together and nodded her 
 head in a determined way. 
 
 " George," she declared, with tragic earn 
 estness, " if I get beaten I shall go straight 
 home and die of 
 
 " Baffled stubbornness," interpolated her 
 cousin. 
 
 " Thwarted vengeance," suggested Dora. 
 
 " No, of righteous indignation. Come, one 
 set more before we drive back to Maugus. 
 Only two days left, you know." 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE morning of the second day of the 
 tournament dawned clear, and what was quite 
 as much to the purpose, unusually cool. A 
 little breeze from the northwest crept over 
 the hills, just enough to fan the heated 
 players without disturbing the flight of the 
 balls ; while to make the weather perfect for 
 tennis, by ten o clock a light veil of clouds 
 had comfortably covered the sun, cutting off 
 all troublesome rays.
 
 Il6 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 " It is a perfect day," Betty remarked to 
 Dora, as they took their places among the 
 spectators. " I ve put my things ready so I 
 can dress in two minutes. Here comes 
 George." 
 
 The affair was an event in quiet Maugus. 
 It had been talked about as the most impor 
 tant event could not have been discussed 
 anywhere but in the idle hours of summer 
 leisure, and had come to be regarded as 
 quite the event of the season. The tennis- 
 court was laid out near the Elm House, and 
 was surrounded by superb old trees that in 
 all the slow years of their growth had never 
 over-arched a prettier sight than that after 
 noon showed, with its groups of nice old 
 ladies, and charming young damsels in all the 
 picturesque bravery of their nineteenth-cen 
 tury costume. The contest of the first day 
 of the tournament had disposed of all the 
 four-handed games but the final match, and 
 the afternoon of the second day was left free 
 for the single games. Granton had entered 
 for the latter, and was looked upon as the 
 probable victor. He won easily his first rub 
 ber, and came over to where Betty sat to 
 wait his turn again. 
 
 " It is lucky for me, Mr. Snow," he said to 
 George, who in the happiness of full rcconcil-
 
 SAUCY BETTY MORK. 117 
 
 iation sat by Dora s side, " that you arc not 
 playing, or I should n t have the ghost of a 
 chance." 
 
 * I m resting on the laurels I won last 
 year," was the light response. " It s far easier 
 than to risk one s reputation and defend it." 
 
 " Are you so sure of winning, as it is, Mr. 
 Granton?" asked Betty coolly. 
 
 "Sure? Of course not; but I have hopes 
 now, which I should n t indulge if Mr. Snow, 
 with the glory of his victories at Newport 
 last year, were counted in." 
 
 " I wish you success," she said, with a certain 
 trace of satire in her tone. " Is n t Mr. How 
 ard playing remarkably well to-day? What a 
 splendid volley? That gives him the game." 
 
 "Sets: two, love," called the scorer, and 
 Mr. Howard s victory was saluted with ap 
 plause, which Mistress Betty took great satis 
 faction in leading. 
 
 " You seem to be greatly pleased at How 
 ard s good luck," Granton observed, remem 
 bering that when his success had been 
 clapped, just before, Miss Mork had refrained 
 from lending a hand. 
 
 "Why shouldn t I be?" she returned. 
 "I ve bet him a pair of gloves he wins." 
 
 " What will you bet me I lose? " demanded 
 he, not especially pleased at any sort of un-
 
 I 1 8 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 derstanding between the young lady before 
 him and Howard. 
 
 " Anything you like." 
 
 "I should like nothing so much as 
 
 " As what?" 
 
 " No ; upon reflection I don t think I dare 
 mention it," Granton said coolly, looking at 
 her with an expression in his big brown eyes 
 which made her flush in spite of herself. 
 
 " Don t be impudent," she replied. " That 
 is my province." 
 
 " Time ! " called the umpire, a little later. 
 " Howard and Granton, concluding set." 
 
 " Wish me luck," Granton murmured, bend 
 ing toward Betty as he rose. 
 
 " I m sure I do, for my own sake," she re 
 sponded, with an ambiguity he afterward had 
 reason to understand. 
 
 " What shall I do if Mr. Howard beats 
 him?" Betty said to George and Dora, as 
 the set began. " There d be no fun playing 
 him instead of Mr. Granton." 
 
 " Oh, Howard has n t the ghost of a 
 chance," George responded reassuringly- 
 " You are all right, Bet, if you don t get 
 nervous." 
 
 But Betty did get nervous. The color came 
 and went in her cheeks almost as swiftly as 
 the flying balls were thrown, whose skilful
 
 SAUCY BETTY MORK. 119 
 
 service and returns soon proved Snow to be 
 right in asserting that Howard had no chance 
 against his antagonist. 
 
 " Oh, George," she whispered, in an agony 
 of apprehension, " can I do it? Won t he 
 beat me? It would be too horrible to chal 
 lenge him and then fail ! " 
 
 " Do it? " retorted her cousin ; " of course 
 you can do it ! See that short serve. That s 
 what s breaking Howard up: it s easy for 
 you to return if you 11 run up to it. His 
 swift service does n t begin to be as good 
 as yours." 
 
 " Love set," called the scorer; and as Betty 
 looked at the supple, muscular figure of Nat 
 Granton while the players exchanged courts, 
 her fears almost overcame her resolve. 
 
 " My heart is thumping against my very 
 boot-heels, Dolly." she confided to her friend. 
 " It s no sort of use." 
 
 "Are you going to give up?" demanded 
 Dora curiously, and perhaps a little tauntingly. 
 
 " Give up ! " cried Mistress Mork stoutly. 
 " Do I ever give up? I 11 die first! But I 
 do wish he would n t get so many love 
 games! It s dreadfully discouraging." 
 
 Granton was, in truth, having everything 
 his own way. Howard, although a good 
 player, had somehow lost his coolness, and
 
 120 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 was soon demoralized by a peculiar short, 
 cutting service, of which his opponent had 
 complete mastery, and which he was unable 
 to return. His play became wild and un 
 even, and the contest was quickly decided 
 against him. 
 
 The master of ceremonies came forward 
 with the announcement that the prize rac 
 quet belonged to Mr. Nathaniel Granton, but 
 that, according to the provisions of the tour 
 nament, any person had now a right to chal 
 lenge the winner to play for the prize, by the 
 best two games in three. 
 
 There was a rustle, and then a pause, as 
 many eyes were turned toward George Snow, 
 who had won in the Newport games the 
 summer before. But that gentleman sat 
 quiet in his place, a smile of amusement 
 stealing over his comely features as Dora 
 said, in the most tragic of whispers, 
 
 " Oh, Betty, how can you? " 
 
 But Betty, her head thrown a trifle back, 
 and the color flaming hotly into her face, 
 rose with a charming mixture of dignity 
 and shyness, and walked, before them all, 
 straight up to the judges. 
 
 " I challenge the winner to a match," she 
 said, steadily enough, although she confided 
 to Dora afterward that she felt as if every
 
 SAUCY BETTY MORK. 12 I 
 
 word had to be dragged out by main force. 
 " I should like five minutes to change my 
 dress." 
 
 Granton uttered a low, sharp whistle, and 
 doffed his cap. 
 
 " All right," the master of ceremonjes 
 returned. " Be as quick as you can." 
 
 " I 11 not keep you waiting long," she as 
 sured him, and turned to beckon Dora to her. 
 
 As the two girls disappeared into the 
 hotel, the bustle and chatter began again 
 with renewed vigor, and swelled and buzzed 
 in the liveliest fashion. Here was a genuine 
 sensation for Maugus. Betty was too lovely 
 and too great a favorite with the men wholly 
 to escape the censure of the young ladies, 
 who now had a string of pretty things to say 
 of her boldness and presumption. But the 
 gentlemen rallied to a man in her support, 
 and, by the time she reappeared, public 
 opinion, as represented by the spectators of 
 the tournament, if not wholly in her favor, 
 was so in outward expression. 
 
 She was dressed in a dark-blue jersey of 
 silk, which fitted her in that perfect combi 
 nation only possible with a faultless figure 
 and an irreproachable jersey ; and below 
 that a skirt of navy-blue flannel fell in 
 straight plaits to her ankles, where one
 
 122 A BOOK a NINE TALES. 
 
 caught, as she moved, occasional glimpses 
 of a crimson stocking, the exact shade of 
 her flat sash and of the close wing-tip in her 
 trig little blue silk cap. There was nothing 
 of the nature of tags and ends about her 
 costume. Her hair was closely coiled, and 
 even her ear-rings had been removed. The 
 crimson handkerchief about her white throat 
 was fastened into its place so securely as 
 scarcely to be less smooth when the playing 
 was over than when the first game began. 
 
 She was very sober, so grave, indeed, 
 that George went over to her just as she 
 took her place, to say some absurd thing to 
 make her laugh. 
 
 " Don t be nervous," he added, having 
 succeeded in his object so far as to call a 
 fleeting smile to her face. " And don t 
 look as if assisting at your own obsequies. 
 You are all right, if you 11 only think so." 
 
 " Will she do it? " Dora asked anxiously, 
 as he took his seat again. 
 
 " I m sure I don t know," he answered. 
 "I ve told her she will, and I hope so; but 
 it is n t going to be so easy." 
 
 They talked of that tennis tournament for 
 many a long day in Maugus. Opinion was 
 divided at first as to the probable result. 
 There was a quiet concentration in Betty s
 
 SAUCY BETTY MORK. 123 
 
 manner \vhich soon began to awake confi 
 dence in her ultimate success, although at 
 first she lost. Even the most envious of the 
 girls soon found themselves applauding every 
 lucky hit she made; and Betty, whose senses 
 were keenly alive that day, felt the stimu 
 lating consciousness that the general sym 
 pathy was with her. She threw her whole 
 soul into her playing, every point she lost 
 arousing her to new exertions. 
 
 "By Jove! Dora," George said, "Gran- 
 ton s bound to get a lesson. Betty s blood 
 is getting up. I m convinced now that she 11 
 win, and I 11 bet you the gloves that she 
 beats him a love set before she s done." 
 
 Dora was too excited to answer him. She 
 hoped he might be right, but just now Betty 
 was losing. She had been beaten three 
 games out of five, and the present one, on 
 Granton s service, was going hard against 
 her. Granton was harassing her with his 
 short cut, which fell before her racquet 
 reached it nearly every time. 
 
 " What s got into her?" George muttered 
 uneasily. " Ah, that was better. Good 
 return." 
 
 And he led the hand-clapping which 
 greeted the difficult stroke by which Betty 
 brought the score up to deuce. The game
 
 124 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 v/ent against her, however, and soon after, 
 the set. 
 
 " I 11 do it, George," Betty said under her 
 breath, as she passed him in changing courts. 
 " Don t be discouraged. The Mork blood 
 is up." 
 
 " It s all on his cuts, Bet. Run up to them. 
 Watch his service, and you can tell when 
 they are coming. Nat could never serve a 
 decent swift ball." 
 
 Betty nodded and went on to her place. 
 
 " Play ! " called Granton. 
 
 Watching him, his opponent noticed him 
 throw his head back, and remembered his 
 telling her that he always betrayed his cut 
 ting. She ran toward the net as the ball 
 came down, and returned it like a cannon- 
 ball. 
 
 " She s got it ! " cried Snow, with great 
 glee, in his excitement calling so loudly that 
 both the players heard him. " She s all 
 right now. Oh, that s beautiful ! " 
 
 Granton tried a couple of swift balls and 
 faulted them both. 
 
 " Love ; thirty," called the scorer. 
 
 Another cut ; again cleverly intercepted ; 
 then a fault and an easy, round-hand service- 
 
 " Love ; game." 
 
 The applause was really quite tremendous.
 
 SAUCY BETTY MORK. 125 
 
 " They are all against me," Granton ob 
 served to Betty, handing her the balls 
 over the net and laughing rather ruefully. 
 " Public opinion would be positively out 
 raged if you should fail." 
 
 " I Ve no intention of failing, thank you," 
 she returned, with spirit; and away she 
 swept to her position. " Play ! " 
 
 Granton was himself on his mettle, yet he 
 did not play his best. He could not fully 
 recover from his surprise at the style of his 
 adversary s play. The swiftness of her ser 
 vice and returns was so different from what 
 was expected of a girl that he was scarcely 
 on his guard against it up to the very end. 
 He felt the sympathy of the spectators, too, 
 to be against him, and this was not without 
 its influence. He lost the set, and with it, 
 by an unfortunate chance, his good nature. 
 
 " Sets, one all," the scorer announced ; 
 and something in the saucy toss of Betty s 
 lovely head, as, flushed and panting, she 
 stood talking with George and Dora, jarred 
 upon her lover s nerves with sudden irritation. 
 An unreasonable madness took possession 
 of him. How much was wounded vanity, 
 it might not be easy to say ; but under the 
 circumstances, with all his mates grinning 
 at his failure, it was not at all strange that
 
 126 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 his feelings were not wholly placid. His 
 play in the third and decisive set became 
 rash and excited. He lost his head a little, 
 and before he fairly knew how it happened 
 the score was called on Betty s service : 
 
 " Games ; five, love " 
 
 " Good ! " was George Snow s comment. 
 " I told you she d beat a love set before 
 she was done. Oh, keep your head, Bet ! " 
 
 Betty delivered a ball swift as a bullet 
 and just clearing the net. 
 
 " Fifteen ; love." 
 
 A fault, and then another swift ball, which 
 skimmed like a swallow over the net and 
 struck the ground only to cling to it in a 
 swift roll. 
 
 "Thirty; love." 
 
 The next ball was beaten back and forth 
 until Granton dashed it to the ground at 
 Betty s very feet. 
 
 "Thirty; fifteen." 
 
 The excitement was at its height. Even 
 those who did not appreciate the finer points 
 of the play caught the interest and somehow 
 understood pretty accurately how matters 
 stood, and were as earnest as the rest. 
 Small-talk was forgotten, heads were craned 
 forward, and all eyes were fixed upon the 
 players. Betty grasped her racquet by
 
 SAUCY BETTY MOR.K. 127 
 
 the extreme end of its handle, and held the 
 ball as high above her head as she could 
 reach. 
 
 " Play ! " 
 
 She struck it with all her force. 
 
 " Forty ; -fifteen," was the scorer s call ; and 
 Nat Granton understood that only one stroke 
 lay between him and defeat by a love set. 
 
 George Snow deliberately turned away his 
 face. 
 
 " I never supposed I could be such a con 
 summate fool," he said afterward, " but I 
 positively could not look at your last service, 
 Bet. I felt as if the whole universe were at 
 stake." 
 
 As for the player, she was fairly pale with 
 excitement ; but her head was clear and her 
 hand steady. She paused an instant, poising 
 her racquet. She observed that Granton 
 stood near the middle of his court. With a 
 quick step she moved to the very outer cor 
 ner of her own and sent a swift ball sharply 
 under her opponent s left hand. 
 
 " Game ; love set," called the scorer. 
 " Sets two to one in favor of Miss Mork." 
 
 And, amid what for Maugus was a really 
 astonishing round of applause, Betty, flushed 
 but triumphant, walked to the net to shake 
 hands with her vanquished lover.
 
 128 A BOOK a NINE TALES. 
 
 V. 
 
 IT was astonishing how humble and for 
 giving her victory made Mistress Betty. She 
 was troubled with the fear that she had been 
 unmaidenly, that she had hurt Granton s feel 
 ings and alienated his friendship forever, with 
 a dozen more scruples quite as absurd and 
 irrational. 
 
 She escaped as quickly as possible from 
 her friends and their congratulations, and 
 hurried to her room on the pretext of dress 
 ing for supper. There she cooled her hot 
 cheeks, burning with exercise and excitement, 
 and looking ruefully at her image in the 
 mirror, shook her head reproachfully at the 
 counterfeit presentment as at one who had 
 beguiled her into misdoing. 
 
 After supper she was sitting rather gloomily 
 in a retired corner of the piazza, when the 
 defeated Granton approached. The reaction 
 from the afternoon s excitement had rendered 
 the young lady s spirit rather subdued, but 
 she rallied at sight of the new-comer. 
 
 " Good-evening," he said. " Were you en 
 joying the sweets of victory?" 
 
 " I was enjoying the sweets of solitude," 
 she returned, a little pointedly.
 
 SAUCY BETTY MORK. 129 
 
 Granton laughed. 
 
 " I suppose," he remarked, taking a vacant 
 chair near her, " that I need not apologize for 
 my ill-judged remarks some time since about 
 girls and tennis. My afternoon s punishment 
 ought to pass as a sufficient expiation." 
 
 " Expiation is always a matter of feeling." 
 
 " Oh, as to that, I felt I had enough, I 
 assure you," he laughed. " It may not be 
 gallant to say so, but it was really horrible to 
 be beaten out of my boots by a lady in broad 
 daylight, in face of all Maugus assembled." 
 
 Betty was silent. The remorseful feeling 
 rose again in her breast. Granton spoke 
 lightly enough, but she wondered if she had 
 not humiliated him terribly. She played 
 nervously with her fan, hardly knowing how 
 to phrase it, yet longing to offer something 
 in the way of apology. 
 
 " I hope," she began, " I hope 
 
 Nat regarded her closely in the fading light 
 as she hesitated, and by some happy inspira 
 tion divined her softened mood. He noted 
 the downcast eyes and troubled face. With 
 out fully comprehending her mental state, he 
 yet found courage to move a trifle nearer. 
 
 " Yes? " he queried, laying his fingers upon 
 the arm of her chair. 
 
 Betty looked at the hand which had ap- 
 9
 
 130 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 preached so near, and a sudden trepidation 
 thrilled her. She opened and closed her fan 
 nervously, but made no attempt to finish her 
 broken sentence. 
 
 " Betty," her lover said, leaning forward, 
 " now I am in the dust at your feet, you must 
 at least let me speak. You Ve kept out of 
 my way so for the last two or three weeks 
 that I was afraid you disliked me ; but now I 
 understand where you have been. You know 
 how much I care for you." 
 
 Still she did not raise her eyes. 
 
 "Don t you care for me?" he pleaded. 
 " I Ve been in love with you all summer. 
 You must have known it." 
 
 He paused again, yet she did not answer, 
 though a great tide of joy thrilled her whole 
 being. Her lover seized both her hands and 
 bent down until his cheek almost touched 
 hers. 
 
 " Will you marry me, Betty? " 
 
 All her wilfulness and sauciness flashed in 
 her eyes as she lifted her glance at last to his 
 and answered. 
 
 " I wouldn t if I hadn t beaten this after 
 noon." 
 
 With which implied consent he seemed 
 perfectly satisfied.
 
 MRS. FRUFFLES IS AT HOME.
 
 MRS. FRUFFLES IS AT HOME. 
 
 IN answer to the announcement that Mrs. Ste 
 phen Morgan Fruffles will, on the afternoon of 
 January 27, be at home from four to seven, all the 
 world with the exception of her husband, who 
 keeps significantly out of the house, and at his club 
 finds such solace as is possible under the circum 
 stances has assembled to celebrate that rare and 
 exciting event. 
 
 The parlors are thronged almost to suffocation ; 
 the air is warm, and laden with a hundred odors, 
 which combine to make it well-nigh unbreathable ; 
 the constant babble of conversation goes on with 
 the steady click-clack of a mill-wheel, and several 
 hundred people persistently talk without saying 
 anything whatever. 
 
 Mrs. Chumley Jones is there, in a most effective 
 costume of garnet plush, adorned with some sort 
 of long-haired black fur. She is conscious of being 
 perfectly well dressed, of being the best-known 
 woman in the parlors, and most of all is she now, 
 as always, conscious of being the one and only 
 Mrs. Chumley Jones. Soothed and sustained by 
 an unfaltering trust in all these good things, she 
 moves slowly through the rooms, or stands at some 
 convenient coign of vantage, dropping a word to
 
 134 B OOK a NINE TALES. 
 
 this one and to that, with just the right differences 
 of manner fitted to the degrees of the people 
 whom she addresses. 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Truffles," she remarks to the 
 hostess, " you do always have such enchanting 
 receptions ! " 
 
 Oh, thank you, dear Mrs. Jones," responds the 
 other, fully aware what is expected of her ; " I wish 
 I could begin to have anything so charming as 
 your Fridays." 
 
 " Oh, so kind of you to say so," murmurs Mrs. 
 Jones, with the expressive shake of the head proper 
 to the sentiment and the occasion. 
 
 Then she passes on to her duty elsewhere. 
 
 "How do you do, Mrs. Jones?" the voice of 
 Ferdinand Maunder says at her side. " Is n t it a 
 lovely day ? It is really like a Roman winter ; 
 don t you think so?" 
 
 " Yes, it really is, Mr. Maunder." 
 
 " Yes, that s what I Ve been saying to myself all 
 .day." 
 
 "It is so much nicer of you to say it to me." 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. Jones, you are always so clever at 
 turning things." 
 
 They smile at each other with perfect and well- 
 bred inanity for a second, and then Fred Lasceet 
 slips in between them. 
 
 " How do you do, Mrs. Jones? " 
 
 "Oh, how do you do, Mr. Lasceet? It is ever 
 so long since I have seen you."
 
 MRS FRUFFLES IS AT HOME. 135 
 
 " So good of you to think it long. I am sure it 
 seems an age to me." 
 
 Mr. Maunder having meanwhile glided through 
 the crowd with an eel-like elusiveness, Mrs. Chum- 
 ley Jones is left with a remark upon which to form 
 her conversation for the afternoon. 
 
 " We have had such a strange winter ; don t you 
 think so, Mr. Lasceet ? It is really like a Roman 
 winter." 
 
 " It really is ; though I should n t have thought 
 of it. You are always so clever in thinking of 
 things, Mrs. Jones." 
 
 " You are a sad flatterer, Mr. Lasceet." 
 
 Mr. Lasceet endeavors to look very sly and cun 
 ning, and while he gives his mind to this endeavor 
 another slips into his place. 
 
 "How do you do, Mrs. Jones?" says Percival 
 Drummond. 
 
 " Oh, how do you do, Mr. Drummond ? I 
 have n t seen you for ever so long." 
 
 Mr. Lasceet melts into the swaying background, 
 and is seen no more. 
 
 " It really is not nice of you to say so, Mrs. 
 Jones," is Mr. Drummond s response, "when I 
 took you in to dinner at Mrs. Tiger s night before 
 last." 
 
 " Oh, dear me ; how stupid of me ! I really 
 fear I am losing my mind. It is the weather, I 
 think. It is so like a Roman winter, don t you 
 think?"
 
 136 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 "Yes, it is a little." 
 
 " Oh, ever so much. How do you do, dear 
 Mrs. Gray? I am delighted to see you. I was 
 just saying to Mr. Drummond that it seems to me 
 that our winter this year is so much like a Roman 
 winter. Did you ever think of it?" 
 
 " Oh, my dear, I have thought of nothing else 
 all winter. Why, it is just such a day as it was one 
 afternoon two years ago when I was in Rome." 
 
 "Were you in Rome year before last?" Mr. 
 Drummond inquires, with the air of one to whom 
 the answer of the question is of the most vital 
 importance, although he asks only for the sake of 
 being silent no longer. 
 
 " Yes, we went in October and stayed until 
 March. You remember, Mrs. Jones, that we dined 
 with you the very day before we sailed." 
 
 " Why, yes, so you did. I had forgotten all 
 about it. Are you going?" 
 
 " Yes, I really must go. I have three places 
 more to call before I go home, and we are going 
 out to dinner." 
 
 " I shall see you if you dine at the Muchmen s." 
 
 " Oh, are you to be there? How lovely." 
 
 " I hope to take one of you in," Mr. Drum 
 mond says, with a smile of the most brilliant 
 vacuity. 
 
 "Are you to be there, too? Why, it will be 
 quite a reunion. An revoir." 
 
 The crowd swallows Mrs. Gray, and at the same
 
 MRS. FRUFFLES IS AT HOME. 137 
 
 moment Mr. Drummond is seized upon by a sharp- 
 looking elderly female, who drags him off as if she 
 were conveying him into some sly corner where 
 she may devour him undisturbed. Mrs. Jones 
 turns to move toward the other parlor. 
 
 At that moment she is accosted by a lady of an 
 appearance so airy, both as regards dress and man 
 ner, as to suggest that she is a mislaid member of 
 some ballet troupe. 
 
 "Why, how do you do?" she cried, with a 
 vivacity quite in keeping with her appearance. 
 " My dear Mrs. Jones, I have n t seen you since I 
 got back from Europe." 
 
 " Why, Susie Throgmorton, is it really you ? I 
 did n t know you were home." 
 
 " That shows what an unimportant person I 
 am." 
 
 " Oh, I knew you came home from Europe, but 
 I thought you were still in New York." 
 
 " Oh, I only went on to see Aunt Dinah for a 
 couple of days. I got caught in the most awful 
 storm you ever saw." 
 
 " But the winter," Mrs. Chumley Jones observes, 
 with an air of freshness and conviction which is 
 something beautiful to see, " has been as mild as 
 a Roman winter most of the time." 
 
 " Yes, it has been like a Roman winter." 
 
 The crowd separates them and they go their 
 several ways, each repeating that it is like a Roman 
 winter ; but meanwhile the same observation is
 
 138 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 being scattered broadcast by Mr. Maunder, Mr. 
 Lasceet, and Mr. Dmmmond, so that, although 
 there are a good many people in the room, they 
 are in a fair way of being all informed that the 
 winter strongly resembles that of Rome ; a state 
 ment which, if true, may be regarded as of the 
 highest importance. 
 
 It is not until, entering the tea room, Mrs. 
 Chumley Jones encounters Mrs. Quagget, who 
 talks more rapidly than any other known woman, 
 that she has anybody take the words out of her 
 mouth ; but before she can tell Mrs. Quagget that 
 it is like a Roman winter, Mrs. Quagget has im 
 parted that interesting information to her. It is 
 all one, however, since something has been said 
 by one of them ; and Mrs. Chumley Jones is not 
 in the least disconcerted. She still clings to the 
 convenient remark, as she did not take the trouble 
 to bring one with her, and this one suits her pur 
 pose admirably. 
 
 " My dear Miss Tarrart," she exclaims, as she 
 comes upon a wintry young lady of advanced stages 
 of maturity, " how do you do ? I have n t seen you 
 for an age." 
 
 "Why, how do you do, Mrs. Jones?" is the 
 response, delivered in a manner so emphatic as to 
 convey the impression that the reason why Miss 
 Tarrart is so odd-looking is because she has put so 
 much energy into her greetings of her friends. 
 " I am enchanted to see you. When do you go
 
 MRS. FRUFFLES IS AT HOME. 139 
 
 abroad? I am sure one might almost think they 
 were abroad in this weather. It is so 
 
 " Yes," Mrs. Jones interposes, taking the words 
 out of her mouth ; " I was just saying to Mrs. 
 Quagget that this is really quite like a Roman 
 winter ; don t you think so ? " 
 , "Yes, it is," Miss Tarrart answers, with the air 
 of one who has been beaten by unfair means. " It 
 is like a Roman winter." 
 
 " Why don t you come and see me, Miss Tar 
 rart? It really is not kind of you to stay away so 
 long." 
 
 " I am coming very soon ; and you must come 
 and see me." 
 
 " Oh, yes ; I am coming. Do you know which 
 way Mrs. Fruffles is? I really must go." 
 
 " She is in the other room." 
 
 " Well, good-bye, dear." 
 
 "Good-bye." 
 
 The two separate, each thinking how fast the 
 other is growing old. Mrs. Chumley Jones, feeling 
 that she has now done her whole duty, does not 
 even take the trouble any more to tell people that 
 the winter is like a Roman one. She merely 
 makes her way to the hostess. 
 
 " Good bye," she says. "One always has such 
 lovely times at your house, Mrs. Fruffles." 
 
 " Oh, it is so kind of you to say so, when your 
 Fridays are so much pleasanter." 
 
 " It is so kind of you to say so, my dear Mrs.
 
 140 A BOOK a NINE TALES. 
 
 Fruffles ; but I am sorry to say that I cannot agree 
 with you." 
 
 " It is the weather partly," the hostess observes ; 
 " so many people have said to me this afternoon 
 that it seems like a Roman winter." 
 
 "Yes, I was just thinking of that very thing. 
 Well, good-bye, my dear. Be sure and come in on 
 Friday." 
 
 " Oh, I would n t miss it for anything." 
 
 " Good-bye." 
 
 "Good-bye." 
 
 And as far as Mrs. Chumley Jones is concerned, 
 Mrs. Stephen Morgan Fruffles ceases to be "At 
 Home."
 
 Cale tfyt f ourtf). 
 
 JOHN VANTINE.
 
 JOHN VANTINE. 
 
 HE relation of so improbable a story 
 as the following is to be justified 
 only by its truth. The hero is a 
 New York lawyer, sufficiently well 
 known to render the mention of his name, 
 were it allowable to give it, an ample guar 
 antee for the entire trustworthiness of any 
 statement he might make ; and it is perhaps 
 to be regretted that his invincible albeit 
 natural dislike of publicity prevents the 
 production of evidence which would at least 
 establish the fact that his own belief in the 
 appearances by which he was visited is com 
 plete and sincere. 
 
 Mr. Vantine, although a handsome and 
 intellectual-looking man, is by no means a 
 person whose appearance would in any way 
 single him out as likely to be the hero of 
 marvellous adventures. He is neither espe 
 cially imaginative nor credulous. He is sim 
 ply a clear-headed and shrewd business man, 
 such as are nourished in the atmosphere of 
 New York, of all places in the wide world,
 
 144 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 perhaps, the one least likely to nourish fancy 
 or belief in the unseen. To see him going 
 steadily about his affairs down town, it is 
 hardly probable that any observer, however 
 keen, would look on him as the probable 
 object of remarkable hallucinations, or of 
 experiences so far from the ordinary course 
 of human life, as sure to be classed as such 
 by ninety-nine men out of a hundred. 
 
 Yet John Vantine, of whom most of his 
 acquaintances would have said that he was a 
 commonplace man of business, lived for years 
 a double life, into which he did not venture 
 to initiate even his wife, with whom he lived 
 on terms of the warmest sympathy and closest 
 confidence. 
 
 It was on the morning of his wedding-day 
 that certain impressions, which in a vague 
 shape had for years haunted him, first took 
 form so definite that he could not but think 
 of them as something having a tangibility of 
 their own, different though it was from that 
 of the ordinary things which surround com 
 mon human life. He was married at the 
 home of his bride, a pretty village in western 
 Massachusetts. There being no hotel of even 
 decent comfort in the place, Vantine had 
 passed the night at the inn of a town half a 
 dozen miles away, whence he drove over in
 
 JOHN y AN TINE. 145 
 
 the dewy June morning to the scene of his 
 marriage. 
 
 As he passed along between the fields 
 starred with daisies, reflecting in blissful 
 mood upon the beauty of the day and the 
 happiness it brought to him, his horse came 
 suddenly and without warning to a standstill. 
 John instinctively gathered up the reins to 
 start the animal, when to his unspeakable 
 amazement he perceived a man in an Eastern 
 dress of great splendor standing beside the 
 open carriage. PI is robes were of the richest 
 stuffs, while jewels sparkled from every part 
 of his attire. Pie was standing apparently 
 upon a small rug, a circumstance which at 
 the moment impressed Vantine more than his 
 mysterious presence. The stranger saluted 
 the young man with the most profound obei 
 sances, and it was only after repeated genu 
 flections that he spoke. When he did address 
 Vantine, it was in a language of which the 
 latter did not even know the name, although 
 in some astonishing way he still comprehended 
 what was said. 
 
 " Great Master," the stranger greeted him, 
 " will you receive an embassy to congratulate 
 you on your nuptials? " 
 
 Of course I cannot pretend here or else 
 where to give the exact words in which my
 
 146 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 friend was addressed. It was some years 
 before he confided the story to me, and al 
 though I have endeavored to set the words 
 down exactly as he gave them, it must be 
 borne in mind that he made no attempt at 
 literal verbal accuracy. 
 
 That a young man who had been nourished 
 amid the hard commonplaces of New York 
 life should be astounded by an address of 
 this sort was only natural. That Vantine did 
 not lose his head altogether was probably 
 due to certain vague and premonitory expe 
 riences which he never defined very clearly, 
 alluding to them as " passing fancies," " neb 
 ulous impressions," and by other phrases too 
 general to convey exact meaning to my mind. 
 On the present occasion, however, beyond a 
 rather prolonged silence before he answered 
 his interlocutor, he seems to have behaved 
 much as might a man stopped on the street 
 by an ordinary acquaintance. When he 
 spoke, he simply and laconically answered 
 " Yes; " and, as he did so, he swept with his 
 eye the wide horizon which the nature of the 
 country laid open to him, perceiving nowhere 
 sign of anything unusual. 
 
 Scarcely, however, had the monosyllable 
 left his lips when he saw upon the woodside 
 an enormous oriental rug cover the green-
 
 JOHN VAN TINE. 147 
 
 sward, and instantly upon it stood a numer 
 ous company, dressed in the most splendid 
 robes, saluting, and uttering stately but most 
 enthusiastic congratulations. In this, as in all 
 other instances in which my friend has seen 
 figures, the lower portions have appeared 
 first. 
 
 John sat in dignified and very probably 
 half-stupefied silence during this extraordi 
 nary scene, and suddenly, without warning, 
 the whole pageant vanished into the limbo 
 from which it had come. He was once more 
 alone upon a country road, in the bright sun 
 shine of a June forenoon. It was his wed 
 ding morning, and, the vision or whatever it 
 
 O O 
 
 might properly be called having vanished, 
 there was obviously nothing to do but to 
 drive on and be married, a course of action 
 which he carried out to the letter. 
 
 I have fancied, although it is a point upon 
 which I am doubtful, that John made some 
 beginning of a confidence to his bride during 
 the honeymoon of this extraordinary occur 
 rence, and that the levity with which she 
 received his first suggestions prevented his 
 going further in his disclosures. The reason 
 is, however, of no great consequence, but at 
 least the fact is that he did not tell her. He 
 gave a good deal of thought to the matter,
 
 148 A BOOK a NINE TALES. 
 
 corresponded with the Psychical Society, of 
 London, not relating his own experience, but 
 endeavoring to learn of a parallel case. He 
 had, too, some communication with the The- 
 osophical Society, of London, and even with 
 the parent society, of Madras ; and he at one 
 time contemplated making a confidant of 
 Madame Blavatsky, concerning whom, at that 
 time, the European papers were full of mar 
 vellous talcs. 
 
 He docs not seem, so far as I am able to 
 gather from what he has told me, to have hit 
 upon any theory which afforded him a clue 
 to the mystery of his own case; and just as 
 he had made up his mind that the whole 
 was a mere optical delusion, he had a second 
 visitation. 
 
 He was in a Fifth Avenue car on the ele 
 vated road, returning home at night. The 
 car was compactly filled, but before him, as 
 he sat facing the middle of the car, was an 
 open space, two or three feet square. Look 
 ing up, as the train started after stopping 
 at the Twenty-third street station, John saw 
 standing before him the same oriental figure 
 which had greeted him on his wedding day. 
 The stranger s face beamed with joy, and he 
 scarcely waited to finish his profound salu 
 tation before exclaiming, " It is a propitious
 
 JOHN I/ AN TINE. 149 
 
 hour, Great Master. The young prince is a 
 pearl beyond price." 
 
 Vantine s first instinct was to look at his 
 neighbors, to see whether they too beheld 
 the apparition, if apparition it were. The 
 man on his right was looking up from his 
 newspaper with the air of one who had heard 
 the strange words and wished to discover 
 whence they came. The man on the left 
 was gazing at Vantine with an expression of 
 bewildered curiosity. John turned his eyes 
 again to the spot where his strange visitor 
 had been. 
 
 The place was vacant. 
 
 My friend, in relating this, blamed himself 
 severely that he had allowed a natural diffi 
 dence to prevent his asking his neighbors 
 whether they had seen the " Great Mogul," 
 as he began facetiously to dub the phantom 
 in his thoughts. " But," he added, " nobody 
 likes to be taken for a raving idiot, even by 
 a stranger. They certainly looked as if they 
 had seen the figure, but I could n t make 
 up my mind to ask." 
 
 Reaching home, John found that his wife 
 had been prematurely but safely delivered 
 of a lusty son. The messenger sent to his 
 office had missed him, and at the time of 
 the appearance in the car, he declares that
 
 150 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 he was not consciously even thinking of his 
 wife s condition at all. 
 
 When he had time to collect his thoughts 
 after this second visitation, Vantine came 
 firmly to the resolution that if he were ever 
 favored with a third sight of the " Great 
 Mogul," he would at least endeavor to dis 
 cover whether the phantom were appreciable 
 by the sense of touch. He read much about 
 " astral appearances," and a good many more 
 things of the sort, of which my own knowl 
 edge is too limited to permit my writing at 
 all. He formed a hundred theories, and he 
 began to get somewhat confused, to use his 
 own expression, in regard to his identity. 
 He was half convinced that by some mis- 
 working of the law of re-incarnation, the 
 spirit of some Eastern potentate had been 
 put into his body. 
 
 " Or," said he, with a whimsicality which 
 was evidently deeply tinctured with a serious 
 feeling, " that I had got into somebody s else 
 body. If I had known any possible way of 
 stopping the thing, it would, n t have been so 
 bad ; but to have the Great Mogul pop 
 up like a jack-in-a-box, without any warning, 
 was taking me at a disadvantage that I think 
 decidedly unfair." 
 
 Not to lengthen unnecessarily a simple
 
 JOHN YANTINE. 151 
 
 story, the speculations and investigations of 
 Vantine may be passed over, and the narra 
 tive confined to the bare facts. 
 
 It was when John s boy was about two 
 months old that the embassy which had 
 greeted John upon his wedding morning, or 
 one closely resembling it, put in an appear 
 ance in honor of the child s birth. The child 
 and its mother were taking their first drive, 
 and Vantine came home to luncheon rather 
 earlier than usual, to find them out. He went 
 into the library, but had scarcely closed the 
 door behind him, when the whole gorgeous 
 company of his wedding morning were be 
 fore him, and so real did they seem to him 
 that John entirely forgot his intention of 
 grasping the " Great Mogul " by the arm, to 
 convince himself of the reality of that per 
 sonage. The company overflowed with con 
 gratulations, rather florid to my friend s 
 occidentally trained taste, but doubtless poet 
 ical in the extreme from an oriental point of 
 view. Vantine was afterward amused and a 
 little surprised to remember how much as a 
 matter of course he took the adulation offered 
 him, and the ease with which he played the 
 role of " Great Master." 
 
 But suddenly he became so thoroughly 
 amazed that all power of speech or motion
 
 152 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 seemed to forsake him. In the arms of the 
 " Great Mogul" he perceived his baby boy, 
 or an image that seemed to be the child, and 
 to the babe the brilliant company were kneel 
 ing and swearing fealty. The whole cere 
 mony occupied about half an hour, at the encl^ 
 of which time Vantine found himself once- 
 more alone, and upon going downstairs he 
 met his wife and the nurse with the baby re 
 turning from their drive. 
 
 " He s slept like a dormouse," Mrs. Van- 
 tine said, in answer to her husband s inquiry. 
 " I tried to rouse him once, but he would n t 
 wake. I was half frightened, but he seems 
 all right now." 
 
 As they entered the parlor the maid came 
 to inquire if Mr. Vantine had brought com 
 pany to luncheon, as she had heard voices 
 in the library, a circumstance which proved 
 that the sound of the voices of his ghostly vis 
 itors was audible to other ears than his own. 
 
 John vainly wished that the baby, healthy, 
 awake and cooing now, could tell whether 
 dreams or strange experiences had troubled 
 its sleep while its father had seen its image; 
 but that is a point upon which he has never 
 received enlightenment. 
 
 It was one winter night when the baby was 
 six months old that the " Great Mogul "
 
 JOHN VAN TINE. 153 
 
 presented himself again. My friend had been 
 taking a bath, and was dressing for bed when 
 the figure of his visions appeared, and with 
 every mark of terror and consternation pros 
 trated itself at his feet. 
 
 " Great Master," it gasped in the usual for 
 mula, " pardon your slave s intrusion. The 
 enemy are upon us. They " 
 
 With this sentence still unfinished, the 
 vision faded away in an instant, as if some 
 unforeseen catastrophe in whatever region it 
 came from had suddenly recalled the eidolon, 
 or projected presence, or whatever the thing 
 might be. 
 
 More confounded and disturbed than 
 ever, my friend retired to bed, but he was too 
 much excited to sleep. He had much the 
 feeling that one fancies a prince to have over 
 whose heritage distant armies are contending, 
 while he in forced inaction awaits the result. 
 No clue had been given which enabled him 
 to reach a solution of the mystery that in 
 volved him, and nothing further transpired 
 during the night to render matters any 
 plainer. 
 
 On the following afternoon he was obliged 
 to start for Boston on business. As he was 
 elbowing his way through the crowd in the 
 Grand Central station, he heard at his ear the
 
 154 ^ BOOK a NINE TALES. 
 
 well known voice of the " Great Mogul," 
 speaking as usual in the unknown tongue 
 which Vantine understood, yet the identity of 
 which he had never established. There was 
 no visible appearance this time, and the voice, 
 although distinctly audible, seemed to come 
 from a great distance. 
 
 " Great Master," the voice said, " they are 
 beheading me. All is lost." 
 
 " It would be some comfort," John Vantine 
 said, rather irritably, when he confided this 
 strange story to me, " to know what was lost. 
 It would have been uncommonly civil of the 
 Great Mogul to be a little more definite in 
 his information. If the poor fellow lost his 
 head in my service I am profoundly grateful, 
 of course ; but precious little good does it do 
 me. Do you think the Psychical Society 
 would undertake the job of discovering in 
 what part of the universe I am rightfully 
 dubbed the Great Master and that young 
 rascal in the nursery is a prince ! Unless 
 they can do something, I m afraid I shall 
 be a half-starved New York lawyer to the 
 end of the chapter." 
 
 To which I had nothing satisfactory to 
 answer.
 
 THE RADIATOR.
 
 THE RADIATOR. 
 
 A STUDY IN THE MODERN STYLE OF COLLOQUIAL 
 FICTION. 
 
 [Scene, the chamber of Mr. and Mrs. Elision, in an 
 apartment hotel. Time, three A. M. The silence of 
 the night is unbroken, save by the regular breathing 
 of the sleepers, until suddenly, from the steam radi 
 ator, bursts a sound like the discharge of a battery of 
 forty-pound guns .] 
 
 Mrs. E. (springing up in bed] Oh ! eh ? what is 
 that ? 
 
 \_Her husband moves uneasily in his sleep, but does 
 not reply. The noise of the sledge-hammer score of 
 the " Anvil Chorus " rings out from the radiator^} 
 
 Mrs. E. George ! George ! Something is going 
 to happen ! Do wake up, or we shall be mur 
 dered in our sleep ! 
 
 Mr. E. (with mingled ferocity and amusement] 
 There is small danger of anybody s being murdered 
 in his sleep, my dear, where you are. It s only 
 that confounded radiator ; it s always making some 
 sort of an infernal tumult. It can t do any harm. 
 
 Mrs. E. But it will wake baby. 
 
 Mr. E. Well, if it does, the nurse can get him 
 to sleep again, I suppose.
 
 158 A BOOX O NINE TALES. 
 
 [From the. room adjoining is heard a clattering din, 
 as if all the kettles and pans in the house were being 
 tlirown violently across tlie floor.~\ 
 
 Mrs. E. There ! The nursery radiator has be 
 gun. I must go and get baby. 
 
 Mr. E. Let baby alone. If the youngster will 
 sleep, for heaven s sake let him. The steam-pipes 
 make noise enough for this time of night, one 
 would think, without your taking the trouble to 
 wake baby. 
 
 Mrs. E. (with volumes of reproach in her fotie) 
 Your own little baby ! You never loved him as 
 his mother does. 
 
 [ The disturbances now assume the likeness to a 
 thoroughly inebriated drum corps practising -upon 
 sheet-iron air-tight stoves. .] 
 
 Mr. E. Of all unendurable rackets 
 
 [A sudden and sharp boom interrupts him. Mrs. 
 Ellston screams, wJiile her husband indulges in lan 
 guage which, although somewhat inexcusably forcible, 
 is yet to be regarded as not unnatural under the cir 
 cumstances-^ 
 
 Mrs. E. Oh, George, don t swear. It always 
 seems so much worse to swear in danger ; like 
 tempting Providence ; and I know there s going 
 to be an explosion ! 
 
 Mr. E. {severely*} Don t talk nonsense ! The 
 engineer has gone to sleep and left the drafts open, 
 that s all. Don t be so absurd. 
 
 {There is another fusillade f torn the radiator, rein 
 forced by the reverberations from tlic nursery, tvhire
 
 THE RADIATOR. 159 
 
 a regiment of artillery seem to have begun target 
 practice] 
 
 Mrs. E. I -will go and get my baby ! I know 
 Oh, George, just hear it crash ! Do get up and 
 put the screen in front of it ; that may turn off the 
 pieces so they won t come this way. 
 
 Mr. E. {scornfully} Pieces of what? Noise? 
 
 Mrs. E. How can you make fun? If the en 
 gineer has gone to sleep, he s sure to blow up the 
 whole hotel. I "m going to get up and dress myself, 
 and take baby over to mother s ! 
 
 Mr. E. (with calm but cutting irony} At three 
 o clock in the morning? Shall you walk, or call a 
 carriage ? 
 
 Mrs. E. (beginning to sob in a dry and perfunc 
 tory fashion} Oh, you are too cruel ! You are 
 perfectly heartless. I wonder you don t take that 
 dear little innocent baby and hold him between 
 you and the radiator for a shield. 
 
 Mr. E. That might be a good scheme, my dear, 
 only the little beggar would probably howl so that 
 I have n t really the moral courage to wake him. 
 
 [ The indignant reply of Mrs. E listen is lost in the 
 confused sound of the brays of a drove of brazen don 
 keys, which appear to be disporting themselves in the 
 radiator. The noise of mighty rushing waters, the 
 clanking of chains, the din of a political convention, 
 the characteristic disturbances of a hundred factories 
 and machine-shops, with the deafening whirr of all 
 the elevated railways in the universe follow in tnrn.~\ 
 
 Mrs. E. I will go and get my baby, and I will
 
 160 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 go to mother s ; and, what is more, we will never, 
 never come back ! 
 
 Mr. E. Oh, just as you please about going, my 
 dear ; only you know that if you desert my bed 
 and board, the law gives the boy to me. 
 
 Mrs. E. I don t believe it s any such thing ; 
 and if it is, it is because men made the law. 
 Women would n t take a baby away from its 
 mother. 
 
 Mr. E. Have what theories you choose, my 
 dear ; only please let me get a few crumbs of sleep, 
 now the radiator has had the mercy to subside. 
 
 Mrs. E. You are a brute, and I won t ever 
 speak to you again ! 
 
 \Shefirmly assumes a stony silence, and the radi 
 ator, after a few concluding ejaculations and metallic 
 objurgations, also relapses into comparative stillness. 
 Mr. Elision s breathing begins to give strong indica 
 tions that slumber has re-descended upon his weary 
 frame.] 
 
 Mrs. E. (starting up with the inspiration of an 
 entirely new and startling idea} George ! George ! 
 George ! 
 
 Mr. E. (with less good humor than might be 
 desired) Eh ? 
 
 Mrs. E. Was n t it wonderful for baby to sleep 
 through it all? 
 
 Mr. E. {drowsily} Yes ; droll little beggar. 
 His mother wasn t in the nursery to wake him, 
 though.
 
 THE RADIATOR. l6l 
 
 Mrs. . You don t suppose there is anything 
 the matter with him ? George ! George, I say ! 
 you don t suppose the reason he sleeps so soundly 
 is because he s sick? 
 
 [ To this conundrum Mr. Ellston offers no solution, 
 and equally passes in silence queries in regard to the 
 probability of the nurse s being awake, alive, well- 
 disposed, and able to take care of baby in case of emer 
 gency. Mrs. Ellston sighs with the desperation of 
 long-suffering anguish, and once more stillness reigns 
 in tlie chamber. The lady again arouses herself, 
 however, from an apparently sound nap to ask, in 
 penetrating tones, ] 
 
 " George, do you think it will begin all over 
 again? " 
 
 ( To which her brutal tvorscr half grumbles 
 out the reply) " No ! and that s where it is more 
 endurable than a woman." 
 
 \_At which the radiator gives a chuckle so apt as to 
 suggest the possession of a sinister consciousness on 
 the part of that noisy instrument of torture. Mrs. 
 Ellston groans, with the discouraged conviction that 
 she is but one against two, and itpoti this theory at 
 length consents to resume her interrupted slumbers J\
 
 Cafe tfje fifty. 
 
 MERE MARCHETTE.
 
 MERE MARCHETTE. 
 
 I. 
 
 T was half-past eleven of a hot July 
 day in Paris. The sunlight lay 
 over the whole city and shone no 
 where more strongly than upon 
 the great hospital of the Salpetriere. The 
 hush of noon brooded over all the place. 
 Nobody was stirring unless forced to activity 
 by some pressing duty. In the long white 
 wards the patients were asleep or lying quiet 
 in exhaustion under the burning fervor of the 
 summer heat. 
 
 Down one of the corridors, where it seemed 
 refreshingly cool after the warmth of the 
 outer air from which he had come, a young 
 man was passing. His step, though rapid, 
 had the noiseless quality which bespeaks 
 familiarity with the sick-room and the hos 
 pital. His figure was compact and nervous, 
 his glance clear and keen. Dr. Jean Lom- 
 mel was one of the house physicians of the
 
 1 66 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 Salpetriere, although that he was not now 
 making his regular rounds was evident from 
 the fact that entering a certain ward he 
 passed quickly to a bed near the middle of 
 it without stopping at any of the others. 
 
 On the bed lay an old woman. Her face 
 was one which showed great strength" of 
 character. It was of a marked peasant type, 
 and for all its innumerable wrinkles, its 
 sunken temples, the coarse texture of its 
 skin, and the shrunken lips which showed 
 the lack of teeth behind them, it was full of 
 a nobility and kindliness which no ravages 
 of time or disease could wholly hide. The 
 hair that straggled in thin locks from beneath 
 the white cap was hardly less snowy than the 
 lawn which covered it; and when the patient 
 opened her sunken eyes, as the doctor 
 stopped beside the bed, they were bright 
 and shining with a lustre which was not all 
 either fever or anxiety. Her glance was one 
 of intense and pitiful inquiry. The young 
 man touched her white hair with the tips of 
 his long, fine fingers in a pitying caress be 
 fore he took hold of the withered wrist, 
 shrunken and marked with blue veins, that 
 lay outside the coverlid. 
 
 " In an hour, Mere Marchette," he said, 
 answering her look " in an hour he will be
 
 MERE MARCHETTE. l6j 
 
 here ; keep up a good heart. You do not 
 suffer? " 
 
 The old woman feebly shook her head. 
 The ghost of a smile, faint but full of happi 
 ness, shone on her face. She did not speak, 
 but she thanked him with a look before she 
 closed her eyes and lay motionless as before 
 he had come. 
 
 The young man looked at her a moment, 
 an expression of pity in his brown eyes ; then 
 with a sigh he turned away and moved softly 
 down the ward again. By the door he en 
 countered one of the nurses, who had risen 
 and come forward to speak with him. 
 
 " Will she live, M. Lommel? " 
 
 " Yes," the doctor answered. " She has 
 given all her energies for days to keeping 
 alive till her grandson gets here. It is very 
 singular," he went on, in a voice of low dis 
 tinctness that could have been acquired only 
 in sick-rooms, " how her instinct has taught 
 her to save her strength. She neither moves 
 nor speaks ; she simply lives." 
 
 " She has been that way," the nurse re 
 turned, "ever since we told her that Pierre 
 was coming. Will he be here by twelve? " 
 
 " Not till half-past twelve," Dr. Lommel 
 replied. " I will return before then." 
 
 And he went out into the hot sunshine.
 
 1 68 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 II. 
 
 EVERYBODY connected with the ward of 
 the Salpetriere wherein she was had a kindly 
 feeling for poor old Mere Marchette. The 
 doctors and the nurses could not have been 
 more kind or more tender had she been of 
 their own blood. She was one of those who 
 always win affection. She was so patient, so 
 simple, so kindly. She was a peasant woman 
 from Normandy, who had in her old age 
 drifted to Paris with her grandson Pierre, a 
 lad of sixteen years. All the rest of the fam 
 ily were dead. Pierre s father had been a 
 soldier, and it was with the hope of securing 
 a pension for the son that Mere Marchette had 
 left her home and the life in Normandy she 
 loved, to throw herself into Paris as into the 
 sea. The dead soldier, however, had been 
 mustered out before the malarial fever, con 
 tracted in the swamps of the Landes, had de 
 veloped itself, and the pension could not be 
 obtained. The disappointment was a bitter 
 one, made worse by the fact that Mere Mar 
 chette had been told by one and another that 
 the claim would have been granted had the 
 case been properly managed. The poor old 
 creature could not escape a feeling of self-
 
 MERE MARCHETTE. 169 
 
 blame in thinking that it was her want of 
 keenness which had deprived Pierre of his 
 pension. Her grandson for her represented 
 the world, and to him she devoted all her en 
 ergies. She toiled for him, and watched and 
 suffered with that unselfish egotism possible 
 only to the old and lonely. 
 
 Fortunately Pierre was a good lad, who 
 returned his grandmother s love with a devo 
 tion hardly less complete than her own. 
 They lived together in two attic rooms, 
 where they passed the evenings sitting in 
 the dark and talking of their Normandy 
 home. They recalled the past and built 
 endless air castles of the time when they 
 should be able to return. They had grand 
 plans of repurchasing the old cot where both 
 of them had been born, and which had been 
 lost by the foreclosure of a mortgage after 
 the long illness of Pierre s father had ended. 
 They were never tired of talking of what 
 they would do then, and of devising little 
 ways in which the worn-out old farm might 
 be made more profitable. They remained 
 as truly children of the soil as if they had 
 been still in Normandy instead of in their 
 attic in the midst of Pan s. 
 
 In the daytime Mere Marchette went out 
 to do work as charwoman, while Pierre had
 
 1 70 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 been fortunate enough to obtain a place as 
 assistant in a little grocery in Rue M. le 
 Prince. It was in connection with this 
 that Pierre gave his grandmother the only 
 real grief he ever caused her while they were 
 together. Suddenly the boy began to stay 
 away in the evening, and when Mere Mar- 
 chette sought to know the reason he put her 
 questions aside. One evening as she was 
 making her way home she saw her grand 
 son chatting with a girl at the door of a 
 
 o o 
 
 milliner s dingy shop. The heart of poor 
 old Mere Marchette sunk within her. The 
 castles in the air, from whose glittering tow 
 ers had shone delusive lights to strengthen 
 
 o o 
 
 and encourage her, fell in ruins before 
 her eyes. In a moment the burden of her 
 age, her poverty, her weariness, seemed in 
 creased tenfold. Feebly she climbed the 
 long stairs and sat down to wait, heart 
 broken. She had all the peasant s instinc 
 tive distrust of Paris : she had not been able 
 to live in the Latin Quarter without compre 
 hending something of the evil about her, 
 although, happily for her, the worst features 
 of Parisian life would have been so unintel 
 ligible that she might have seen them un 
 moved. She thought no evil now of Pierre, 
 but she was seized with a terrible fear lest
 
 MERE MARCHETTE. IJl 
 
 he might fall a victim to one of the sirens 
 of the Latin Quarter, who, to Mere Mar- 
 chette s thinking, destroyed soul and body 
 alike. 
 
 Mere Marchette did not tell Pierre of the 
 discovery she had made. She was only 
 more gentle with him, while in secret she 
 prayed more fervently. For some days 
 longer the lad s mysterious absence contin 
 ued, the sad hours of the evening stretching 
 like long deserts of agony, over which the 
 soul of Mere Marchette walked painfully 
 with bleeding feet. And then one night 
 Pierre came home with eyes aglow, and 
 all was explained. He put into his grand 
 mother s hand a little pile of francs, a sum 
 pitiful enough in itself but large to them, 
 and told how a milliner in the street beyond 
 had employed him in moving boxes and 
 clearing out the attics of her house, which 
 were to be remodelled into lodgings. This 
 had been his secret, and in his thought of 
 the joyful surprise he was to give his grand 
 mother he had forgotten the pain she might 
 endure by misunderstanding his absence. 
 
 It was such trifles as this that were the 
 great events in the life of Mere Marchette 
 and Pierre. There was a tenderness, an 
 unselfishness, an idyllic devotion in their
 
 1/2 A BOOK a NINE TALES. 
 
 love which no amount of wealth, or culture, 
 or rank could have heightened ; but in the 
 lad s veins was the blood of a soldier, that 
 stirred hot with the currents of a vigorous 
 youth. Of the army he had dreamed from 
 his cradle, and strong as was his love for 
 Mere Marchette the force of destiny was 
 stronger. It was the old tragedy of youth 
 and age, of the absorption of maternal love 
 and the restless impulses of the boy s heart. 
 Pierre justified his desire to himself with the 
 excuse that he could earn more money in 
 the ranks ; but his grandmother knew, only 
 too well, the force of the instinct he had 
 inherited. She had seen the same struggle 
 in the life of his father 
 
 When Pierre was eighteen he shouldered 
 his musket and marched away, leaving poor 
 old Mere Marchette as much a stranger in 
 Paris as when she had come to it two years 
 before to weep arid pray alone. It would 
 hardly be within th e power of words to paint 
 the anguish which lay between Pierre s depart 
 ure and that hot July noon when Mere Mar 
 chette lay dying at the Salpetriere. Always 
 in Paris she had been like a wild thing, caged 
 and bewildered, confused by the life that 
 swirled about her in the great city, even 
 when she had been sustained by the presence
 
 MERE MARCHETTE. 1/3 
 
 of Pierre. When he was gone the gentle 
 old soul began to die of homesickness and 
 heartbreak. For two years she fought death 
 stolidly but persistently, refusing to acknowl 
 edge to herself that she was breaking down 
 under the stress of loneliness and sorrow. 
 She came of a race that died hard, and al 
 though she was past eighty she looked for 
 ward hopefully to the time when Pierre 
 should leave the army and come back to 
 live with her again. 
 
 But the struggle for existence in Paris 
 was hard, even when the joy of working 
 for Pierre sustained her; when he was gone 
 it became intolerable. At the end of two 
 years the strength and courage even of the 
 sturdy Norman peasant woman were exhaust 
 ed ; and then a dreadful disease, which had 
 before shown itself in her family, seemed to 
 take advantage of her weakness to spring 
 upon her. She had been a charwoman in 
 the family of Jean Lommel s mother, and 
 so it came about that through the influence 
 of the young doctor she had been admitted 
 to the Salpetriere when she was already 
 dying from cancer in the stomach. 
 
 There was no patient in the ward who 
 was not of better birth than Mere Marchette. 
 She was of all most deficient in education,
 
 1/4 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 in knowledge of the world, in the graces of 
 life ; and yet of them all it was only the 
 poor old peasant woman who awakened in 
 the minds of the attendants a glow of genu 
 ine affection. There are some people who 
 are born to be loved, and when these rare 
 beings remain worthy of it, neither age, nor 
 poverty, nor sickness can destroy their power 
 of awaking affection. The hired nurses 
 touched their lips to her forehead in kisses 
 given furtively, as if they were surprised, 
 and prepared to be ashamed of the emotion 
 which called from them this unwonted dis 
 play. The doctors spoke to her in tones 
 unprofessionally soft, while Dr Lommel, 
 who had charge of the ward, treated her 
 with an affectionate courtesy scarcely less 
 warm than that he would have shown to his 
 own grandmother. They all knew that 
 Mere Marchette must die, and from counting 
 the time in weeks they had dropped to 
 days, and then to hours. Indeed it seemed 
 only the old woman s will which kept her 
 alive now until Pierre should come. She 
 had borne all her sufferings without a mur 
 mur, but she had not been able wholly to 
 repress the cry of her heart. The young 
 soldier s regiment was in Algiers, and there 
 had been difficulties about his furlough.
 
 MERE MARCHETTE. l/$ 
 
 Had it been any other death-bed in the hos 
 pital to which he had been summoned these 
 difficulties would hardly have been sur 
 mounted ; but in behalf of Mere Marchette 
 the physicians had worked so zealously that 
 all obstacles were removed and Pierre s leave 
 of absence granted. From the moment she 
 had been told that her grandson was on 
 his way she had been perfectly quiet, and, 
 as the doctor said, had devoted her whole 
 being to keeping alive until Pierre should 
 come. 
 
 And on this hot July noon the train which 
 was bringing Pierre was drawing nearer to 
 Paris, and Mere Marchette lay so still that 
 she seemed scarcely to breathe, so still 
 that one might fancy she would not even 
 think, lest in so doing she exhaust some 
 precious grain of strength and so should die 
 without the blessiner of that last embrace. 
 
 III. 
 
 WHOEVER keeps himself informed of the 
 course of modern scientific investigations is 
 likely to be aware that during the last decade 
 especial attention has been given at the Sal- 
 petriere to that strange physical or psychical
 
 1/6 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 force known as hypnotism. M. Charcot, 
 chief of the school of the Salpetrierc, has 
 particularly distinguished himself by his 
 researches. Attacked at first by his pro 
 fessional brethren, it has been his good 
 fortune to live to see the scientific value of 
 hypnotism acknowledged, and to be trium 
 phantly readmitted to the Academy of Sci 
 ences, which had at first stigmatized his 
 investigations as mere charlatanism. Charles 
 Fere, an assistant physician at the Salpetriere, 
 with Richer, Bourneville, and nearly a score 
 other distinguished men, have pursued their 
 investigations with great zeal and thorough 
 ness, and have produced a valuable literature 
 devoted to this intricate subject. 
 
 It will be easily understood that all the 
 physicians at the Salpetriere, and especially 
 the younger men, could not fail to be deeply 
 interested in this new and fascinating branch 
 of science. The facts upon which had been 
 founded the theories of mesmerism, animal 
 magnetism, and other shadowy systems were 
 reduced to order and scientifically tested. 
 M. Charcot and his associates worked with 
 much care and thoroughness, and, without 
 being able to solve the mystery of the force 
 with which they dealt, they proved its value 
 as a therapeutic agent. In the cure of ner-
 
 MERE MARCHETTE. 177 
 
 vous diseases, and in dealing with hysterical 
 patients, they obtained remarkable and satis 
 factory results. They were even able to 
 alleviate suffering by simply assuring the 
 patient, while in a hypnotic sleep, that he 
 would be free from pain on waking. 
 
 To the outside observer no feature of this 
 strange power is more remarkable than the 
 influence the hypnotist may exert over his 
 subject after the trance is broken. A hypno 
 tized person may be told to perform any act 
 on awaking, and, when seemingly restored 
 to his normal condition, bears the impress 
 of that command so strongly that he is urged 
 to obey it by an irresistible impulse. It is 
 quite as easy, moreover, to foist upon the 
 patients the most extraordinary delusions. 
 The subject is tolcl that upon awaking a 
 bottle will seem to be a lamp, a blank card 
 a picture, or any other deception which comes 
 into the mind of the hypnotist ; and so per 
 fect is the working of this mysterious and 
 terrible law that the delusion is accomplished 
 to its minutest details. 
 
 Dr. Lommel, like all his young confreres, 
 had become intensely interested in all these 
 researches, so like a scientific realization of 
 the fairy tales of the Orient. He had even 
 tried some experiments on his own account;
 
 1/8 A BOOK a NINE TALES, 
 
 and when the sufferings of Mere Marchette 
 became pitifully intense he had ventured to 
 attempt the substitution of hypnotism for 
 opiates in relieving her distress. The old 
 woman had not easily yielded to this influ 
 ence. Susceptibility to hypnotism is more 
 apt to be found in hysterical or nervously 
 sensitive subjects than in such sturdy char 
 acters. By degrees, however, Dr. Lommel 
 established control over her In the end, 
 to throw her into a hypnotic sleep he had 
 only to hold his forefinger an inch or two 
 from her forehead, so that her eyes in 
 looking at it turned upward and inward a 
 little. He did not experiment with Mere 
 Marchette ; he felt too tenderly toward the 
 old woman to make her the subject of scien 
 tific investigation outside of the direct line 
 of treatment. He simply said, " When you 
 awaken you will be free from pain, Mere 
 Marchette ; " then he would breathe lightly 
 on her forehead and the sick woman would 
 awaken, to lie as peaceful and painless as if 
 no terrible disease was gnawing like a tiger 
 at her vitals. 
 
 The case had attracted a good deal of at 
 tention at the Salpetriere, and although Mere 
 Marchette was utterly ignorant of it, her sick 
 bed was a point of interest toward which
 
 MERE MARCHETTE. 179 
 
 were turned the thoughts of physicians over 
 half of Europe. The unlearned peasant, to 
 whom the simplest terms of science would 
 have been unintelligible, was furnishing data 
 for future scientific treatises; and people 
 of whose very existence she was unaware 
 read the daily bulletins of her condition with 
 closest eagerness. 
 
 IV. 
 
 IT was a few minutes after twelve o clock 
 when Dr. Lommel reentered the ward. Mere 
 Marchette lay apparently sleeping, but as lu 
 approached her bedside the old eyes opened 
 with a piercing and eager question. The 
 young man shook his head, smiling tenderly. 
 
 "Not quite yet, Mere Marchette," he said; 
 " there are still some minutes to wait." 
 
 He sat down beside the bed and laid his 
 fingers on her wrist. The pulse was so faint 
 that he could scarcely feel it, but it was 
 steady. For some minutes he remained 
 quiet, with his eyes fixed on the poor old 
 face before him. There came into his mind 
 the thought of what this woman s life had 
 been : her childhood and youth in the hut of 
 a Norman peasant; of what her own home 
 might have been when she became a wife
 
 180 A BOOK a NINE TALES. 
 
 and mother; of the desolation which had 
 come upon her in the death of all her family 
 save only Pierre ; of the strange fate that had 
 brought her to Paris ; of the terrible wrench 
 which her old heart must have felt when her 
 grandson was taken from her ; and of the 
 pathetic patience with which she had borne 
 privation, loneliness, and suffering. 
 
 He knew only the outlines of her history, 
 since Mere Marchette had spoken little of 
 herself. What her feelings might have been 
 
 o o 
 
 he could only imagine : the old woman could 
 not have told her mental experiences ; she 
 had never even analyzed them. Unless he 
 had been a peasant and a mother himself, 
 Lommel could not have divined Mere Mar- 
 chette s emotions ; he could only reflect what 
 he should have felt in her place. He said 
 to himself at last that, after all, the cir 
 cumstances which made Mere Marchette s 
 lot so pathetic must also have deadened 
 her sensibilities and so have softened her 
 suffering. 
 
 He sighed and looked at his watch. His 
 assistant had gone to the railway station to 
 meet Pierre, and the time he had fixed for 
 their return was already past by five minutes. 
 He felt again of his patient s pulse, with a 
 terrible dread lest after all the young soldier
 
 MERE MARCHETTE. I Si 
 
 should arrive too late. The artery throbbed 
 more feebly, but still steadily ; and at his 
 touch the sick woman opened her eyes with 
 the old questioning look. 
 
 " Patience, Mere Marchette," he said, nod 
 ding encouragingly; " all goes well." 
 
 She did not speak, but she gave him a 
 look so eloquent with gratitude that words 
 were not needed. Then she lay quiet again 
 and the silent watch went on. Five minutes 
 passed, ten, fifteen ; the young doctor be 
 came extremely uneasy. At last in the dis 
 tance he heard a clock strike one. At the 
 sound Mere Marchette opened her eyes with 
 a quick, startled glance. 
 
 " Pierre ! " she cried, in a voice of intense 
 love and terror. 
 
 " Victor has gone to the station to meet 
 him ; patience yet a little." 
 
 The old woman regarded him with a look 
 of terrible pathos. 
 
 " God could not let me die without seeing 
 Pierre," she murmured. 
 
 At that moment, through the still after 
 noon, was heard the sound of a carriage. 
 Mere Marchette s eyes shone with a wild and 
 fevered expression. 
 
 " You must be calm," Lommel said. " I 
 will bring him to you."
 
 1 82 A BOOK a NINE TALES. 
 
 He administered the little stimulant she 
 could take, and passed quickly out into the 
 corridor. 
 
 V. 
 
 DR. LOMMEL closed the door of the ward 
 behind him and started down the corridor, 
 but at the first step he stopped suddenly with 
 a terrible sinking of the heart. Victor was 
 coming toward him, but alone, and with a 
 white face, 
 
 " Victor," Jean cried, in a voice intense but 
 low, " what has happened ? Where is Pierre? " 
 
 " There has been an accident," Victor re 
 turned. " A bridge broke under his train." 
 
 " But you do not know -"began Lommel. 
 
 " Yes," the other interrupted ; " M. de 
 Brue, who was on the train and escaped with 
 a broken arm, was in the same compartment 
 with Pierre. He rode through on the engine 
 that came in for help. Pierre had told him I 
 \vas to meet him, and so when M. de Brue 
 saw me he stopped to say that the soldier was 
 struck on the chest and killed instantly." 
 
 Dr. Lommel stood regarding his compan 
 ion with terror and compassion in his look. 
 
 " O won Dieu ! " he said ; " poor Mere 
 Marchette ! "
 
 MERE MARCHETTE. 183 
 
 " It will kill her," Victor responded. 
 
 " That is nothing," was the doctor s reply. 
 " It is not death, but the agony she will 
 suffer." 
 
 At that moment the nurse came out of the 
 ward and hurried down the corridor to join 
 them. 
 
 " M. le Docteur," she said, " I beg your 
 pardon, but the excitement of Mere Mar- 
 chettc is so great that I venture to suggest 
 that her grandson hurry." 
 
 She glanced around as she spoke, and saw 
 that he was not there. An exclamation rose 
 to her lips ; the doctor checked her by a 
 glance. 
 
 " Go back to Mere Marchette," said he, " and 
 say that I am cautioning Pierre Stay, 
 I will go myself. Wait here, Victor." 
 
 He went back into the ward and passed 
 down between the cots, from which eyes that 
 the indifference of illness scarcely left human, 
 watched him with faint curiosity. Mere Mar 
 chette was sitting up in bed, trembling with 
 eagerness and excitement. All the reserve 
 which she had maintained for weeks had been 
 swept aside. The moment for which she had 
 kept herself alive had come at last, and there 
 was no longer any need to save her energy. 
 Her eyes shone, a feverish glow was on her
 
 1 84 ^ BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 cheek, even her withered lips had taken on 
 for the moment a wan and ghostly red. It 
 seemed to the doctor, as he looked at her, as 
 if all the vitality which remained in her feeble 
 frame was being expended in a last quick fire. 
 
 " Ah," he said, " I have been warning 
 Pierre to be calm, when it is you to whom I 
 should speak. Come, it will take only a mo 
 ment, but I must give you treatment before I 
 can let you see him." 
 
 As he spoke he put his forefinger up to her 
 forehead with a gesture he always used in 
 hypnotizing her. Mere Marchette struggled 
 a moment as if she could not yield to any 
 thing which delayed her reunion with Pierre ; 
 then she sank into a hypnotic sleep. The 
 doctor leaned forward and spoke with an 
 emphasis which he had never before used 
 with his patient. 
 
 " When you awake," he said, " you will see 
 Pierre; the person I shall bring to you is 
 your grandson. Remember," he repeated, 
 " it is Pierre who will come in with me." 
 
 He breathed on her eyelids in the usual 
 method of awaking her. 
 
 " Now," he said, " I will bring him, Mere 
 Marchette." 
 
 He went back to where Victor and the 
 nurse were awaiting him.
 
 MERE MARCHETTE. 185 
 
 " Victor," he said quickly, " you know the 
 experiment M. Charcot tried yesterday when 
 he made a hypnotized patient believe one 
 person was another ; I have told Mere Mar- 
 chctte that you are Pierre. You must take 
 his place; come quickly." 
 
 The young man drew back. 
 
 " I cannot," he protested. 
 
 " You must," Lommel returned, almost 
 fiercely. " Come." 
 
 VI. 
 
 IT was with terrible inward misgiving that 
 Jean and Victor entered the ward ; but as 
 soon as the eyes of Mere Marchette fell upon 
 the latter they knew that the experiment was 
 a success. Such a look of yearning love il 
 lumined the withered old features, such an 
 unspeakable joy shone in the sunken eyes, 
 such quivering eagerness was expressed by 
 the outstretched hands, that the young men 
 found their way to the bedside blinded by 
 tears. An inarticulate cry, that was half 
 moan and half sob, burst from the lips of 
 Mere Marchette as Victor fell on his knees 
 by the bedside. Carried out of himself by 
 genuine feeling, the young man had no need
 
 1 86 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 to simulate the emotions necessary for the 
 part he was playing. Seizing the wrinkled 
 hand which lay before him on the bed he 
 covered it with tears and kisses ; then, with 
 a cry of piercing sweetness, Mere Marchette 
 flung herself forward into his arms. 
 
 " O Pierre, Pierre ! " she sobbed. " Oh, the 
 good God, the good God ! " 
 
 She clasped her arms about his neck, she 
 strained him to her breast, the feebleness of 
 her dying embrace transformed to strength 
 by the divine fervor of maternal love. She 
 mingled her kisses with a soft and hardly 
 articulate babble of endearing words; the 
 terms which she had used over his cradle she 
 mingled with the pet names of his childhood 
 and the loving speech which belonged to 
 maturer years. She held him away from her 
 that she might look at him, and her eyes 
 were holden so that she saw in his face the 
 changes that her fancy had pictured in think 
 ing of the real Pierre. 
 
 " Ah," she said, " how brown thou hast 
 grown ; and thou art such a man now ! Ah, 
 thou rogue," she went on, laughing softly, " I 
 knew thou hadst grown a beard and not a 
 word of it in thy letters. But I knew." 
 
 She put her thin fingers under his chin and 
 with a sudden gravity lifted his face.
 
 MERE MARCHETTE. 1 87 
 
 "Look in my eyes," she said ; "why dost 
 thou turn away? Hastthou not been a good 
 boy ; hast thou not loved the good God? " 
 
 Poor Victor, overwhelmed with the dread 
 ful consciousness of deceit, found it almost 
 impossible, in face of this touching and pious 
 affection, to meet the old woman s glance. 
 He struggled to force himself to look into her 
 eyes unwaveringly. Dr. Lommel laid his 
 hand upon his companion s shoulder. 
 
 " Yes, Mere Marchette," said he, " Pierre 
 is a good lad ; that I will answer for." 
 
 The old woman raised her eyes toward 
 heaven, and her lips moved. She was evi 
 dently praying. She had received extreme 
 unction just before noon, but this moment in 
 which she commended her grandson to God 
 was to her no less solemn than that of her 
 own last communion. Then she put out her 
 hand to Dr. Lommel with her smile of won 
 derful sweetness and an air of noble simplicity. 
 
 " You have been so kind to old Mere Mar 
 chette/ were her words ; " the good God 
 will reward you." 
 
 He looked at the old dying peasant woman 
 and tried to speak, but his sobs choked him. 
 He bent and kissed her hand and laid it back 
 gently in that of Victor. Her little strength 
 was evidently failing fast. With a last effort
 
 1 88 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 she made a movement to drag herself nearer 
 to Victor. He understood her wish and sup 
 ported her in his arms. 
 
 " Promise me," she murmured, her voice 
 wasted almost to a whisper, " that thou wilt 
 be good." 
 
 " I promise," he answered. 
 
 And the words were no less sincere because 
 she mistook the speaker. A smile of heavenly 
 rapture came over her face ; she tried to speak 
 and failed. But Victor understood her wish 
 and kissed her. As their lips parted she 
 sighed quiveringly. 
 
 " She is dead," said Dr. Lommel. 
 
 VII. 
 
 VICTOR laid the body gently back upon 
 the bed and rose to his feet. He seized his 
 friend by the shoulders ; the tears were 
 streaming down his cheeks. 
 
 "O mon Dieu, Jean!" he cried, "to de 
 ceive such trust. I feel as if I had been vio 
 lating a sacrament." 
 
 " I know," the other answered ; " but ah, 
 how happy she was ! "
 
 fntcrtoc f iftf). 
 
 SUCH SWEET SORROW;
 
 "SUCH SWEET SORROW." 
 
 Parting is such sweet sorrow. 
 
 Romeo and Juliet, ii. 2. 
 
 [A drawing-room. Fanny Motley, who has been 
 making a long call upon Jier bosom friend, Alice 
 Langley, has at last risen to go.~\ 
 
 Alice. Oh, don t go yet. I have n t told you 
 half the things I wanted to. 
 
 Fanny. Oh, I must go. I Ve got to go home to 
 dress for Mrs. Fresco s dinner. Do you suppose 
 Jack will be there? 
 
 A. He told me he was going. 
 
 F. Oh, I do hope he won t fail. I do so want 
 to joke him about his sleigh-ride with Ella. Do 
 you suppose she wore her hat with the orange 
 plumes? It s awfully unbecoming to her. It 
 makes her look just salmon color. 
 
 A. She always had perfectly hideous taste. Do 
 you remember that dowdy gown of green plush 
 and mauve tulle she wore to Kate West s german? 
 It was a perfect dream of horror. 
 
 F. Yes; didn t she look /><?;-- fectly hideous? 
 Well (moving toward the door}, come and see me 
 just as soon as you can.
 
 IQ2 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 A. I 11 come in to-morrow before sewing-circle, 
 if I can, to hear about the dinner. Don t be too 
 hard on Jack. You know he s aw-i\\\\y thin- 
 skinned. 
 
 F. Oh, I won t be hard on him. 
 
 A. (pausing as they reach the door) Is that the 
 boa you had Christmas? 
 
 F. Yes; isn t it lovely? But I told mamma I 
 knew she got it because she knew I d got to have 
 one, and she d got to give me something. 
 
 A. How mean of you ! 
 
 F. Oh, she did n t mind. She s used to it. Be 
 sure and come in to-morrow. 
 
 A. Yes, I will. Oh, did I tell you that Tom 
 Jones has invited Sophia Weston to go to the 
 opera Saturday night? 
 
 F. You don t mean it. Has he, really? 
 
 A. Yes ; Ethel Mott told me this morning. 
 
 F. Do you suppose he is in earnest, after all? 
 
 A. Oh, there s no telling about him. Frank 
 says they bet about it at the club. 
 
 F. About him and Sophia? 
 
 A. Yes ; whether he 11 propose before Lent. 
 
 F. How /^r-fectly horrid ! Men are the worst 
 creatures. I declare, I think those dreadful clubs 
 ought to be suppressed. 
 
 A. So do I. They do say the most outrageous 
 things. I don t see how they can sit and listen to 
 them. 
 
 F. I don t, either.
 
 "SUCH. SWEET SORROWS 193 
 
 A. And they talk over all the scandals. 
 
 F. Yes, it is simply diabolical. How perfectly 
 sweet it is to have a brother who will tell you all 
 about it. 
 
 A. Isn t it? It is almost as good as going 
 myself. 
 
 F. Will never tells me a single thing {moving 
 on into the. hall}. Well, be sure you come, and 
 come as early as you can. Good-bye. {Kisses 
 her.) 
 
 A. Good-bye. That boa is just as becoming 
 as it can be. 
 
 F. Do you think so? Clara Martin s makes 
 her look as if she had n t any neck at all. 
 
 A. Oh, you can wear anything. 
 
 F. Thank you, dear. But then you can afford 
 to say so, because you can wear anything yourself. 
 Would you ask Jack about the orange feathers? 
 
 A. Oh, he wouldn t know. Men never know 
 what girls have on, except Clarence Key, and 
 he s a perfect man-milliner. Did I tell you what 
 he said to Kate West at the Westons tea? I d 
 have scratched his eyes out. 
 
 F. No ; what in the world did he say? 
 
 A. You won t repeat it? Because I told Kate 
 I would n t tell. She was so furious she had to tell 
 somebody. 
 
 F. I 11 never tell. What was it? 
 
 A. You know that tailor-made gown she wears? 
 The one made of gray corduroy? Well, Clarence 
 13
 
 194 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 Key asked her if she got it so her husband could 
 have it made into riding trousers, after she was 
 done with it. Did you ever hear such imper 
 tinence? 
 
 F. He did n t really ! 
 
 A. He really did ! 
 
 F. Why, Alice ! I should think she d have 
 killed him. I would. 
 
 A. So would I. 
 
 F. (putting her hand on the handle of the door} 
 Well, good-bye. Give my love to Blanche when 
 you write. 
 
 A. Yes, I will. 
 
 F. I shall see you to-morrow? 
 
 A. Yes. Good-bye. 
 
 \_Fanny opens the door, and a blast of cold wind 
 rushes /".] 
 
 F, Ugh ! How awfully cold it is. I wish I 
 had taken the carriage. 
 
 A. I went over to Ethel Mott s this morning, 
 and I thought I should freeze to death. 
 
 F. I hope I sha n t get pneumonia or anything. 
 I want to go to the Claytons ball. 
 
 A. Oh, do tell me ; what are you going to wear? 
 
 F. (returning and closing the door} There, that 
 is one thing I wanted to ask you about. I want 
 you to go in white, and I 11 wear that black lace I 
 had made in New York last winter. I Ve never 
 worn it here at all, and that s the most stylish 
 gown I ever had in my whole life.
 
 "SUCH SWEET SORROWr 195 
 
 A. Would n t that be striking ? We could go 
 in together. I 11 have a new white tulle, and 
 wear my pearls. I 11 make Aunt Alicia lend me 
 hers, too. 
 
 F. That will be too lovely. 
 
 A. And you 11 wear diamonds ? 
 
 F. Oh, no. I wore jet in New York. Not a 
 single thing but black about me ; not even my 
 fan-sticks. 
 
 A. How /(T-fectly enchanting ! 
 
 F. \Vill you do it ? 
 
 A. Of course I will. I 11 buy the stuff to 
 morrow. 
 
 F. We 11 talk about it when you come to-mor 
 row. (Opening the door.) I must go this very 
 moment, or I shall never get to Mrs. Fresco s. 
 
 A. What are you going to wear to-night ? 
 
 F. That cardinal I showed you the other day. 
 
 A. Is n t that rather gorgeous? 
 
 F. Oh, it s going to be a big dinner, you know ; 
 and there s lots of black lace on it. 
 
 A. It must be awfully becoming. 
 
 F. It is. If Jack knows anything, he ought to 
 see a difference between that and orange plumes. 
 
 A. Ethel Mott told me Oh, do come in a 
 moment. I m simply freezing to death, and I 
 must tell you this. 
 
 F. (once more coming in and closing the door} 
 Well, do be quick. I ought to have been home 
 long ago.
 
 196 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 A. Oh, you Ve lots of time. 
 
 F. But it takes so long to do my hair. 
 
 A. How are you going to wear it? 
 
 F. The same old way. I wish somebody d 
 invent some new style, something real nice and 
 becoming. I asked Uncle Calvin the other night 
 if he had n t seen some pretty styles in China, 
 and I wish you could have seen the pictures he 
 brought out ! 
 
 A. What were they like? 
 
 F. Like ? They were n t like anything. Why, 
 I just gasped over them ! Ships, and butterflies, 
 and all sorts of things ; all made out of hair, right 
 on your own head. 
 
 A. Not really? 
 
 F. Yes, just as I tell you. I never saw any 
 thing so frightful. 
 
 A, It must have been perfectly ghastly ! 
 
 F. Well, good-bye. Come early. Oh ! what 
 were you going to tell me ? 
 
 A. To tell you? 
 
 F. Yes, that Ethel Mott said. 
 
 A. Oh, she said that Kate West has been cor 
 responding all winter with that West Point cadet 
 she met at Newport last summer. 
 
 F. No! 
 
 A. Yes ! 
 
 F. Why, Alice Langley, do you mean it? 
 
 A. Ethel said she knew it. 
 
 F. I don t believe it.
 
 "SUCH SWEET SORROW r 197 
 
 A. That s what I said. 
 
 F. But she s as good as engaged to George 
 Maynard. 
 
 A. I know it. 
 
 F. I think it s perfectly awful. 
 
 A. So do I. 
 
 F. Do you suppose he knows it? 
 
 A. Oh, no. He s so gone on Kate, he thinks 
 she d never look at anybody but him. 
 
 F. I never heard anything so perfectly amazing 
 in my life. 
 
 A. And sometimes, Ethel says, they write each 
 other two letters a week. 
 
 F. Two letters? 
 
 A. Two letters. 
 
 F. In one week? 
 
 A. That s what Ethel says. 
 
 F. I wonder she does n t expect the ground to 
 open and swallow her. I never heard of such 
 deceit. Why, she s going to lead the german 
 with George at the Wentworths next week. 
 
 A. I know it. 
 
 F. Well, I Ve always said Kate West could n t 
 be trusted out of your sight. (She turns, and 
 opens the door.} I do believe that every time I 
 open that door it is colder. I know I shall die 
 before I get home, or freeze my ears. 
 
 A. Think how dreadful it would be to freeze 
 your ears. I knew a girl at boarding-school that 
 froze her ears skating one vacation, and they hung
 
 198 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 down like rags. We used to tell her they were 
 like a spaniel s, and call her Fido. She d get 
 perfectly furious. 
 
 F. I don t wonder. 
 
 A. It was awfully good fun to see how she tried 
 to pretend she did n t care ; and then, when she 
 could n t stand it another minute, she d catch up 
 the very first thing she could lay her hands on, and 
 throw it. . 
 
 F. {descending the steps} I would if I d been 
 she. Could she wear ear-rings? 
 
 A. Oh, not for the longest time, as much as 
 a year, any way. When we wanted to be espe 
 cially pleasant, we told her that frozen ears always 
 came off after a time. 
 
 F. How horrid ! 
 
 A. But it was such fun ! 
 
 F. Good-bye. Be sure and come to-morrow. 
 
 A. Yes. 
 
 F. And come early. 
 
 A. Yes ; I 11 come right after luncheon. 
 
 F. Don t you think your gown ought to be 
 made just like my black one? 
 
 A. Yes ; that would be more effective. 
 
 F. And then we can wear our hair just alike. 
 
 A. It s a pity you could n t have some black 
 flowers. 
 
 F. Yes. I don t see why the florists don t get 
 up some. Phew ! It s as cold as Greenland. 
 Do go in. You 11 get your death cold.
 
 "SUCH SWEET SORROW? 199 
 
 % 
 A. Good-bye. Don t tell what I told you. 
 
 F. No ; not to a soul. How did Ethel Mott 
 find out about the letters? 
 
 A. She would n t tell. 
 
 F. Do you suppose she really knew, or only 
 guessed ? 
 
 A. She said she really and truly knew. 
 
 F. Isn t it amazing? 
 
 A. It is /<?r-fectly incomprehensible. 
 
 E. Well, good-bye. I hope you 11 have good 
 luck at the Whist Club to-night. 
 
 A. Oh, do come back till I tell you what Mr. 
 Fremont said about the Whist Club. 
 
 [Fa nny returns to the foot of the steps, and Alice 
 goes half way down to meet her.] 
 
 A. He said he was n t going to the Whist Club 
 any more, and I asked him why not, and he said 
 he was tired of taking girls down to feed, when 
 they d been talking so all the evening that he 
 could n t play. 
 
 F, Why, I never heard anything so insulting ! 
 A. I told Mr. Van Bruch, and he said the 
 
 trouble was that Mr. Fremont wanted all the time 
 to feed himself. 
 
 F. Good. Do you know Colonel Graham says 
 that he went to the Vaughns to play whist, and they 
 held a conversazione instead. Was n t that clever? 
 
 A. Yes ; awfully. 
 
 F. Good-bye. I 11 tell Jane to lay out my 
 black dress, so it will be all ready when you come.
 
 200 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 A. I 11 try and get time to go down town in 
 the morning, to see what I can get to make my 
 gown of. It s an awful shame you had to hurry 
 away so ; I had lots of things to say. 
 
 F. Well, I really had to go, you know. You 
 can t keep a dinner party waiting, of course. 
 
 A. Oh, of course not. Good-bye. I m awfully 
 glad you came. 
 
 F, Good-bye. I Ve had a lovely time. 
 
 \_She at last really goes, and Alice, after lingering 
 a second to regret the things she has not said, retires 
 and closes the door of the now pretty well aired house. ]
 
 BARUM WEST S EXTRAVAGANZA.
 
 BARUM WEST S EXTRAVAGANZA. 
 
 |ARUM WEST threw down his pen, 
 and looked about his attic with a 
 gloomy face. The light from his 
 one window, a dormer facing the 
 east, was too faint to permit his writing any 
 longer, even had he been in the mood ; and 
 how far he was from desiring to go on with 
 his work was shown by his seizing the sheets 
 which were the result of his afternoon s labor, 
 and angrily tearing them into bits. 
 
 The room was not unlike the traditional 
 abode of that melancholy thing, a poor-devil 
 author. The roof sloped from the middle of 
 the ceiling almost to the floor, the niche of 
 the dormer-window where his writing-table 
 stood being the only part of the eastern side 
 of the chamber where one could stand up 
 right. In the corner on the opposite side 
 stood an old-fashioned, high-posted bedstead ; 
 a bureau, over which hung a tarnished mirror 
 of antique frame, was placed opposite the tall 
 stove, in which was carefully cherished a fru-
 
 204 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 gal coal fire; a black trunk was pushed under 
 the eaves, while some pine shelves held the 
 young man s unimposing library. Both car 
 pet and wall-paper were dingy and faded, and 
 in the darkening winter twilight the attic was 
 gloomy enough to depress the spirits of one 
 in a frame of mind far more cheerful than 
 that in which West found himself. 
 
 Most authors are too unhappily familiar 
 with the fact that a financial crisis is apt to 
 be so desperately unproductive of marketable 
 ideas that even the excitement of a definite 
 order is likely, at such a time, to beget in the 
 brain rather a confused sense of impotence 
 than a creative inspiration. One must be well 
 seasoned in the vicissitudes of a literary career 
 to be able to do his best under the combined 
 pressure of sore need and the necessity of 
 seizing at once an unusual opportunity. West 
 was still young in his profession, as well as in 
 years, and the wild exhilaration of receiving 
 a conditional commission had given place to 
 an awful feeling of despairing helplessness. 
 A friend who had considerable confidence 
 in him, and, what was more to the purpose, 
 some acquaintance and influence in theatrical 
 circles, had persuaded a manager to promise 
 to consider an extravaganza from the pen 
 of the would-be playwright, and Barum felt
 
 BARUM WESTS EXTRAVAGANZA. 205 
 
 as if his whole future depended upon his 
 success. 
 
 He had started upon his task with the 
 utmost hope and confidence. He had for 
 a couple of years been studying stage work, 
 writing plays that nobody would touch, and 
 serving that dreary apprenticeship which 
 comes before literary success, but which is, 
 unhappily, not always followed by it. He had 
 pinned above his writing-table a sentence from 
 " Earl s Dene," which had afforded him a 
 sombre support often enough : " The only 
 road to the skies, Mademoiselle, is up the 
 garret stairs. Mozart climbed them, Moretti 
 climbed them, . . . everybody who has ever 
 done anything has had to climb them ; and 
 you, Mademoiselle, are one whose duty for 
 the present is to starve." It may have been 
 because he secretly felt that he had starved 
 long enough, or from the buoyant hope 
 pathetically natural to youth, that West was 
 convinced that his time had come ; but at 
 least of that fact he had no doubt. 
 
 When, however, he sat down to write, he 
 found his brain teeming, in place of valuable 
 ideas, with the single notion that this time 
 he must succeed; instead of a plot, his mind 
 spun visions of coming greatness ; and in place 
 of elaborating witticisms, his thoughts turned
 
 206 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 alternately to dismal memories and to yet more 
 gloomy forebodings. To-day ended a week 
 of futile endeavor, and the unlucky writer 
 was forced to confess to himself that, so far 
 from being further on in his work than he 
 was seven days earlier, he had stuck where 
 he set out, and acquired the fatal hindrance 
 of a self-distrust which benumbed all his 
 powers. 
 
 It grew quickly darker as he brooded, the 
 brief February twilight shutting down rapidly. 
 It was so dark when at last he got heavily 
 upon his feet that he was obliged to fumble 
 about for his shabby hat and coat in the shal 
 low closet which held his scant wardrobe. He 
 muttered to himself as he did so a quotation 
 from Octave Feuillet. He could hardly have 
 been an aspirant for literary honors, and not 
 be crammed to the throat with quotations. 
 
 " Ce iiest done pas un vain mot, la f aim ! 
 he said aloud, with so much bitterness that 
 a hearer, had there been one, might have for 
 given his sentimentality. " II y a done i> rai 
 ment une maladie de ce nom-la? " 
 
 He went down the three flights of stairs 
 which lay between his chamber and the sor 
 did street, taking his way to a cheap restau 
 rant, which his soul loathed, but to which the 
 narrowness of his purse constrained him.
 
 BARUM WESTS EXTRAVAGANZA. 207 
 
 The waiter-girls, gossiping together, knew 
 his shabby figure too well to hasten to serve 
 him with any alacrity born of expectation ot 
 tips; but one of them came to stand, leaning 
 by one hand upon the table, while he studied 
 the bill of fare in a vain attempt to discover 
 some dish which would be alike satisfactory 
 to his appetite and his finances. There were 
 stains of coffee and of soup upon the card, 
 which gave him a feeling of disgust, as if his 
 food had been served in an unwashed dish ; 
 but he repressed his feelings and made out 
 his meagre order. The damsel filled him the. 
 usual glass of ice-water, tossed an evening 
 paper before him, and betook herself to cry 
 the supper he had called for into the mouth 
 of a rubber tube, which hung flabbily out of 
 the wall. West could hear the voice of some 
 body under ground repeating the order, like 
 a surly subterranean echo, and he was pee 
 vishly half inclined to fling a plate at the 
 head of a man at the next table, on the 
 supposition that that individual might have 
 been listening to this double disclosure of 
 the straitness of diet to which his poverty 
 constrained him. 
 
 He tried to interest himself in the paper 
 which had been given him. He picked out 
 the smallest paragraphs with a feeling of being
 
 208 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 so much at variance with the world in general 
 that nothing could possibly interest him which 
 \vas not held to be of no especial moment to 
 the majority. Suddenly he felt that little thrill 
 with which a man always comes upon his 
 name in print. Among a lot of brief jottings 
 was the statement that a man in Chicago had 
 left two hundred thousand dollars to Barum 
 West. For a moment his heart seemed to 
 stand still, but instantly his common sense 
 reasserted itself, and he smiled with the bitter 
 but fleeting cynicism of youth at the impos 
 sibility that a fortune should come to him by 
 any lucky throw of Fortune s dice. The name 
 was sufficiently uncommon, however, to make 
 the coincidence striking, and what artistic 
 youth, so placed that his wits were more or 
 less disconcerted by the unevenness of life, 
 could fail to make the paragraph the starting- 
 point for a thousand dreams. 
 
 All that night, when he should have been 
 sleeping, and when he really was half under the 
 influence of slumber, Barum West s thoughts, 
 which should have been devising stage situa 
 tions, droll dialogue, and popular allusions, 
 occupied themselves with that illusive for 
 tune. He considered what he would do did 
 he really have it ; how he would enjoy it ; 
 what delights he would purchase, and what
 
 BARUM WESTS EXTRAVAGANZA 209 
 
 miseries escape. In dreams his fancy wove 
 a gorgeous tissue of enchantment, at which 
 he smiled when he waked, although in reality 
 it was little more extravagant than the airy 
 fabric of his waking fancies. When once an 
 imaginative youth gives rein to his fancy, es 
 pecially if hope and need prick the tricksy 
 steed forward, there is no telling to what 
 lengths the race it runs may not stretch. 
 West certainly did not believe that the leg 
 acy of which he had seen mention was really 
 intended for his pocket, and yet the coinci 
 dence of the name seemed to him so good 
 proof that it went far toward persuading him 
 that he was, in truth, the legatee. For the 
 rest, he, perhaps not unconsciously, humored 
 a little a dream which at least amused for the 
 time being a life all too little lightened by 
 frivolity of any sort. 
 
 It was not until the following evening that 
 it occurred to West that, having a fortune in 
 hand, it would be necessary for him to invest 
 it. He was once more at the eating-house, 
 which to-night he regarded with less bitter 
 ness than hitherto, so strong was the effect 
 of his dream in putting him in better temper 
 toward life and the world. As he scanned 
 the paper, in the hope that he might come 
 upon some further information in regard to 
 14
 
 210 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 Barum West s fortune, his eye lighted on the 
 stock reports, and, with a sudden sense of 
 importance he reflected that with two hun 
 dred thousand dollars to take care of it 
 behooved him to furbish up whatever knowl 
 edge he possessed of stocks. The unintelli- 
 gibility of the stock reports was sufficient 
 proof that he had little knowledge to furbish, 
 but this only aroused his combativeness, and 
 made him determined to learn. 
 
 When he left the restaurant he bought a 
 paper of his own, and taking it to his room, 
 he passed the evening in studying finance as 
 represented in the columns of the daily 
 journal. There was something amusing, or 
 pathetic, as one might look at it, about the 
 absorption with which he gave himself to the 
 occupation of deciding what he should do 
 with $200,000 if he had it. He reflected 
 shrewdly that it were wise not to invest his 
 whole capital in a single stock, and he tried 
 to recall whatever he had heard of the rela 
 tive safety of different classes of security. 
 He guessed at the amount of commission he 
 would be obliged to pay a broker, his guide 
 being a confused remembrance that in a play 
 he had heard a certain rate mentioned. He 
 carefully tabulated his investments, and re 
 tired at length, the possessor of an income
 
 BARUM WESTS EXTRAVAGANZA. 211 
 
 of something over $11,000, all commissions 
 having been paid. 
 
 It was perhaps not strange that Barum 
 was in absolute ignorance of the fact, since 
 a knowledge of the vagaries of the stock 
 market was decidedly outside of his world, 
 but the truth was that he had begun to man 
 age his fancied fortunes on a falling market 
 when the bears were raging in Wall Street. 
 While he slept that night a combination was 
 being completed which was the next day to 
 run down twenty-five per cent the conserva 
 tive railroad stock in which West had felt it 
 safe to put half his fairy gold. \Vhen Barum 
 took up the paper at the restaurant on the 
 third evening he had lost about $40,000, a 
 fact which could hardly have caused him 
 more chagrin had he really possessed the 
 money to lose. 
 
 The game he was playing interested him 
 like a new novel. His quick imagination 
 had taken fire, and this defeat spurred him 
 to a fresh endeavor. He felt himself in 
 honor bound to regain what he had lost; 
 and this evening went like the last, in com 
 plicated and decidedly amateurish efforts to 
 bring his imaginary finances into a satisfac 
 tory condition. The writing of the play of 
 which he was to read the skeleton to the
 
 212 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 manager in a fortnight advanced not at all. 
 He took his pen to write, and laid it down 
 to refresh his memory on the latest quotation 
 on some stock ; he tried to think of his plot, 
 and found himself reflecting concerning de 
 benture bonds and second mortgages, with 
 the vaguest possible notion of what either 
 might be. 
 
 The strange possession which a vivid fancy 
 may take of a lonely and imaginative mind 
 is a phenomenon not unfamiliar to those who 
 have studied the lives of men of fervid tem 
 perament; and the whim to which West now 
 gave himself up was no more extravagant 
 than many another which has had conse 
 quences far more serious. For days he went 
 on, becoming more and more completely en 
 grossed by the folly he was following. His 
 writing-table was covered with papers upon 
 which he had memoranda of stocks, of 
 sales, of investments, calculations of com 
 missions, and all the rest of it. He even 
 thought of going down town to watch the 
 bulletin boards at some broker s, but he 
 would hardly have been the fanciful dreamer 
 he was, had he not shrunk from actually 
 coming in contact with men and the reality 
 of the business at which he played. 
 
 For a week this absurdity continued. Some-
 
 BARUM WESTS EXTRAVAGANZA. 213 
 
 times West gained a little in his visionary 
 speculations, and this inspired him with new 
 courage, although whether he won or lost he 
 was still possessed with the fatal gambling 
 mania. His work meanwhile was not ad 
 vancing. It is true that he sat for hours at 
 his table nominally at work upon his play ? 
 but he interrupted himself constantly to con 
 sider whether there were not some way of re 
 covering the money he had lost. 
 
 When Saturday night came he looked back 
 over his week with regret and shame. The 
 date fixed for his presenting his sketch to the 
 manager was now only eight days off, and he 
 was practically no further advanced in his 
 preparation than on the day when his friend 
 brought him the delightful news that that 
 elusive personage had consented to make 
 the appointment. He had wasted the past 
 week in a foolish day-dream, as profitless as 
 it was absurd. Yet he smiled to himself at 
 the reflection that his day-dream had at least 
 been amusing. It had been like creating a 
 story or the plot for a play ; and with a char 
 acteristically bachelor thought, he added to 
 himself that it was at least less dangerous 
 to play with visions of fortune than of love, 
 and quite as sensible. 
 
 He could not, on the whole, however, be
 
 214 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 satisfied with the result of his week, and he 
 determined to have no more of this folly. 
 He must set to work in earnest, and he re 
 sented the consciousness which forced itself 
 upon him that his lonely life and imaginative 
 turn made it possible for him to fall into va 
 garies which to the practical common-sense of 
 mankind in general would be held to indicate 
 anything but a sound mind. He started up 
 suddenly and gathered all the papers upon 
 which were recorded his unlucky stock trans 
 actions, and began to thrust them into the 
 stove. He would make an end of the whole 
 foolish business. And yet, so far from en 
 tirely burning his ships, he at least left for 
 himself a little boat in which to continue his 
 explorations into the delusive regions of 
 financial fairy-land, since he saved the one 
 slip which contained the statement of the 
 present condition of his much-diminished 
 fortune. He condescended to the weak, but 
 eminently human trick of attempting to hum 
 bug himself in regard to his reasons for doing 
 so. He said to himself, exactly as if he were 
 explaining to another person, that the bit of 
 paper would serve as a warning to him, 
 should he ever be tempted to indulge in so 
 idiotic a diversion again; and he added, as if 
 to quiet the least suspicion that he meant to
 
 BARUM WESTS EXTRAVAGANZA. 21$ 
 
 use the memorandum, that the morrow being 
 Sunday there would be no market with which 
 he could play. 
 
 And yet, so weak is human resolution, such 
 a rope of sand is it to fetter the resistless 
 progress of character, which is destiny, 
 that the next evening found West with the 
 Sunday paper spread before him, carefully 
 studying the financial article, and elaborating 
 his plans for a grand coup, by which he 
 should regain all the thousands he had lost. 
 He had become very canny during the week s 
 study of the market reports, and he felt this 
 Sunday evening all the pleasant satisfaction 
 of one who, out of sight, cunningly devises 
 the overthrow of clever enemies. On Mon 
 day morning he would in imagination, of 
 course go into the field with a shrewdly 
 devised scheme of buying and selling, which 
 should result in the triumphant re-establish 
 ment of his financial standing. When one is 
 dealing with life in imagination merely there 
 is of course no limit to the extent to which 
 one may make himself master of events ; and 
 parth from a keen fancy, partly from pure 
 naivete, West s plan involved nothing less than 
 bulling the market himself upon his visionary 
 capital, now shrunken to some $70,000. 
 
 All day Monday West was in a state of ex-
 
 2l6 A BOOK a NINE TALES. 
 
 citement which was amazingly absurd when 
 one considers that the cause was wholly 
 fancy. When a drunkard returns to his cups 
 he is notoriously more intemperate than be 
 fore, and in delivering himself up for a sec 
 ond time to the intoxication of his vagaries 
 Barum plunged more recklessly than ever 
 into its extravagances. On Tuesday he was 
 once more to be rich, and then he would 
 speculate no more. Safe mortgages and 
 government bonds should suffice him as in 
 vestments, even though the rate of interest 
 they paid was low. He would not again ex 
 pose himself to the chances of such feverish 
 excitement as that in which he had spent the 
 past week. 
 
 So real had the whole business become to 
 him that, while he smiled at his own folly 
 as he took up the Tuesday evening paper, 
 he actually felt a pang of disappointment to 
 discover that his imaginary operations had 
 produced no effect on the stock market. So 
 far from rising, stocks had that day gone al 
 most out of sight, so great had been the fall 
 in the price of securities of all sorts. 
 
 A feeling almost of despair came over the 
 young man as he read. He had gone out 
 into the street to buy the earliest edition 
 which would contain the account of the sales
 
 BARUM WESTS EXTRAVAGANZA. 21 7 
 
 that day, and as he walked toward his attic 
 he experienced almost as sharp a pang as if 
 the absolute wreck which he found had over 
 taken his imaginary fortune had befallen a 
 genuine bank-account. That unreasonable 
 youthful disappointment which arises from 
 a sense of failure per se, with little reference 
 to the real importance of the stake, stung him 
 keenly; and he was one of those men who can 
 not but confound real and aesthetic grievances. 
 He returned to his attic and figured it out. 
 He was absolutely and hopelessly ruined. 
 He had not only lost every dollar of his 
 imaginary fortune, but he was, on paper, 
 some seven or eight hundred dollars in debt 
 to his brokers for commissions. He was so 
 overwhelmed by this catastrophe that he sat 
 brooding over it in the darkness of the Feb 
 ruary twilight and gathering night, until it 
 was far past the hour when he usually took 
 his apology for a dinner. He was not with 
 out a sense of humor sufficiently vivid to 
 make him laugh at himself, and mentally 
 mock at the vexation which the result of 
 his airy speculations caused him; but this 
 did not prevent his being vexed, or take 
 his thoughts from laborious calculations how 
 a different result might have been reached. 
 He went off to dinner at last with a sober
 
 21 8 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 and abstracted mien, ordering a repast even 
 more economical than usual, as befitted one 
 who had just lost his whole fortune in ill- 
 starred speculation. 
 
 It was his custom to time his visit to the 
 restaurant so as to cline before the crowd 
 of customers came for their evening meal. 
 To-night, however, he was behind them. 
 The place was no fuller than he usually 
 found it, but it bore signs of the recent 
 crush. The cloth of the table was crumpled 
 and soiled, the glass in which the inevitable 
 ice-water was poured was yet warm from 
 being washed, while the evening paper the 
 waiter gave him was adorned with an irregu 
 lar stain of coffee. In the midst of the brown 
 blotch of this stain was a patch undiscolored; 
 and by one of those odd and improbable co 
 incidences of which life is full, in the midst 
 of this spot of dingy white Barum West once 
 more caught sight of his own name. The 
 whimsical fate which had started the fantastic 
 train of thought in his mind ten days before 
 now finished its work by a paragraph stating 
 that the will by which $2OO,OOO had been 
 bequeathed to Barum West by Richard Gran 
 ger, of Chicago, was now found to antedate 
 a second testament by which the money was 
 left to Harvard College.
 
 BARUM WESTS EXTRAVAGANZA. 2ig 
 
 Barum West went home with the light step 
 of a boy. A great responsibility seemed sud 
 denly lifted from his shoulders. The capri 
 cious fancy which had insisted that he should 
 be depressed because he had lost an imagi 
 nary fortune had apparently been willing to 
 accept the fact that even in hypothesis the 
 possession of the money had been a mistake, 
 and the unlucky speculator was formally ac 
 quitted at the bar of his inner consciousness. 
 He lit his lamp and his pipe, seated himself 
 in his chintz-covered rocking-chair, with his 
 heels on the top of the coal stove, and rumi 
 nated. He reflected upon the fact that it 
 was only five days before he was to meet 
 the manager, and nothing was done in the 
 way of a play which he could for an instant 
 regard as at all satisfactory. 
 
 " Instead of writing an extravaganza," he 
 thought, with mingled amusement and self- 
 reproach, " I have been living one." 
 
 The form of the thought struck him in 
 stantly. His feet came down to the floor 
 with a crash, and in his excitement his pipe 
 went smashing down beside them. 
 
 " By Jove ! " he cried aloud, " I have it ! " 
 
 And the plot of the extravaganza, which 
 everybody will remember as being so suc 
 cessful the following winter, "A Speculator
 
 220 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 in Air," and which set Barum West on his 
 feet financially, was only a properly modified 
 version of the vagaries in which the author 
 had indulged in the handling and the losing 
 of his imaginary fortune.
 
 A BUSINESS MEETING.
 
 A BUSINESS MEETING. 
 
 {Certain absurd, not to say malicious, reports hav 
 ing been circulated in regard to the meeting held by 
 the Kosedale Sewing-Circle io decide upon the time, 
 place, and other details of their annual spring fair, it 
 is deemed but simple justice to the estimable ladies who 
 compose that body to give an accurate and unvarnished 
 account of the proceedings on that occasion ; and the 
 writer feels that not only will such a narration suffi 
 ciently silence all slanders, but that it will as well 
 go far toward a triumphant refutation of the often- 
 repeated falsehood that women have no aptitude for 
 business. ] 
 
 THE meeting, being appointed for 2.30 P. M., 
 was called to order by the president, Mrs. Gilflora 
 Smithe, at 3.30 p. M., the hour preceding having 
 been spent in an animated and pleasant discussion 
 of the important question whether the pastor s 
 wife, who was detained at home by illness, was 
 really so extravagant as to use granulated sugar in 
 her sweet pickles, as was positively asserted by 
 Miss Araminta Sharp. The secretary read the 
 report of the last meeting, as follows : 
 
 "Monday, April 7. Meeting called to order 
 by the president. The records read and approved. 
 There being no quorum present, it was unani-
 
 224 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 mously voted to hold the next meeting on Thurs 
 day, as that day is more convenient for the ladies. 
 On motion of Mrs. Percy Browne, voted to ap 
 point a committee of one to take charge of the 
 Art Department of the fair. Mrs. Browne kindly 
 volunteered to serve as that committee. Ad 
 journed." 
 
 The records having been approved, the presi 
 dent remarked that there was so much business to 
 come before the meeting that she really could not 
 tell where to begin, and she should be glad if some 
 one would make a motion, just to start things. 
 
 "A motion to put things in motion," murmured 
 Miss Keene, looking around with the smile which 
 everybody knew meant that she had made a joke. 
 
 Everybody smiled also, although nobody saw 
 the point until the president echoed, with a pleased 
 air of discovery, " Motion, motion ! Very good, 
 Miss Keene." 
 
 Then they all smiled once again, and Miss Gray 
 told of an excellent jest made by a cousin in 
 Boston : 
 
 "My cousin in Boston that is, she isn t my 
 real cousin, but a step-cousin by marriage was 
 at a concert once, and she made an awfully good 
 joke. I don t remember exactly now what it was, 
 but it was awfully funny. It was something about 
 music, and we all laughed." 
 
 " It does n t seem to me," spoke up Miss Sharp, 
 acidly, " that Boston jokes will help the fair much ;
 
 A BUSINESS MEETING. 22$ 
 
 and I move you, Mrs. President, if I don t make 
 a motion, I m sure I don t know who ever will, 
 that the fair be held on the 2Oth of April." 
 
 " I second the motion," promptly spoke up Miss 
 Snob, who always seconded everything. 
 
 " It is moved and seconded," said the president, 
 "that the fair be held on the 2oth of April ; but 
 I m sure the 2jd would suit me a great deal 
 better." 
 
 " Why not have it the i yth ? " asked Miss Keene ; 
 " that seems to me quite late enough." 
 
 " Oh, dear, no," interrupted Mrs. Percy Browne, 
 " I never could get half the things done for my 
 department by that time. I move we have it the 
 30th." 
 
 "Second the motion," promptly responded Miss 
 Snob. 
 
 " It is moved and seconded," propounded Mrs. 
 Smithe from the chair, that the fair be held on 
 the 30th. That seems to me an excellent time. 
 If it be your minds, you will please to signify it. 
 It is a vote." 
 
 " I still stick to the 2Oth," declared Miss Sharp, 
 viciously. " I shall open my candy-table then, 
 whether the rest of the fair is ready or not." 
 
 " Sweets to the sweet," murmured Miss Keene, 
 looking around with her jest-announcing smile. 
 
 "The 2oth is Sunday, any way," observed the 
 Hon. Mrs. Sampson Hoyt, in tones of great con 
 descension. 
 
 5
 
 226 A BOOK a NINE TALES. 
 
 " I don t care," persisted the contumacious 
 Sharp. " I 11 have my part of the fair then, any 
 way." 
 
 " Suppose we compromise," suggested the presi 
 dent, pacifically, "and say the 25th." 
 
 There was considerable discussion, more or less 
 acrimonious, at this proposition, but it was finally 
 adopted without the formality of a vote, the sec 
 retary being instructed to set the date April 25th 
 down as the final decision of the meeting. 
 
 " There will have to be a general committee of 
 arrangements," the president observed, this im 
 portant preliminary having been settled. " I sup 
 pose it is customary for the chair to appoint them ; 
 but I am ready to receive nominations." 
 
 " I nominate Miss Keene," said Mrs. Browne, 
 who wished to keep in that lady s good graces. 
 
 " Second the motion," Miss Snob exclaimed, 
 with enthusiasm. 
 
 " Miss Keene will have enough to do at the 
 cake-table," Mrs. Smithe replied. " I think I 11 
 appoint Mrs. Hoyt, Mrs. Growler, Mrs. Henderson, 
 and Mrs. Lowell." 
 
 " There s never but three on that committee," 
 snapped Miss Sharp. You 11 have to take off 
 one." 
 
 " Dear me ! " responded Mrs. Smithe, in dismay ; 
 " I think you must be mistaken." 
 
 But Miss Sharp persisted, and the president, 
 driven into a corner, was forced to propose that
 
 A BUSINESS MEETING. 22? 
 
 one of the ladies named should resign. Nobody 
 seemed willing to do this, however, and it was at 
 length decided that some one of the four should 
 regard herself as a substitute, to act in case one of 
 the others could not serve. The president could 
 not, however, bring herself to specify which should 
 be the substitute, and was greatly relieved when 
 the conversation was turned by Mrs. Henderson s 
 remarking, 
 
 " Speaking of substitutes reminds me. Did you 
 know that you could make mince-pies without 
 meat? My niece from Bangor " 
 
 [The talk of the next fifteen minutes is omitted, as 
 being irrelevant, relating exclusively to cooking. At 
 the expiration of that time, the business of the occasion 
 was accidentally reintroduced by an allusion on the 
 part of Mrs. Crowler to some delicious chocolate mac 
 aroons which she had eaten at a fair in East Macliias.~\ 
 
 We really must have some more committees," 
 the president said, recovering herself with a start. 
 "Will somebody make a motion? " 
 
 " I don t think P>iday is a good day for a fair, 
 any way," Mrs. Lowell now remarked, reflectively. 
 "The 25th is Friday." 
 
 "Oh. I never thought of that," exclaimed half a 
 dozen ladies, in dismay. " We should be all tired 
 out for baking-day." 
 
 I don t know what we can do," the president 
 said, in despairing accents, " there seem to be 
 so many days, and only one fair ; and we Ve had
 
 228 A BOOK a NINE TALES. 
 
 so many dates proposed. We shall have to unvote 
 something." 
 
 It was at this crisis that the Hon. Mrs. Sampson 
 Hoyt rose to the heights of the parliamentary 
 opportunity. 
 
 " I move the previous question," she said, dis 
 tinctly and firmly. 
 
 There fell a hush of awe over the sewing-circle, 
 and even Miss Snob was a moment in bringing out 
 her second. 
 
 " I don t think ! " Mrs. President Smithe ven 
 tured, a little falteringly, " that I quite understood 
 the motion." 
 
 " I moved," the Hon. Mrs. Hoyt replied, with 
 the air of one conscious that her husband had 
 once been almost nominated to the State Legisla 
 ture, and had been addressed as Honorable ever 
 after, " I moved the previous question." 
 
 "Yes?" Mrs. Smithe said, inquiringly and 
 pleadingly. 
 
 "That takes everything back to the beginning," 
 Mrs. Hoyt condescended to explain, " and we can 
 then change the date of our fair in a strictly legal 
 way." 
 
 She threw a glance of superb scorn around her 
 as she spoke, and even Miss Sharp took on a 
 subdued and corrected air. 
 
 "It is moved and seconded the previous ques 
 tion," Mrs. Smithe propounded, with an air of 
 great relief. " It is a vote."
 
 A BUSINESS MEETING. 229 
 
 " I don t think we had better do away with 
 everything in this case," Mrs. Hoyt observed, with 
 a smile of gracious concession. " We might let 
 the committee of arrangements stand." 
 
 "That she s chairman of," whispered Mrs. 
 Growler, spitefully. 
 
 " I don t remember," observed Miss Sharp, 
 gazing into futurity with an air of abstraction, 
 " that there is anything in the by-laws about the 
 previous question." 
 
 A flutter stirred the entire company. The 
 ladies looked at each other, and then with one 
 accord turned their regards upon the Hon. Mrs. 
 Hoyt, as one who, having got them into this 
 difficulty, was in honor bound to help them out 
 of it. 
 
 " I supposed everybody knew," that lady re 
 marked, with icy sweetness, " that the rules of 
 making motions do not have to be in the by-laws. 
 They are in" the speaker hesitated, not being 
 exactly sure of the title of the volume to which 
 her husband had given so careful attention when 
 expecting to be nominated : feeling, however, that 
 anything was better than the appearance of igno 
 rance, she went on precipitately "in Pole s 
 Manual. " 
 
 Even Miss Sharp had no retort adequate to 
 meet this crushing appeal to authority, not being 
 sufficiently well informed to connect Pole with 
 whist, so she contented herself by observing, with
 
 230 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 a sniff, that for her part she was glad she did not 
 know so much as some people pretended to. 
 
 " It does seem to me," observed Mrs. Hen 
 derson, at this point, " that we might let this one 
 year go by without a fair. There s been so much 
 sickness in Rosedale this winter that everybody is 
 tired out, and we had a great deal better wait till 
 June, and have a strawberry- festival. I move we 
 put the whole thing off till then." 
 
 " Second the motion," cried Miss Snob, with 
 great promptitude. 
 
 "I cannot consent to put that motion," the pres 
 ident said, with great dignity. " We have made 
 up our minds to have a fair now, and we might 
 as well have it, and be done with it." 
 
 " I move," Mrs. Browne put in sweetly, with the 
 intention of suiting everybody, " that we have a 
 fair and a strawberry-festival." 
 
 Miss Snob seconded this motion with her cus 
 tomary enthusiasm. 
 
 " It is moved and seconded," the president said, 
 " that we have a fair and a strawberry-festival. 
 But that seems a great deal ; and I think I had 
 better declare it not a vote, unless doubted." 
 
 Nobody was clear about the effects of doubting 
 a negative proposition ; but Mrs. Growler was 
 pleased to observe, " Well, any way, now I come 
 to think it over, I think, on the whole, I won t be 
 on the arrangements committee at all ; but I 11 be 
 chairman of the finance committee when that is
 
 A BUSINESS MEETING. 231 
 
 fixed, and that 11 leave only three on the ar 
 rangements." 
 
 This moved Mrs. Henderson to resign, and Mrs. 
 Lowell following her example, Mrs. Hoyt was left 
 in solitary grandeur upon the committee. 
 
 Matters were not improved, moreover, when 
 Miss Keene remarked, " If we ve voted the pre 
 vious question, I don t see but we Ve still got to 
 fix the day. All that is undone now." 
 
 " Certainly," responded the Hon. Mrs. Sampson 
 Hoyt, with the virtuous joy of an iconoclast gazing 
 on the ruin he has wrought. 
 
 " We don t seem to have anything exactly fixed," 
 the president said, with a helpless and conciliatory 
 smile. " If somebody would make a motion " 
 
 " It s too late to make any more motions to-day," 
 Miss Sharp interrupted, with much vigor. " It s 
 ten minutes of six." 
 
 At this announcement of the lateness of the 
 hour, the entire company started to their feet in 
 dismay ; and although, when the president and 
 secretary tried next day to remember what had 
 been done, that the latter might make up her 
 report, they recorded that the meeting adjourned, 
 that statement must be regarded as having been 
 purely a parliamentary fiction, entered in the sec 
 retary s book to gratify that instinct innate in 
 woman s breast to follow exactly the regular and 
 strictest forms of recognized rules of order.
 
 A SKETCH IN UMBER.
 
 A SKETCH IN UMBER. 
 
 [VERY life has its history: this is 
 the story of Ruth Welch, the 
 placid-faced, silver-haired woman 
 who sat in the September twilight 
 looking out over the moorlands one Saturday 
 evening, and considering many things. 
 
 The house faced toward the south. It 
 looked across a little creek which made in 
 from the sea, and it had in its prospect only 
 level heaths to the horizon s edge. On the 
 west stretched the waters of an arm of the 
 Atlantic, and the tides came twice a day 
 around the low cape into the inlet, and the 
 wind blew over the moors ; but in all di 
 rections one looked upon level wastes, "the 
 plains," the country people called them, 
 speaking of them sometimes as " Welch s 
 bogs," or in sections as the "blueb ry plains," 
 or the "cramb ry marshes; " and people who 
 lived outside of them regarded the moors as 
 painfully dull. 
 
 They were not, too, without some excuse 
 for such an opinion. The rhodora and the
 
 236 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 kalmia the " lamb-kill" - in spring spread 
 over sections of the waste transient sheets of 
 glowing color, but for the most part the 
 country was either white or brown, and to 
 one not fond of it the effect of the monotone 
 of hue was depressing. The shade of brown 
 varied, changing from a grayish or even 
 greenish brown in midsummer to a sombre, 
 almost uniform umber in autumn, which lat 
 ter tint now and then during the winter ap 
 peared in desolate patches through the flats of 
 snow, until in March the whole plain came to 
 light darker and more forbidding than ever. 
 
 O O 
 
 All these long months the only break in 
 the low monochrome of the landscape was 
 the red cottage which still was called " Gran - 
 sii" Welch s," although the old man had been 
 dead many a year, and the little garden be 
 fore it that kept up, with old-fashioned flow 
 ers, a show of bravery until the frosts came. 
 The tint of the old house was dull and dingy, 
 but in so colorless a setting the hue seemed 
 brighter, as a single event might assume un 
 due importance in a monotonous life. If one 
 could have supposed the builder an imagina 
 tive man or one given to refinements of senti 
 ment, it might be easy to imagine that when 
 lie built his house thus alone in the plains, 
 with not another dwelling in sight and with-
 
 A SKETCH IN UMBER. 237 
 
 out a break in the level landscape, he felt the 
 need of giving it some color that should pro 
 test against the deadly grayness of all around 
 and hearten its owner by its warmth of tone. 
 
 So overwhelming were the solitude and the 
 unbroken sameness of the place, however, 
 that an imaginative man would scarcely have 
 chosen it as an abiding-place, although once 
 involved in its powerful fascination he would 
 have been held to his life s end. By what 
 accident Gran sir Welch s grandfather had 
 chosen to build here, half a score of miles 
 from the little fishing village which stood to 
 
 o o 
 
 the people of that region for the world, no 
 one knew, and very likely no one cared- 
 Folk thereabout concerned themselves little 
 with reasons for anything, facts being all they 
 found mental grasp sufficient to hold. Once 
 established in the plains, however, there was 
 no especial cause to suppose the family would 
 not continue to live on there until its course 
 was interrupted either by extinction or by 
 the arrival of the Judgment-Day, 
 
 Extinction was not very far off now, since 
 only this white-haired woman remained to 
 bear the name. Her mother had died in the 
 daughter s infancy. Mrs. Welch had never 
 adapted herself to the silence and loneliness 
 of the moors, and her people over at the
 
 238 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 village declared that she had " died of the 
 plains ; " and it is possible that they were 
 right. Ruth s father, when she was still but 
 a child, had been lost at sea; and the girl 
 had been cared for by her grandfather and 
 the old serving-woman Bethiah, who had once 
 been supposed to be a hired girl, but had 
 ended by being so thoroughly identified with 
 the family that her surname was wellnigh 
 forgotten, and she was designated, when she 
 
 o o 
 
 was spoken of at all, as Bethiah Welch. 
 
 The child grew much in the same way as 
 grew the houseleeks in the boxes beside the 
 
 & 
 
 southern door, very slowly and dully. Once 
 or twice she went for a few months to stay 
 with an aunt in the village ten miles away, it 
 being the unanimous opinion of her relatives 
 that as the Welches always had known how 
 to read and write it was proper that some 
 thing should be done for Ruth s education ; 
 and the village school was the only educa 
 tional means known in the region. The girl 
 pined for home, however, and was never con 
 tent away from the red house. Perhaps by a 
 strange perversity of circumstance the home- 
 longing of the mother was in the child trans 
 formed into a clinging fondness for the place 
 where the former was so lonely and alien. 
 The low, level moors were necessary to
 
 A SKETCH IN UMBER 239 
 
 Ruth s life; in their colorless monotony she 
 somehow found the complement for her un 
 eventful life. Perhaps the very dulness de 
 veloped her imagination, as special organs 
 appear in animals whose abnormal conditions 
 of existence render them needful. If this 
 were so, it was no less true that the moors 
 absorbed whatever mental life they stimu 
 lated, until the girl seemed hardly less a part 
 of them than the knolls of leathery shrubs, 
 the scattered, shallow pools, the tufts of coarse 
 grass, or the whispering voices of the wind 
 which all night long and every night were hur 
 rying to and fro, concerned with unspeakable 
 tidings which perhaps came from the sea that 
 forever moaned along the moorland s edges. 
 
 Little conscious imagination had Ruth at 
 nineteen ; and it was at nineteen that the 
 single, trifling event of her life occurred. 
 She was a maiden by no means uncomely. 
 She was not educated in any conventional 
 sense of the term ; but her life alone with her 
 grandfather and old Bethiah and the great 
 brown moors had bred in her a certain sweet 
 gravity which was not without its charm, 
 had there been but those to see who could 
 appreciate it. 
 
 Along the front of the house ran a bench, 
 where people seldom sat, since there were
 
 240 A BOOK O NINE TALF.S. 
 
 none to sit, but where the milk-pans dried in 
 the sun, a gleaming row ; and one sunny morn 
 ing late in September the flash of their shim 
 mer caught the eye of a skipper who in his 
 yacht in the bay studied the horizon with his 
 glass. He was not yet past those years when 
 a man still finds amusement in imitating fate 
 and nature by yielding to his impulses ; the 
 gleam suggested pleasant draughts of fresh 
 milk; and without more ado, he headed the 
 trig little craft in which he and a brother 
 artist were skirting the coast of the Gulf of 
 Maine for the little inlet upon which Gran sir 
 Welch s red cottage stood. 
 
 In those days yachts were less common 
 than now, and both Ruth and Bethiah left 
 their work to watch the boat as it ran up to 
 the low wharf, and the snowy sail fell with a 
 musical rattle and clash of metallic rings. 
 
 The skipper, a stalwart young fellow, too 
 handsome by half, came briskly ashore and 
 did his errand, and while the old servant 
 went for the milk, stood with Ruth by the 
 open door asking idle questions, to which she 
 replied without either shyness or boldness 
 His eyes were just on a level with hers as she 
 stood on the threshold above him, and their 
 bold, merry glance saw with full appreciation 
 how clear were her sherry-brown orbs. He
 
 A SKETCH IN UMBF.R 241 
 
 removed his cap and leaned against the 
 door-post, letting his glance stray over the 
 landscape. Here and there upon the brown 
 surface his keen eye detected the flame of a 
 scarlet leaf amid the prevailing russet, but the 
 combined effect of all the red leaves upon 
 the plain could not warm the sombre wastes. 
 
 "Don t you get tired of the sameness?" 
 he asked suddenly, as if the monotony all at 
 once seemed to him too great to be borne. 
 
 " Oh, no," Ruth answered, smiling faintly, 
 " I like it." 
 
 He brushed back his curly, golden locks 
 with a shapely brown hand, and regarded her 
 more closely. 
 
 " It is like a fish in the water," was his 
 conclusion when he spoke again. " It would 
 drown me." 
 
 Ruth smiled again, showing her white, even 
 teeth a little, although she did not in the 
 least understand what he meant ; and before 
 the conversation could go further Bethiah 
 appeared with the milk she had been getting. 
 Ruth put aside the stranger s offer of pay, 
 and with an instinct of hospitality which must 
 have been genuine indeed to have survived 
 so long disuse from lack of opportunity, she 
 stepped down into the little garden-plot and 
 picked a nosegay of the old-fashioned flowers 
 16
 
 242 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 which in the southern exposure were still 
 unharmed by frost. 
 
 " Put a posy in my button-hole," he re 
 quested lightly, when she gave them to him. 
 " Pick out the prettiest." 
 
 She had never stuck a flower in a man s 
 coat, but she was too utterly devoid of self- 
 consciousness to be shy. She selected a 
 beautiful clove pink, and smiling her grave 
 smile, thrust the stem through the button 
 hole of his yachting-jacket as he held out 
 the lapel. 
 
 " It would be just the color of your cheeks," 
 he said, " if it could only get sunburned." 
 
 A redder glow flushed up at his words, 
 and so tempting was the innocent face be 
 fore him that half involuntarily he bent for 
 ward to kiss the smooth lips. The girl drew 
 back, in that grave, unemotional fashion of 
 hers which was to the stranger so unaccount 
 able at once and so fascinating, and he failed 
 of his intent. 
 
 "Ah, well," he said, in nowise disconcerted, 
 " keep the kiss for your sweetheart, but thank 
 you for the flowers." 
 
 He laughed with a gleeful, deep-toned note, 
 and turned down the faintly-defined path to 
 the shore again. 
 
 Ruth looked on with interest at the hoist-
 
 A SKETCH IN UMBER. 243 
 
 ing of the sail ; she smiled responsively as the 
 t\vo mariners doffed their caps to her, and 
 then, regardless of the old superstition of the 
 ill-luck of watching people out of sight, she 
 kept her eyes fixed upon the pretty little 
 craft as it skimmed over the waters, as long 
 as it could be seen. Then she turned a com 
 prehensive glance over all her moors, as if to 
 to take them into confidence regarding the 
 pleasant incident which had just happened, 
 and returned to her interrupted domestic 
 duties. The interview had touched her with 
 no repinings; and even could she have known 
 that in that brief moment all the romance of 
 her life had been acted, she would scarcely 
 have sighed. She smiled as she went about 
 her homely occupations, and flushed a little 
 with the consciousness of innocent vanity as 
 she found herself glancing into the glass at 
 the reflection of her softly-glowing cheeks, 
 reddened with health and with the sun. 
 
 This September day was the single glow 
 ing spot in the slow, mellow years of Ruth s 
 life. She came and went, slept and waked, 
 perhaps even dreamed. She was always in 
 a happy, contented repose among her moors, 
 becoming of them every day more and more 
 completely a part. The wide plains grew 
 green in spring with transient verdure, the
 
 244 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 purple petals of the rhodora flushed through 
 their brief day and dropped into the shallow 
 brown pools left by the late rains in the 
 hollows; then all the waste turned to fawn 
 and russet under the suns of summer, and 
 the cycle of the year was completed by deep 
 ening browns and the wide stretches of snow. 
 Now and again great rolling masses of mist 
 came up from the sea and hid wold and wave 
 alike from sight, but yet the sense of the 
 plains was like a presence to Ruth, as with 
 heart warm as an egg beneath the mother- 
 bird s breast, she went her way and lived her 
 span of life. 
 
 She was far from being dull in her feelings. 
 Indeed, for one in her station and surround 
 ings, she was unusually sensitive to mood of 
 shore and sky, to the beauty of the sun 
 sets or of the wild flowers which sprang amid 
 the low shrubs. She was simply content. 
 She was so perfectly in harmony with her 
 world that she could not be unhappy. She 
 grew as a bluebell grows. She was not de 
 ficient in womanly sentiment. She thought 
 sometimes of the handsome sailor lad whose 
 bold brown eyes had looked into hers, and 
 she smiled anew with simple pleasure that he 
 had found her fair. She remembered the au 
 dacious gleam which crossed his face when
 
 A SKETCH IN UMBER. 245 
 
 he bent forward to kiss her, and she did not 
 forget his words about a sweetheart. She 
 never spoke of her memories, she came of 
 a reticent race, and neither Gran sir Welch 
 nor Bethiah was especially adapted to the 
 reception of confidences, but she specu 
 lated concerning the sweetheart she never 
 had, and of whose coming fate gave no sign. 
 There was never any tinge of melancholy in 
 these reflections. She accepted life too 
 simply to be sad, even with that vague op 
 pression which seemed to casual observers 
 the obvious consequence of the overpowering 
 presence of the wastes. 
 
 As years went on, she accepted the fact that 
 the time of dreams of love was past, and with 
 placid content she reflected that the shadow 
 of the ungiven kiss of the sailor would never 
 be disturbed by the pressure of lover s lips 
 upon hers. 
 
 It is between twenty and thirty that the 
 temperament of a woman becomes fixed, and 
 all her future irrevocably made or marred. 
 Before this her character is too flexible, after 
 this too rigid for impressions to be lasting. 
 During these years the peace of the wide, 
 calm, and sombre moorlands stamped indeli 
 bly upon Ruth a sweet, grave content which 
 nothing could destroy or shake.
 
 246 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 There came a time when into the calm of 
 the old house death rushed, with that dreadful 
 precipitancy which always marks his coming, 
 even when expected, and old Gran sir Welch, 
 long past fourscore, was, in the quaint lan 
 guage of the King James version, gathered to 
 his fathers. 
 
 In the gray dawn Ruth tapped softly at the 
 hives of the bees which stood, straw-thatched, 
 against the eastern end of the cottage, and 
 announced the sad news, firmly believing 
 that unless within twelve hours the swarms 
 were told of death they would desert their 
 homes. Then in the sunny autumn after 
 noon a funeral procession of boats trailed 
 from the red cottage to the graveyard behind 
 the church in the village, where slept such of 
 his forefathers as the sea had spared to die in 
 their beds. With evenly dipping oars went 
 first the quaintly-shaped pinky bearing the 
 coffin between two stout fisherman, one at 
 prow and one at stern; while after followed 
 the dories in which were the few nearer rela 
 tives who had come to attend the services 
 at the house. 
 
 Ruth sat beside a cousin and listened half 
 unconsciously to the plash of the oars and 
 the rhythmic beat of the waves against the 
 boat, looking back with tear-dimmed eyes to
 
 A SKETCH IN UMBER. 247 
 
 the red house until it was by distance blended 
 with the dun country as the last spark dies 
 amid the ashes. She was sad, and she felt 
 that oppressive terror which the presence of 
 death brings ; yet her calm was not seriously 
 or permanently shaken. 
 
 In -their relentless, even course the years 
 moved on, and one day in spring, when the 
 rhodora was in all its glory, and the one bush 
 of mountain-laurel in the wide plains, which 
 had strayed into the heath like a lamb into 
 the wilderness, was as white in the distance 
 as a bunch of upland maybloom, again Ruth 
 went softly and gravely to tell the bees that 
 death had been in the red house, and the 
 procession of boats, like the Egyptian train 
 over the Lake of the Dead, bore away the 
 mortal remains of faithful old Bethiah. 
 
 Ruth s relatives in the village tried to in 
 duce her now to come to them, and when she 
 could not be moved to do this, urged her at 
 least to have some one live with her. She 
 was getting to be an old woman, they said 
 among themselves, although in truth she was 
 little past fifty, and since for that part of the 
 world she was not ill-provided with worldly 
 goods, there was no lack of those who were 
 willing to take up their abode as her com 
 panion in the red house.
 
 248 A BOOK O NINE TALES, 
 
 Ruth put all.offers aside, kindly, indeed, 
 but decisively. She was pleased to live 
 alone ; not from a misanthropic dislike of 
 her kind, but because it was so deep and 
 inexhaustible a delight to her to brood hap 
 pily among her plains. More and more she 
 loved these umber wastes, over which cloud- 
 shadows drifted like the darkening ripple of 
 the wind on the sea. She knew all their 
 ways, those mysterious paths which wind 
 between the hillocks of deserted heaths as if 
 worn with the constant passing of invisible 
 feet, and she was never weary of wandering 
 among the ragged hummocks, breathing in 
 the salt air from the sea and noting with 
 happy eyes all the weeds and wild flowers, 
 the shrubs that were too inconspicuous to be 
 singled out at a distance, but which to the 
 careful and loving observer revealed them 
 selves as full of beauty. She was fond of 
 the faint, sweet scents of the opening flowers 
 in spring, of the dying grass in fall, of the 
 burning peat when fires broke out sometimes 
 to smoulder until the next rain. She never 
 thought about her feelings or phrased the 
 matter to herself, but she loved so perfectly 
 these wastes which seemed so desolate that 
 they were to her as kindred and home; per 
 haps even the maternal instinct which is in-
 
 A SKETCH IN UMBER. 249 
 
 born in every woman s breast found some 
 not quite inadequate expression in her almost 
 passionate fondness for the great heath. 
 
 Her relatives spoke of her always as " odd," 
 and were aggrieved that her ways should be 
 different from theirs; but everything that 
 continues comes in time to be accepted, 
 and as the years went on Ruth s method of 
 life came to seem proper because it had so 
 long been the same. A brawny armed ffsher 
 cousin sailed over from the village every Sun 
 day morning to see that all was well at the 
 red house, and to bring whatever might be 
 needed from the village store. Sometimes 
 in winter he found her house half buried 
 in snow, but he never could report that she 
 appeared either discontented or sad. 
 
 It was of the coming of this emissary that 
 Ruth was thinking on this Saturday night 
 in September where first this record found 
 her. She had been reflecting much to-day 
 about dying. In her walk about the heath 
 she had come upon a dead bird, and the 
 sight had suggested to her her own end. 
 She acknowledged to herself that she was 
 old, and for perhaps the only time in her life 
 her thought had formulated a general truth. 
 She had regarded the tiny corpse at her feet, 
 and then, looking about upon the moors, it
 
 250 A BOOK O" NINE TALES. 
 
 came over her how immortal is the youth of 
 the world and how brief is man s life. The 
 land about her was no older than when she 
 had looked upon it with baby eyes. For a 
 single instant a poignant taste of bitterness 
 seemed set to her lips ; then in a moment the 
 very wide, changeless plain that had caused 
 her pain seemed itself somehow to assuage it. 
 To-night sitting here she admitted to her 
 self that her strength had failed somewhat 
 of late. Yes, she was old. It was almost 
 half a century ago that that bold-eyed hand 
 some stranger had compared the color in 
 her cheeks to a clove pink. She smiled 
 serenely, although her reflections were of 
 age and death, so perfectly did she recall 
 the sunny day and the air with which the 
 sailor would have kissed her. Placid and 
 content in the gathering dusk, she smiled 
 her own grave, sweet smile, which it were 
 scarcely too fanciful to liken to the odor of 
 the clove pink of her garden-plot whose hue 
 half a century ago had been in her cheek. 
 She had but one regret in leaving life, and 
 that was to leave her moorlands. She had 
 found existence so pleasant and had been so 
 well content that she could not understand 
 why people so usually spoke of life as sad ; 
 but she could not think without pain of
 
 A SKETCH IN UMBER. 2$ I 
 
 leaving the plains behind and going away 
 to lie in the bleak hillside graveyard where 
 slept her kinsfolk. It had never occurred 
 to her before to consider to which she held 
 more strongly, her people or the wide brown 
 stretches of open about her, but to-night 
 she debated it with herself and decided 
 it. She resolved to say to her cousin to 
 morrow that she wished her grave made in 
 the plains. Very likely her relatives would 
 object. They had always thought her ideas 
 strange; but they would surely let her have 
 her way in this. She would even make some 
 concessions and perhaps let Cousin Sarah 
 corne to live with her if they would agree 
 to do as she wished about this. It would be 
 so great a comfort to her to be assured that 
 she was not in death to be separated from 
 her dearly loved moors. She liked Sarah 
 well enough, only that it was so pleasant 
 to live alone with her bees and the plains. 
 Besides, if she should chance to die alone, 
 who would tell the bees? It would be a 
 pity to have the fine swarms lost. 
 
 Suddenly she started up in the dusk, and 
 without knowing clearly why she did it, she 
 wrote on the bottom of the list of errands 
 which she always made on Saturday for her 
 cousin her wish concerning: her grave. The
 
 252 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 spot she mentioned was a knoll near the 
 house, where the ground rose a little before 
 it dipped into the sea. She reflected as 
 she wrote that it wa s wiser to be prepared 
 for whatever could happen, and, although 
 she would not own it frankly even in these 
 lonely musings, Ruth had felt strangely 
 weak and worn to-day. 
 
 She frugally blew out the candle when her 
 writing was done, and with calm content sat 
 down again in her rocking-chair by the win 
 dow darkening to " a glimmering square." She 
 heard the sound of the sea and the low wind 
 blowing over the wide plains ; and, lulled by 
 the soft sounds, she fell at last asleep. 
 
 The wind rose in the night, and it was 
 afternoon when the cousin from the village 
 came in sight of the red house. No smoke 
 rose from its chimney, and as he tied his 
 clumsy sail-boat to the low wharf where so 
 long ago a yacht had been briefly fastened, 
 a long wavering line of bees rose glistening 
 from the straw-thatched hives, floating up 
 ward and away like the departing soul of 
 mortal. Their mistress had been dead more 
 than twelve hours and they had not been 
 told. Perhaps it was a chance flight; perhaps 
 they were seeking her serene spirit over the 
 moors she loved so well.
 
 THIRTEEN.
 
 THIRTEEN. 
 
 [The drawing-room of Mr. Sylvamts Potts Thomp 
 son, banker. Aft: Thompson and his wife, with ten 
 guests, making a neat round dozen in all, are waiting 
 the announcement of dinner. Enter Mr. Sylvanus 
 Potts, a wealthy uncle from the country^ 
 
 Mr. Potts. I told the man there was no need to 
 announce me ; you knew I was coming next week, 
 and a few days don t matter. How do you do, 
 nephew? how do you do, Jane? 
 
 Mr. Thompson. Why, uncle, we did not expect 
 you so soon, but we are always glad to see you, 
 of course. 
 
 Mrs. Thompson. Yes, always, dear Uncle Syl- 
 vanus. How is everybody at home? 
 
 Mr. P. Oh, they re all well ; you seem to be 
 having a party, nephew? 
 
 Mr. T. Only a few friends to dinner. Let me 
 introduce you. 
 
 [He takes Jiim on his arm and presents him to his 
 guests. While this is being done, a sentimental, el 
 derly young woman, with thin curls, after whispering 
 impressively with her neighbor, glides up to the host 
 ess, and holds a moment s conversation with that lady. 
 Mrs. Thompson turns pale, and seems engaged in a 
 mental calculation. Then she starts quickly toward 
 her husband and draws him aside ]
 
 256 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 Mrs. T. Sylvanus, do you know how many 
 people there are in this room? 
 
 Mr. T. Oh, about a dozen, I suppose. 
 
 Mrs. T. About a dozen ! There are thirteen, 
 Sylvanus, thirteen ! 
 
 Mr. T. Well, what of it ? 
 
 Mrs. T. What of it ! Why, we can t sit down 
 to dinner with thirteen at table. Maria Smith says 
 she should have a fit. 
 
 Mr. T. But she would n t, my dear ; she s too 
 fond of her dinner. 
 
 Mrs. T. Mr. Thompson, is it kind to speak so 
 of my most particular friend ? 
 
 Mr. T. But what does Maria expect us to do 
 about it? Turn Uncle Sylvanus out of the house? 
 Was n t I named for him, and have n t I always 
 been his favorite ? Do you want me to be left out 
 of his will ? 
 
 Mrs. T. But something must be done. Don t 
 you see everybody is whispering and counting? 
 Can t we get somebody else? 
 
 Servant (who has entered unperceived) . There 
 is a man downstairs, sir, wants you to sign some 
 thing. 
 
 Mr. T. Ah, my dear, here s the very man, 
 young Jones. He s our new cashier, and a very 
 clever fellow. 
 
 [Exit Mr. Thompson. During his absence Mrs. 
 Thompson communicates to Miss Smith the solution 
 of the difficulty at which they have arrived. Every-
 
 THIRTEEN. 257 
 
 body has soon heard of it, so that on Mr. Thompson s 
 return with Mr. Jones, the pair are greeted with much 
 joking about the ill-hick which is thus averted. The 
 necessary introductions take pi ace ] 
 
 Mr. Jones. I am sure I am rejoiced at being 
 instrumental in bringing good luck. 
 
 Miss Smith. You can certainly see how welcome 
 you are, Mr. Jones. 
 
 Mr. J. But I fear it is not for myself, Miss 
 Smith. 
 
 Miss S. That will undoubtedly come later, when 
 we know you better. 
 
 Mr. P. I am glad you found somebody, nephew ; 
 for I must say I never would have given up my din 
 ner for a foolish superstition ; and as I came last 
 and uninvited 
 
 Mrs. T. (relieved of her fears and remembering 
 the will) You are always invited to this house, 
 Uncle Potts ; and we would never hear of your 
 going away. 
 
 Mr. Robinson. Well, it is all very well to call it 
 a superstition, you know ; but I knew 
 
 \_Mr. Robinson proceeds to narrate a grewsome and 
 melancholy tale, in which disaster and death resulted 
 from the imprudence of sitting down with thirteen at 
 table j half a dozen other guests begin simultaneously 
 the relation of six more equally or even more grew- 
 some and melancholy tales upon the same subject, when 
 they are interrupted by the arrival of a note for Mr. 
 
 Mr. R. My dear Mrs. Thompson, I am so sorry, 
 
 17
 
 258 A BOOK a NINE TALES. 
 
 but my brother has telegraphed for me to come to 
 him at once on a matter of the utmost importance. 
 I regret 
 
 Mrs. T. But Mr. Robinson, don t you see that 
 
 Servant. Dinner is served. 
 
 Mr. T. May I have the honor, Mrs. Brown ? 
 
 Miss S. But we can t go to dinner now. Mr. 
 Robinson is called away, and that leaves us thirteen 
 again. 
 
 [An awful hush ensues, during which Mr. Rob 
 inson, finding himself regarded as a criminal, sud 
 denly slips away, leaving the company to extricate 
 themselves from their trying situation as best they can. 
 The hush is followed by a Babel of voices, in which all 
 sorts of suggestions are made."\ 
 
 Mr. J. (with heroic and renunciatory sclf-dc- 
 niat) Let me speak, please, Mrs. Thompson. It 
 was very kind in your husband to invite me to 
 remain to dinner, but now that I shall be the 
 thirteenth, I am sure you 11 excuse me. 
 
 Mr. T. But it seems so inhospitable. 
 
 Mrs. T. But it is more generous to deprive 
 ourselves of Mr. Jones s company than to be the 
 means of bringing ill-luck upon him. 
 
 Mr. J. Quite right. I bid you good evening, 
 Mrs. Thompson. I sincerely hope nothing further 
 will occur to mar the pleasure of your evening. 
 
 \_Mr. Jones having retired, a move is at once jnade 
 toward the dining-room, but just as Mr. Thompson 
 and Mrs. Brown reach the drawing-room door, they
 
 THIRTEEN. 259 
 
 arc confronted by Mr. Robinson, who comes in breath 
 less but triumphant.] 
 
 Mr. R. I thought it was so unkind of me to 
 throw all your arrangements into confusion after 
 the ill-lnck of numbers you have already had, that 
 I concluded to telegraph to my brother instead of 
 going. Phew ! How I have hurried ! I am glad 
 I am in time. 
 
 Mrs. Brown. Mr. Thompson, I positively cannot 
 sit down at table with thirteen. My aunt died of 
 it, and my second cousin. I am positive it runs 
 in the family, and I know I should be the one to 
 bear the consequence if we had thirteen at any 
 table where I sat down. 
 
 \_The greatest confusion follows. Miss Maria 
 Smith is ]ieard to declare that " Fate takes delight 
 in persecuting her!" while young Algernon White 
 mumbles something which has a distinct flavor of the 
 Apostles 1 Creed. Mr. Robinson shows a disposition 
 to consider himself a most ill-used individual, thus 
 to be rewarded for the trouble he has taken] 
 
 Mr. T. My dear, what shall we do now? 
 
 Mrs. T. There is only one thing that I can 
 think of; we can send across the street for Widow 
 Ellis. You might go yourself and explain to her 
 how it is. 
 
 \_This suggestion being acted upon, the company 
 settles into a solemn gloom, pending the return of the 
 host with Widow Ellis. Every one knows the dinner 
 will be spoiled, none being more acutely conscious of 
 that fact than the hostess, and every one is nearly per-
 
 260 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 is hi tig with hunger. More grew some and melancholy 
 stories are told, but in a wavering and sribdued man 
 ner, as if they are being offered as excuses for resisting 
 the cravings of appetite, which are rapidly becoming 
 insupportable. Young White is heard to mutter, with 
 fresh suspicions of theological terms, that one might as 
 well die of thirteen at table as of starvation, and that 
 for his part he prefers the former method of extinction. 
 The return of Mr. Thompson with the Widow Ellis 
 awakens some feeble enthusiasm, but it is evident that 
 nothing short of a substantial dinner can restore the 
 spirits of the company. ] 
 
 Mr. P. Well, nephew, now I hope we may 
 have some dinner. I, for one, am faint with 
 hunger. 
 
 Mr. T. Oh, immediately. Mrs. Brown, we 
 
 [At this juncture poor Mrs. Thompson, overcome 
 with anxiety, fatigue, and hunger, produces a diver 
 sion by falling in a dead faint. The shrieks of Miss 
 Maria Smith are re-enforced by those of other ladies of 
 the company, and it is to be feared that Mr. Algernon 
 White no longer enjoys the exclusive privilege of in 
 dulging in ecclesiastical references. The excitement 
 usual upon such occasions reigns, and when at length 
 Mrs. Thompson is restored to consciousness, but is 
 found to be too ill to stand, and is borne off to her 
 chamber, the company, once more reduced to thirteen, 
 distributes itself in a stricken and overwhelmed state 
 about the drawing-room, with the air of having ceased 
 to struggle against an adverse fate ] 
 
 Widow E. We are thirteen again, neighbor ; 
 and if you 11 excuse me
 
 THIRTEEN. 26 1 
 
 Mr. P. Thirteen or no thirteen, nephew, I m 
 going to have something to eat if it s in this house. 
 
 [He disappears toward t!ic dining-room, and as 
 tlie resolution of Widow Ellis seems to have solved 
 once more the dreadful conundrum of the fated num 
 ber, the company hastily follow, too nearly famished 
 to notice that the lady docs not carry out her apparent 
 intention of returning home , so that after all they sit 
 down thirteen at table.~\
 
 APRIL S LADY.
 
 APRIL S LADY. 
 
 !,T was fortunate that when the editor 
 of the " Dark Red " magazine first 
 did me the honor to request a 
 story from my pen, I had one 
 ready for him, and one, moreover, with which 
 I was so well satisfied. I had so long vainly 
 desired to be really asked for a contribution, 
 and thus raised from the numerous and in 
 discriminate company of scribblers who send 
 hopeful manuscripts to the magazines, and in 
 trembling uncertainty await the issue, that it 
 is not strange my bosom swelled with gratified 
 pride, and that I dispatched my copy with so 
 perfect a sense of complacency that I almost 
 seemed to condescend a little in letting the 
 editor have it. 
 
 I was fond of that story. I experienced a 
 certain delight in recalling the circumstances 
 under which it was composed, and I felt in it 
 that confidence which an author is sure to 
 have in work which has sprung spontane 
 ously, and as it were full-grown, from his
 
 266 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 brain. Every literary worker, down to the 
 veriest penny-a-liner of them all, knows the 
 difference between a tale which makes itself, 
 so to speak, growing unforced into beauty 
 and completeness like a crystal, and a labo 
 riously constructed piece of work, be it con 
 trived never so ingeniously and cleverly. The 
 fiction I sent to the editor of the " Dark Red " 
 was of the former variety. It had come into 
 my head all of itself, as the children say, 
 while I was travelling between New York and 
 Boston, so complete and so distinct that I 
 scarcely seemed to have more to do with its 
 creation than the later putting upon paper. 
 The circumstances were these : 
 I had reached the Grand Central Station 
 jus t in time to catch the morning train; and 
 as the cars swept out into the daylight, I 
 settled myself into a seat with a comfort 
 able and something too self-satisfied feeling. 
 In the first place, I was glad to be out of 
 New York, partly because it w r as hot and 
 dusty there, partly because I am not over- 
 fond of Gotham, and partly because sundry 
 pleasant bachelor friends and divers good 
 times were awaiting me at the Boston end 
 of the journey. 
 
 I looked out upon the sunny landscape, 
 over which the splendors of an April day
 
 APRIL S LADY. 267 
 
 cast a glow of warmth and brightness, smiled 
 at the remembrance of a retort I had made 
 at the Century Club on the previous evening, 
 which seemed to me rather neat, and then 
 with a sort of mental nod of farewell to all 
 the outside world I took up my book and 
 prepared to follow the fortunes of the woful 
 and wicked, but thoroughly charming French 
 heroine with whose adventures I was at that 
 particular time occupying myself. To my 
 vexation, however, I discovered that instead 
 of the second volume I had taken the first, 
 and as I had no especial desire to peruse 
 again the somewhat detailed account of the 
 heroine s youth, her career at school, her first 
 confession and early marriage, all these 
 being preliminary to the impropriety and the 
 interest of the book, which, after the repre 
 hensible manner of French novels, began 
 together, I laid down the volume with a 
 sigh, and resigned myself to a ride of unalle- 
 viated dulness. 
 
 A resource instantly presented itself, how 
 ever, in the page which the lady in the seat 
 before me was reading. As I glanced up I 
 sa\v that she was entertaining herself with 
 poetry, and the next moment a familiar line 
 caught my eye : 
 
 " If you were April s lady, and I were lord of May."
 
 268 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 " Swinburne," I mused, " or a collection of 
 selected poems, perhaps. Wiseacres would 
 say one ought to know what a reader is like 
 by the book she reads ; but in the first place 
 that s nonsense, and in the second place I 
 don t know what book she is reading. She 
 has an exquisite ear, and her hair is some 
 thing bewildering. If you were April s lady. 
 April s lady should be a capricious creature, 
 all smiles and tears, with winning ways and 
 wilful wiles, impulsive and wayward, apd 
 thoroughly enchanting. It would not," my 
 thoughts ran on in a professional turn, while 
 my eyes dwelt appreciatively, if somewhat 
 presumptuously, upon the lovely curve of my 
 neighbor s neck, " it would not be a bad 
 notion to write a story of such a maiden and 
 call it April s Lady. Let me see, what 
 should it be like?" 
 
 And upon this impulse I fell to pondering, 
 when suddenly, as if by magic, a tale pre 
 sented itself all complete in my mind. My 
 mental action appeared to me more like that 
 of remembering than of creating, so real and 
 so complete was the pretty history. The self- 
 willed, volatile damsel whose fortunes it con 
 cerned seemed one whom I had known, and 
 whom I might meet again some day. In 
 my mind she assumed, it is true, an outward
 
 APRIL S LADY. 269 
 
 semblance similar to that of the lady before 
 me, upon whose back I fixed my regards in 
 an absorbed stare, which should have dis 
 turbed her could looks make themselves felt. 
 She did not move, however, and as she did 
 not turn the leaf of her book, I fancied she 
 might have fallen into a reverie as deep as 
 my own. I had not been able fully to see 
 her face, although a lucky turn had given me 
 a glimpse of a profile full of character and 
 beauty, and which made me desire to behold 
 more. I did not, however, trouble myself 
 about the exact details of my heroine s feat 
 ures, since every story-teller has a stock pf 
 choice personal charms with which to endow 
 his fictitious children, but continued to gloat 
 over my little romance ; and so vividly was 
 the tale of "April s Lady" impressed upon 
 my mind that although some weeks elapsed 
 before I found time to put it upon paper, 
 I had not the slighest difficulty in recalling 
 even its most trifling incidents. 
 
 Almost the whole of my journey was taken 
 up in turning the story over in my mind, 
 and when we drew into the Boston station, 
 and my neighbor closed her volume to begin 
 the collection of her numerous feminine pos 
 sessions, I had half a mind to lean forward 
 and thank her for having given me, although 
 unconsciously, so good a story.
 
 2 70 A BOOK a NINE TALES. 
 
 It did seem to me, even after I had sent 
 my manuscript off and the dreadful moment 
 came when one realizes that it is too late 
 to make changes and consequently thinks 
 of plenty of things he wishes to alter, that 
 " April s Lady " was the best work I had 
 ever done. I had let a month or two pass 
 between its first writing and the final revision, 
 and I was pretty well satisfied that I had pro 
 duced a really capital story. I fondly hoped 
 Mr. Lane, the editor of the " Dark Red," would 
 be moved by its excellence to give me further 
 orders; and the eagerness with which I one 
 morning tore open an envelope upon which 
 I recognized his handwriting, may be easily 
 enough imagined, at least by members of the 
 literary guild. My impatience gave place to 
 profound astonishment as I read the following 
 note : 
 
 OFFICE DARK RED MAGAZINE, 
 BOSTON, September 27. 
 
 MY DEAR MR. GRAY, Can you drop into my 
 office to-morrow about noon? By some odd co 
 incidence I received a story very similar to your 
 "April s Lady," and bearing the same title, several 
 days earlier, and should like to talk with you 
 about it. 
 
 Very truly yours, 
 
 J. Q. LANE.
 
 APRIL S LADY. 2JI 
 
 I was utterly confounded. I racked my 
 brains to discover who could possibly have 
 stolen my story, and even suspected the small 
 black girl who dusted my rooms, although 
 the sooty little morsel did not know one letter 
 from another. The first draft of the story 
 had lain in my desk for some time, it was 
 true, yet that any literary burglar should 
 have forced an entrance and then contented 
 himself with copying this seemed, upon the 
 whole, scarcely probable. I ransacked my 
 memory for some old tale which I might 
 unconsciously have plagiarized, but I could 
 think of nothing; and, moreover, I reflected 
 that the coincidence of names certainly could 
 not be accounted for in this way, even did I 
 recall the germ of my plot. 
 
 I presented myself at the office of the 
 "Dark Red" at the hour appointed with a 
 clear conscience, it is true, but with positively 
 no suggestion whatever to offer in regard to 
 the method by which a copy of my story 
 could have reached the editor in advance of 
 my own manuscript. 
 
 Mr. Lane received me with the convention 
 ally cordial manner which is as much a part 
 of editorial duties as is the use of the blue 
 pencil, and without much delay came to the 
 business of the call.
 
 2/2 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 " There is something very singular about 
 this affair," he said, laying out my manu 
 script, and beside it another which I could 
 see was written in a running feminine hand. 
 " If the stories were a little more alike, I 
 should be sure one was copied from the 
 other; as it is, it is inconceivable that they 
 have not at least a common origin. Where 
 did you get your idea?" 
 
 " Why, so far as I know," I replied in per 
 plexity, " I evolved it from my inner con 
 sciousness ; but the germ may have been the 
 unconscious recollection of some incident or 
 floating idea. I Ve tried to discover where I 
 did get the fancy, but without a glimmer of 
 success. Who sent you the other version?" 
 
 " A lady of whose integrity I am as sure as 
 I am of yours. That s the odd part of it. 
 Besides, you are both of you too clever to 
 plagiarize, even if you were n t too honest. 
 The mere similarity of theme is n t so strange ; 
 that happens often enough ; but that the title 
 of the stories should be identical, and that in 
 each the heroine should be named May 
 
 "Is her heroine named May?" I inter 
 rupted in astonishment; "why, then, she 
 must have seen my copy; or," I added, a 
 new thought striking me, " she must have 
 got the name in the same way I did. I
 
 APRIL S LADY. 2/3 
 
 took the title of the story and the name of 
 the heroine from a line of Swinburne, and " 
 
 " And," interrupted the editor in turn, 
 catching up the manuscript before him, "so 
 did she." 
 
 And he showed me, written at the head of 
 the page : 
 
 " If you were April s lady, and I were lord of May." 
 
 "Well," I remarked, with a not unnatural 
 mingling of philosophy and anoyance, " it is 
 all of a piece with my theory that ideas are 
 in the air, and belong, like wild geese, to 
 whoever catches them first; but it is vexa 
 tious, when I captured a fancy that particu 
 larly pleased me, to find that some woman or 
 other has been smart enough to get salt on 
 its tail-feathers before I did." 
 
 Mr. Lane smiled at my desperate air, and 
 at that moment his little office-boy, whom 
 I particularly detest because of the catlike 
 stillness and suddenness of his movements, 
 silently produced first himself and then a 
 card. 
 
 " Agnes Graham, " read Mr. Lane. " Here 
 is your rival to speak for herself. I hope 
 you don t mind seeing her?" 
 
 "Oh, by no means," I replied rather un 
 graciously. " Let us see what she is like, and 
 what she will have to say about this puzzle." 
 18
 
 2/4 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 The name was not wholly new to me, 
 as I had seen it signed to various magazine 
 articles, concerning which at this moment I 
 had only the most vague and general idea. 
 I was sitting with my back- to the door, and 
 in rising I still kept my face half turned away 
 from the lady who entered, but I saw the 
 reflection of her face in a mirror opposite 
 without any sense of recognition. As she 
 advanced a step or two, however, and half 
 passed me, I knew her. The delicate ear, the 
 fine sweep of the neck, the kntDt of golden 
 brown hair, were all familiar. It was the 
 lady who had sat before me in the cars from 
 New York on that April day. 
 
 As she turned in recognition of Mr. Lane s 
 introduction, a faint flush seemed to show 
 that she too recognized me, although I was 
 unable to understand how she should know 
 me, since she certainly had not turned her 
 head once in the entire journey. I set it 
 down to pure feminine intuition, not having 
 wholly freed myself from that masculine 
 superstition which regards woman s instinct 
 as a sort of supernatural clairvoyance. 
 
 My sensations on discovering her identity 
 were not wholly unlike those of a man who 
 inadvertently touches a charged Leyden jar. 
 
 " Good heavens ! " I exclaimed, " what a
 
 APRIL S LADY. 2/5 
 
 psychological conundrum, or whatever you 
 choose to call it. The whole matter is as 
 plain to me now as daylight." 
 
 "Well?" Mr. Lane asked, while Miss 
 Graham regarded me with an air which 
 seemed to question whether my insanity 
 were of a dangerous type. 
 
 " Pardon me, Miss Graham, if I cross-ques 
 tion you a little," I went -on, becoming some 
 what excited. " You came from New York 
 on the morning train on Wednesday, the 
 fifteenth no, the sixteenth of last April, did 
 you not?" 
 
 " Yes," she answered, her color again a 
 trifle heightened, but her appearance being 
 rather that of perplexity than of self-con 
 sciousness. 
 
 " And on the way you read Swinburne till 
 you came to the line, 
 
 If you were April s lady, and I were lord of May, 
 and it occurred to you what a capital name 
 for a story April s Lady would be? " 
 
 " Yes," she repeated ; and then, with a yet 
 more puzzled air, she turned to Mr. Lane to 
 ask, " Is this mind-reading? " 
 
 " I *m sure I don t know," returned he. 
 " Mr. Gray can best tell what it is." 
 
 " And the rest of the way to Boston," I 
 continued, ignoring the interruption, " you
 
 2/6 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 were elaborating your story. You took the 
 heroine s name from the same line, and had 
 a pun at the climax about the hero s becom 
 ing lord of May. " 
 
 " No," Miss Graham retorted, beginning to 
 enter into the spirit of the situation. " I deny 
 the pun, although I acknowledge the rest. 
 The pun I did n t even think of." 
 
 " Well, you see I have n t read your manu 
 script, but I own I fell so low that I put in 
 the pun myself. At least the old gentleman 
 with a scar on his cheek, who sat in the cor 
 ner of the car, gave you hints for 
 
 " The uncle," broke in Miss Graham, with 
 a gleeful laugh at the remembrance of the 
 oddity of the old gentleman s appearance. 
 " But how in the world did you know? " 
 
 " Oh, he did me. We evidently had the 
 same mental experience ; which proves, I 
 suppose, that we are literary Corsican broth 
 ers or something of the sort." 
 
 " But the great question to be settled is," 
 Mr. Lane observed, bringing in, after some 
 further talk, the editorial consideration, "whose 
 story this really is." 
 
 " Miss Graham s, by all means," I said in 
 stantly. " Hers was first in the field, and if I 
 had n t impertinently looked over her shoulder, 
 I should n t have had any share in it whatever."
 
 APRIL S LADY. 277 
 
 Miss Graham laughed, showing a delicious 
 dimple, and Mr. Lane, who evidently had no 
 desire to settle the question under discussion, 
 looked inquiringly at her for a response to my 
 words. 
 
 " You are very generous, Mr. Gray," she 
 answered ; " but in the first place my story 
 has never been accepted for the Dark Red, 
 and in the second, as the stories really ought 
 to stand on their merits, I shall certainly not 
 venture to put mine into competition with 
 yours, but prefer to pocket my manuscript 
 and retire." 
 
 " I fear," was my reply, " that I discover 
 rather a tendency to sarcasm in what you say , 
 than any true humility. Of course the first 
 point is one for Mr. Lane to settle." 
 
 The editor cleared his throat with some 
 embarrassment, but before he found the words 
 he wanted, Miss Graham spoke again. 
 
 " I had not the slightest idea of being sar 
 castic, for, of course, it goes without saying 
 that your story is better than mine; but since 
 you choose to take it in that way, I am will 
 ing to leave the whole matter to Mr. Lane. 
 He is at least the only person who has read 
 both manuscripts." 
 
 " Really," Mr. Lane said, thus pushed into 
 a corner, " I am extremely sorry to find my-
 
 2/8 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 self placed in so trying a situation. There 
 are points in which each story excels, and 
 the best result would undoubtedly be at 
 tained by welding them together." 
 
 " If that could be done," said Miss Graham, 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 " Now, in Mr. Gray s version," he continued, 
 " the heroine is more attractive and real." 
 
 " That," I interpolated, trying to cover the 
 awkwardness I felt by a jest, " is the first 
 time in all my literary experience that the 
 character I thought best in a story I d 
 written has seemed so to the editorial 
 mind." 
 
 , The dark eyes of my neighbor gave me a 
 bright, brief glance, but whether of sympathy 
 with my statement or of contempt for the 
 feebleness of my attempts at being jocose, I 
 could not determine. 
 
 " While Miss Graham," went on the editor 
 ial comment, " has decidedly the advantage 
 in her hero." 
 
 Miss Graham flushed slightly, but offered 
 no remark in reply to this opinion beyond a 
 smile which seemed one of frank pleasure. 
 We sat in silence a moment, a not unnatural 
 hesitancy preventing my making a propo 
 sition which had presented itself to my 
 mind.
 
 APRIL S LADY. 279 
 
 " If it will not seem impertinent to Miss 
 Graham," I ventured at length, " I would 
 propose that we really do try the experiment 
 of collaboration on this story. I have never 
 worked with anybody, but I promise to be 
 tractable; and the thing had so odd a begin 
 ning that it is a pity to thwart the evident 
 intention of destiny that we shall both have a 
 hand in it." 
 
 To this proposition the lady at first re 
 turned a decided and even peremptory nega 
 tive ; but my persausions, seconded by those 
 of Mr. Lane, who was partly curious and 
 partly anxious to escape from the necessity 
 of arbitrating in the matter, in the end in 
 duced her to alter her decision. 
 
 The result of the interview was that when 
 we left the office of the "Dark Red" Miss 
 Graham had my manuscript and I hers, and 
 that an appointment had been made for my 
 calling upon her with a view to an inter 
 change of comments and criticisms. 
 
 Upon the appointed evening I presented 
 myself at the home of Miss Graham, and al 
 most without the usual conventionalites con 
 cerning the weather we proceeded to discuss 
 the stories. We began with great outward 
 suavity and courtesy the exchange of compli 
 ments, which were so obviously formal and
 
 280 A BOOK a NINE TALES. 
 
 perfunctory that in a moment more we looked 
 into each other s faces and burst into laughter 
 which if hardly polite was at least genuine. 
 
 " Come/ I said, " now the ice is broken 
 and we can say what we really think ; and I 
 must be pardoned for saying that that hero 
 of yours, whom Mr. Lane praised, is the 
 most insufferable cad I ve encountered this 
 many a day. He can t be set off against 
 that lovely girl in my story. Why, the truth 
 is, Miss Graham, I meant her to be what I 
 fancied you might be. She s the ideal I 
 built up from seeing you in the cars." 
 
 " I must say," Miss Graham retorted with 
 spirit, " that if you meant that pert heroine 
 of yours for me, I am anything but compli 
 mented." 
 
 " It is a pity, then, that you did n t intend 
 your hero for me, and we should have been 
 more than quits." 
 
 She blushed so vividly that a sudden light 
 burst upon me. 
 
 " Good heavens ! " I exclaimed, " he does 
 have my eyes and beard ; but you did n t see 
 me. It is n t possible 
 
 " But it is," interrupted she, desperately. 
 " With a mirror in the end of the car 
 directly before me all the way from New 
 York, do you suppose I could help seeing
 
 APRIL S LADY. 28l 
 
 you ! I m sure you kept your eyes on me 
 steadily enough to give me a good excuse." 
 
 I whistled rudely; whereat she looked 
 offended, and we went on from one thing to 
 another until we had got up a very respect 
 able quarrel indeed. There is nothing more 
 conducive to a thoroughly good understand 
 ing between persons of opposite sex than a 
 genuine quarrel; and having reached the 
 point where there was no alternative but to 
 separate in anger or to apologize, we chose 
 the latter course, and having mutually hum 
 bled ourselves, after that got on capitally. 
 
 " It is my deliberate conviction," she ob 
 served, when we at length got upon a footing 
 sufficiently familiar for jesting, "that this 
 story is really mine, and that you purloined it 
 from me by some mysterious clairvoyance." 
 
 " That may be," I admitted. " I once 
 guessed that a man was a bartender by the 
 way he stirred his coffee at the steamer table, 
 and that got me a very pretty reputation as a 
 seer for a day or two ; and very likely the 
 truth is that I was all the time a mind-reader 
 without knowing it." 
 
 She smiled good-naturedly more good- 
 naturedly, indeed, than the jest deserved ; and 
 from that moment our acquaintance got on 
 famously. The story was far from advancing
 
 282 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 as rapidly, however. A very brief time suf 
 ficed to reduce both versions of " April s 
 Lady" to hopeless confusion, but to build 
 from the fragments a new and improved 
 copy was a labor of much magnitude. Cir 
 cumstances moreover, conspired to hinder 
 our work. It was necessary that we verify 
 our impressions of material we had used, and 
 to do this we were obliged to attend the 
 theatre together, to read together various 
 poems, and together to hear a good deal of 
 music. A little ingenuity, and a common 
 inclination to prolong these investigations, 
 effected so great a lengthening out that it 
 was several months before we could even pre 
 tend to be ready to begin serious work upon 
 the story ; and even then we were far from 
 agreeing in a number of important particulars. 
 " Agnes," I remarked, one February even 
 ing, when we were on our way home from a 
 concert to which we had boldly gone without 
 even a pretence that it was in the remotest 
 way connected with our literary project, " I 
 fear we are becoming demoralized, and it 
 seems to me the only hope of our ever com 
 pleting April s Lady is to put everything 
 else aside for the time being and give our 
 minds to it. I can get my work arranged, 
 and you can finish those articles for The
 
 APRILS LADY. 283 
 
 Quill by the middle of March. Then, \ve 
 can be quietly married and go to some nice 
 old-fashioned place say St. Augustine 
 for a couple of months and get this magnum 
 opus on paper at last." 
 
 " As to being married," returned she se 
 dately, " have you considered that we could 
 not possibly make a living, since we should 
 inevitably be always writing the same things? " 
 
 " Why, that is my chief reason," I retorted, 
 " for proposing it. Think how awkward it is 
 going to be if either of us marries somebody 
 else, and then we write the same things. It 
 is a good deal better to have our interests in 
 common if our inventive faculty is to be so." 
 
 " There is something in what you say," 
 Agnes assented; " and it would be especially 
 awkward for you, since the invention is in my 
 head." 
 
 " Then we will consider it all arranged." 
 
 "Oh, no, George; by no means. I couldn t 
 think of it for a minute ! " 
 
 Whether she did think of it for a minute is 
 a point which may be left for the settling of 
 those versed in the ways of the feminine 
 mind; certain it is that the programme was 
 carried out except in one trifling particular. 
 We were quietly married, we did go to St. 
 Augustine, but as for doing anything with
 
 284 A BOOK o> N1NE TALES. 
 
 the story, that was quite another thing. We 
 did not finish it then, and we have not fin 
 ished it yet, and I have ceased to have any 
 very firm confidence that we ever shall finish 
 it; although, whenever arises one of those 
 financial crises which are so painfully frequent 
 in the family of a literary man, and we sit 
 down to consider possible resources, one or 
 the other of us is sure sooner or later to 
 observe : 
 
 "And then there is April s Lady/ you 
 know."
 
 A CUBAN MORNING.
 
 A CUBAN MORNING. 
 
 [Scene, the shady piazza of the hotel at Marian ao, 
 Cuba. 7Y;//<?, nine o clock on a hot March morning. 
 Miss Peltonville and Arthur Chester tete-a-tete. .] 
 
 She. Why did you follow us to Cuba ? 
 
 He. I have already told you that I thought you 
 were in Florida. 
 
 She. Yes? And so you came to Marianao, 
 where nobody comes at this time of year, in order 
 that you might be perfectly safe from an encounter, 
 I suppose. 
 
 He. Oh, I that is ; precisely. 
 
 She. I had a letter from Annie Cleaves yes 
 terday. 
 
 He. Had you ? 
 
 She. Yes ; and she said you told her that you 
 were coming to Cuba to find me. 
 
 He. Oh, that s nothing. It is n t to be sup 
 posed I told her the truth. 
 
 She. Do you speak the truth so seldom, then? 
 Is there no dependence to be put on what you say? 
 
 He. None whatever ; otherwise I should be con 
 tinually hampered by the necessity of conforming 
 my actions to my words. You can see yourself 
 how inconvenient that would be.
 
 288 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 She, For one who has had so little practice, very 
 likely ; but then you would find it a novel expe 
 rience, I have no doubt. 
 
 He. Ah, you have given me an idea. I 11 try 
 it when all other novelties in life are exhausted. 
 
 She. Don t put it off too long, or from the force 
 of habit you may find it impossible. 
 
 He. You underrate my adaptability. 
 
 She. Meanwhile I wish to know why you came. 
 
 He. Since you are here yourself, you might be 
 supposed to regard the place as sufficiently inter 
 esting to attract the traveller. 
 
 She. Then you decline to tell me ? 
 
 He. Oh, no ; I came because you amuse me. 
 
 She. Thank you for nothing. 
 
 He. And consequently I am in love with you, 
 as I did myself the honor to mention before you 
 left New York. 
 
 She. Am I to understand that amusement is 
 your idea of love? 
 
 He. Love certainly must be something that does 
 not bore one. 
 
 She. But it seems a somewhat limited view to 
 take. 
 
 He. Oh, it is only one way out of many ; I 
 assure you I have quantities of ideas upon the sub 
 ject, all founded upon experience. I loved Lottie 
 Greenwell because she made a glorious champagne 
 cup. Indeed, for ten days I positively adored her, 
 until one night she put in too much curacoa, and I
 
 A CUBAN MORNING. 289 
 
 realized how uncertain a foundation my passion 
 had. Then there was Elsie Manning. My passion 
 for her was roused entirely by her divine waltzing, 
 but I realized that it is n t good form for a man to 
 waltz with his wife, and I stood a much better chance 
 if she married some other man. After that came 
 Kate Turner ; she writes so fascinating a letter that 
 I lost my heart every time I saw her handwriting 
 on the back of an envelope, although perhaps that 
 feeling you would call only a fancy, since nobody 
 would think of marrying on a virtue that is sure to 
 end with the wedding. A wife never writes to her 
 husband about anything but the servants and the 
 payment of her milliner s bills ; so my flirtation 
 with her would n t really count as a love affair. 
 
 She. You excel in nice metaphysical distinctions. 
 
 He. Then there was Miss French. I loved her 
 because she snubbed me, just as I loved Nora 
 Delaney for her riding, and Annie Cleaves for her 
 music. 
 
 She. And now you love me, I am to understand, 
 as suited to the position of court jester to your 
 Royal Highness. 
 
 He. One must have some sort of a reason for 
 being in love. 
 
 She. But one need n t be in love. 
 
 He. Oh, yes life is very dull otherwise ; and 
 
 besides, I have always thought it very stupid to 
 
 marry without having been in love a dozen times 
 
 at least. One is apt to lose his head otherwise ; 
 
 19
 
 290 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 and how can he judge of the value of his passion 
 without having had a good deal of experience? 
 
 She. So you advertise yourself as a marrying 
 man? 
 
 He. Every bachelor is a marrying man. It is 
 only a question of finding a convenient wife. 
 
 She. Like a convenient house, I suppose. 
 
 He. Exactly. 
 
 She. I wonder any woman ever consents to 
 marry a man. 
 
 He. They know their own sex too well to be 
 willing to marry a woman. 
 
 She. But men are such selfish creatures ! 
 
 He. You are amazingly pretty when you toss 
 your head that way. It is worth coming from New 
 York to see. 
 
 She. It is well you think so ; otherwise you 
 might consider your voyage a waste of time. 
 
 He. What, with the certainty of your consenting 
 to marry me? 
 
 She. I like your assurance ! Why should I 
 marry you ? 
 
 He. I supposed that with your sex the fact of 
 my amazing attachment would be a sufficient 
 reason. 
 
 She. Your knowledge of our sex is then remark 
 ably limited. Apparently, whether I happen to 
 love you is of no particular consequence. 
 
 He. Oh, love is said to beget love. 
 
 She. But you love me, you say, because I amuse
 
 A CUBAN MORNING. 291 
 
 you. Now you don t amuse me in the least, and 
 as I do not know just how to cultivate a passion 
 simply on the rather doubtful ground of your affec 
 tion, especially with the chance of its being tran 
 sient, there really seems to be very little chance of 
 reciprocity. 
 
 He. Do you know what a tremendously hot 
 day it is? 
 
 She. I don t see the connection, and I am sure 
 I am cool enough. 
 
 He. But you make it very hot for me ! How 
 picturesque that ragged fellow over there looks, 
 riding on the top of his high saddle. 
 
 She. With a string of mules tied to his horse s 
 tail. I am fond of the mules, their bells are so 
 musical. 
 
 He. And their bray. 
 
 She. And the muleteers sing such weird songs. 
 I hear them going by about four o clock in the 
 morning, on their way to the Havana market, and 
 the effect is most fascinating. 
 
 He. I should have expected you to be fond of 
 the mules. 
 
 She. Why? 
 
 He. A fellow feeling is said to have a softening 
 effect, and the mule s strongest characteristic is 
 
 She. Consistency ! 
 
 He. And as I was about to remark, we are apt 
 to value others most for the virtues we do not our 
 selves possess.
 
 2Q2 A BOOK a NINE TALES. 
 
 She. You are sufficiently rude. 
 
 He. There is always danger that honesty will be 
 thought rude. 
 
 She. Really, you begin to amuse me. Please go 
 on ; I would like to try falling in love on the 
 amusement plan ; it must be very droll. 
 
 He. Oh, bother the amusement ! Like the 
 young ladies in novels, I would be loved for myself 
 alone. 
 
 She. I fear that would be more difficult than the 
 other way. What have you ever done to make me 
 admire you ? 
 
 He. Perhaps nothing. Admiration presupposes 
 the capability of appreciation. 
 
 She. Ah ! What have you done, then, worthy 
 of admiration ? 
 
 He. I have managed to find you at Marianao, 
 and bring about a tete-a-tete before I have been 
 here fifteen hours. 
 
 She. Wonderful man ! And of all that, what 
 comes ? 
 
 He. That I ask you to marry me. That is cer 
 tainly something. 
 
 She. Yes ; it is n t much, and you have done it 
 before. But as you say, it is certainly something. 
 
 He. You are always flattering ! Really, one 
 would n t have expected you to be light now, when 
 it is my deepest affections and all that sort of 
 touching thing with which you are trifling. 
 
 She. You are a humbug !
 
 A CUBAN MORNING. 293 
 
 He. Of course ; so are you ; so is everybody. 
 Civilization is merely the apotheosis of humbug. 
 
 She. My friend, that trick of striving after epi 
 gram is fast making you as bad as a confirmed 
 punster. 
 
 He. Still, it is all true. I am a humbug in pro 
 posing to you ; you, if you reject me - 
 
 She. I certainly do, most emphatically and 
 finally ! 
 
 He. You make me the happiest of men. 
 
 She. You make your system of humbug far too 
 complicated for me to follow. 
 
 He. Why, this is genuine. 
 
 She. Anything genuine from you, I fear, is im 
 possible. 
 
 He. Oh, no ; I have to be genuine occasionally, 
 for the sake of contrast. The humbug was in ask 
 ing you to marry me, and I would n t have had you 
 say yes for the world. 
 
 She. I never suspected you of insanity, Mr. 
 Chester. Am I to infer that the climate of Cuba, 
 or the wines 
 
 He. Oh, neither, I assure you. Besides, Cuba 
 has no wines, as you ought to know. Now, see ; 
 I 11 do you the rare honor of telling you the truth. 
 Of course, you are at liberty to believe it or not, as 
 you please ; and very likely you won t, because it 
 happens to be as true as the Gospel, revised ver 
 sion. Some days since, I asked Annie Cleaves to 
 marry me.
 
 294 A BOOK NINE TALES. 
 
 She. What particular thing had she been playing 
 to rouse you to that point of enthusiasm ? 
 
 He. If my memory serves me, it was the Chopin 
 Nocturne in G minor. She did play extremely well, 
 and as we happened to be in the conservatory 
 afterward, I improved the opportunity to propose. 
 
 She. Oh, very naturally ! 
 
 He. It is a form of words that comes very read 
 ily to my lips, as you know. Annie confessed to 
 that very superfluous and old-fashioned sentiment 
 called love, which was n t in good form, I 11 admit ; 
 but in consideration for the object of her attach 
 ment, and the fact that on that particular evening 
 I was in love myself, I managed to overlook it. 
 
 She. Very good of you, I m sure. I hope 
 Annie appreciated your generosity. 
 
 He. Very likely she did n t. Your sex very sel 
 dom do appreciate masculine virtues ; but Annie 
 has a far more old-fashioned and worse vice than 
 love. Why, the girl, in the midst of these en 
 lightened nineteenth-century days, actually goes to 
 the nonsensical bother of keeping a conscience ! 
 It must be more trouble to attend to, Agnes, than 
 her aunt Wheeler s seven pet poodles and three 
 red- headed parrots. 
 
 She. I suppose you are right. You don t speak 
 from experience, though, do you ? 
 
 He. Oh, no ; I never had a conscience : as a 
 boy, I preferred white mice ; now I have my 
 horses, you know.
 
 A CUBAN MORNING 295 
 
 She. And your innumerable loves. 
 
 He. If such trifles are to be taken into account. 
 
 She. Go on about Annie. 
 
 Pie. Well, on my confessing how far I had car 
 ried my flirtation with you I can t, for the life 
 of me, tell how I happened to speak of it ; I am 
 usually more discreet. 
 
 She. I should hope so. 
 
 He. Oh, I am, I assure you ; but the loves are 
 so numerous, while I am but one, that they some 
 times get the better of my discretion. What is one 
 among so many? 
 
 She. Oh, in this case, absolutely nothing. 
 
 He. Thank you again. 
 
 She. But to continue 
 
 He. Well, to continue, Annie actually seemed 
 to think that you had some sort of claim upon me. 
 Fancy ! 
 
 She. She need n t have troubled. 
 
 He. Oh, of course not. Why, I have offered 
 myself to dozens of girls, with no more idea of 
 marrying them -than I have of becoming a howling 
 dervish ; and more than that, I have habitually 
 been accepted. That is one thing about you that 
 attracted me, do you know? There is a beautiful 
 novelty about being rejected. 
 
 She. So that is the secret of my amusing you, is 
 it ? You ought to have explained this to Annie. 
 
 He. Oh, she would n t have understood. Like 
 every other girl, t was the personal application that
 
 296 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 she was touched by. You see she did n t know the 
 other girls, and she did know you ; and she seems 
 to think your no more binding than any other 
 person s yes. Perhaps she knows that a woman s 
 negative 
 
 She. Really, Arthur, that s so hackneyed that if 
 you have n t the gallantry not to say it you ought 
 to be ashamed to repeat anything so stale. 
 
 He. Perhaps you are right ; I have known you 
 to be on very rare occasions. However, Annie 
 insisted that I should come, and, as she said, 
 " assure myself of your sentiments and of my 
 own." Did you ever hear anything more absurd? 
 As if I did n t know, all the time, that you were 
 dying for me ; and as if I despite my mad and 
 overpowering passion for your lovely self, Miss 
 Peltonville could n t tell as well in New York as 
 in Cuba whether I wanted to marry her or not. 
 
 She. If you were no better informed of your 
 own sentiments than of mine, I don t wonder she 
 doubted your conclusions. 
 
 He. Oh, she did n t in the least. . 
 
 She. At least, Annie may set her mind quite at 
 rest, so far as I am concerned. 
 
 He. Thank you so much. It is such a relief to 
 have things settled. 
 
 She. What would you have done if I had ac 
 cepted you? 
 
 He. Oh, I was confident of my ability of putting 
 the qr.estion so that you would n t.
 
 A CUBAN MORNING. 297 
 
 She. I have almost a mind to do it, even now. 
 
 He. Really? 
 
 She. Oh, don t be alarmed. There is one in 
 superable obstacle. 
 
 He. What is that? 
 
 She. Yourself. 
 
 He. Then I am quite safe. That is a perma 
 nent one. 
 
 She. Well, I wish Annie joy of her bargain. She 
 is worthy of a better fate ; and since we are talking 
 frankly, I must say that what she can see in you I 
 can t imagine. 
 
 He. These things are so strange ; there is no 
 accounting for them. Why, I have been perfectly 
 puzzled do you know ? ever since I came last 
 night, to tell what I found in you last winter. 
 
 She. Since we seem to be striving to outdo each 
 other in abuse, it is quite in keeping for me to add, 
 that I have no occasion to bother my head on such 
 a question, for I never pretended to have found 
 anything in you. 
 
 He. But then, as I said, you amused me ; and 
 one may sometimes be so far amused that 
 
 She. His amusement may even amount to as 
 tonishment, perhaps ; and, by the way, that gen 
 tleman on the gray horse, just coming between 
 the China laurels with papa, expects to marry 
 me. 
 
 He. Fred Armstrong, by all that is unspeak 
 able ! . Agnes Peltonville, I humble myself in the
 
 298 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 dust before you ; and no humiliation could be 
 greater than going down into Cuban dust. You 
 are an angel ; you have removed my last fear. 
 
 She. Yes; and how? 
 
 He. I was always jealous of Fred Armstrong ; 
 he was forever dangling about Annie. Do I un 
 derstand that you are engaged? 
 
 She. Oh, I did n t say that I expected to marry 
 him ; but since Annie confesses such a strong at 
 tachment to you 
 
 He. Oh, I did n t say I was the object of the 
 attachment. 
 
 \_They sit confronting each other in silence a mo 
 ment, until the riders, having dismounted, are seen 
 approaching the piazza. Then Chester leans forward 
 impulsively, and speaks with a new intensity.] 
 
 He. Agnes ! 
 
 She. Arthur ! 
 
 He. Quick ! Before they come ! You won t 
 send me away? 
 
 She. But- 
 
 Hc. No, no more nonsense ; I am in dead ear 
 nest now. You know I could n t live without you, 
 or I should n t have followed you to Cuba. 
 
 She. And Annie Cleaves? 
 
 He. Oh, if you had a letter from her yesterday, 
 you must know she s engaged to Bob Wainwright. 
 Is it yes? 
 
 She. (rising. ) It would be a pity that you 
 should have come so far for nothing.
 
 A CUBAN MORNING. 299 
 
 [As he rises also Jie manages to catch her hand, 
 which he clasps joyously before the pair go forward to 
 meet the new-comers .] 
 
 He. I hope you had a pleasant ride, Mr. Pel- 
 tonville ? I like Marianao so well that I have 
 concluded to remain a while.
 
 DELIA GRIMWET.
 
 DELIA GRIMWET. 
 
 an ordinary observer, nothing 
 could be more commonplace than 
 Kempton, a decrepit little apology 
 for a village, lying on the coast of 
 Maine. Properly speaking, however, no sea 
 port can be utterly commonplace, with its 
 suggestion of the mystery of the sea, the 
 ships, the sailors who have been to far lands, 
 the glimpses of unwritten tragedies on every 
 hand. But among sea-side villages Kempton 
 was surely dull enough, and dry enough, and 
 lifeless enough, as if the sea-winds had 
 sucked its vitality, leaving it empty and pal 
 lid and juiccless, like the cockle-shells which 
 bleached upon its sandy beaches. 
 
 Yet Kempton had one peculiarity which 
 marked it as singular among all New England 
 towns. It had a woman to dig its graves. 
 
 Its one church stood stark and doleful upon 
 the hill at whose foot lay the rotting wharves ; 
 and back from the church stretched the 
 church-yard in which the Kempton dead 
 took their long repose, scarcely more monot-
 
 304 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 onous than their colorless lives. The sexton, 
 digging their last resting-places in the ochery 
 loam, might look far off toward the sea where 
 they had wrested from the grudging waters a 
 scanty subsistence ; and the dead wives, if so 
 be that their ears were yet sentient, might 
 lie at night and hear below the beat of the 
 waves which afar had rolled over the un 
 marked graves of their sailor husbands. 
 
 To and fro among the grass-grown mounds 
 the sexton went daily, quite unmindful of be 
 ing the unique feature of Kempton by be 
 longing to the weaker sex. With masculine 
 stride and coarse hands, her unkempt locks 
 blown by the salt winds, the woman went her 
 way and did her work with a steadfastness 
 and a vigor which might have put to shame 
 many a man idling about the boats under the 
 hill. She was not an old woman, not even 
 middle-aged, except with the premature age 
 of toil and sorrow; but the weather-beaten 
 face, the stooping shoulders, and the faded 
 hair made her seem old. To look at her, it 
 was difficult to realize what her youth could 
 have been like, or to call up any image of 
 sweet or gracious maidenhood in which she 
 could have shared. 
 
 It was a gray November day. The white- 
 caps made doubly black the dark waves of
 
 DELIA GRIM WET 305 
 
 the bay, and the bitter wind blew freshly 
 through the withered grass and stubble, chas 
 ing the faded leaves over Kempton Hill until 
 they rushed about the old meeting-house like 
 a flight of terrified witches. A stranger was 
 driving slowly up the road from the next 
 town in an open carriage, and as he came to 
 the top of the hill he drew rein before the 
 church and looked about him. 
 
 His gaze was not that of one who beheld 
 the scene for the first time. He gazed down 
 at the irregular houses under the hill, cuddled 
 like frightened and weak-kneed sheep. He 
 looked over the bay to the lighthouse, loom 
 ing ghastly and white against the dark sea 
 and sky. His glance took in all the details 
 of the picture, cold and joyless, devoid alike 
 of warmth and color. He shivered and 
 sighed, his brows drooping more heavily yet 
 over his dark piercing eyes, and then turned 
 his gaze to objects nearer at hand. 
 
 Close by was the stark church, with 
 weather-beaten steeple, wherein half a dozen 
 generations of Kempton women, the men, 
 for the most part, being at sea, had wor 
 shipped the power of the storm, praying 
 more for the escape from evil of the absent 
 than for good to themselves. Beyond the 
 church appeared the first headstones of the
 
 306 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 graveyard, the ground sloping away so rap 
 idly that little more than the first row of slate 
 slabs was visible from the street. With an 
 other shiver Mr. Farnsworth (for by that 
 name the gentleman played his part upon 
 this world s stage) got down from his car 
 riage, fastened his horse, and walked toward 
 the stones, whose rudely chiselled cherubs 
 leered at him through their tawny rust of 
 moss with a diabolic and sinister mirthfulness. 
 
 As Mr. Farnsworth opened the sagging 
 and unpainted gate of the enclosure, he be 
 came aware that the place was not empty. 
 The head and shoulders of a human being 
 were visible half-way down the hill, now and 
 then obscured by the dull-reddish heap of 
 earth thrown up from a partially dug grave. 
 
 The visitor made his way down the irregu 
 lar path, so steep as to be almost like a rude 
 flight of stairs, and as he neared the worker, 
 he suddenly perceived, with something of a 
 shock, that the grave-digger was a woman. 
 She worked as if familiar with her task, a 
 man s battered hat pushed back from her 
 forehead, over which her faded hair straggled 
 in confusion, and across which certain grimy 
 streaks bore witness that she had not escaped 
 the primal curse, but labored in the sweat of 
 her brow.
 
 DELIA GRIMIVET. 307 
 
 Kempton s peculiarity in the matter of its 
 sexton had not come to the knowledge of the 
 stranger before, although he once had known 
 the village life somewhat intimately. He re 
 garded the woman with a double curiosity, 
 to see what she was like and to discover 
 whether perchance he had ever known her. 
 He paused as he neared her, resting one 
 nicely gloved hand upon a tilted stone which 
 perpetuated the memory and recorded the 
 virtues of a captain who reposed in some 
 chill cave under the Northern seas. Some 
 slight sound caught the car of the sexton, 
 who until then had not perceived his ap 
 proach ; she looked up at him stolidly, and 
 as stolidly looked down again, continuing her 
 work without interruption. If there remained 
 any consciousness of the strangeness of 
 her occupation, or if there stirred any wo 
 manly shame to be so observed, they were 
 betrayed by no outward sign. She threw up 
 the dull-yellow 7 earth at the feet of the new 
 comer as unmoved as if she had still only the 
 dwellers in the graves as companions of her 
 labor. 
 
 " Don t you find this rather hard work, 
 my good woman?" the gentleman inquired 
 at length, more by way of breaking the si 
 lence than from any especial interest.
 
 308 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 " Yes," the sexton returned impassively, 
 " it s hard enough." 
 
 " It is rather unusual work for a woman, 
 too," he said. 
 
 To this very obvious remark she returned 
 no answer, a stone to which she had come in 
 her digging seeming to absorb all her atten 
 tion. She unearthed the obstacle with some 
 difficulty, seized it with her rough hands, and 
 threw it up at the feet of the stranger, who 
 watched her with that idle interest which 
 labor begets in the unconcerned observer. 
 
 "Do you always do this work?" Farns- 
 worth asked at length. 
 
 " Yes," was the laconic return. 
 
 " But the old sexton, Joe Grimwet, is 
 he gone? " 
 
 The woman looked up with some interest 
 at this indication that the other had some 
 previous acquaintance with Kempton and its 
 people. She did not, however, stop her la 
 bor, as a man would probably have stopped. 
 
 " Yes," she said. " He s buried over yon 
 der, there beyond the burdocks." 
 
 The gentleman changed his position un 
 easily. Some subtile disquietude had arisen 
 to disturb his serenity. The wind rustled 
 mournfully among the dry leaves, the peb 
 bles rattled against the spade of the grave-
 
 DELIA GRIM WET. 309 
 
 digger, increasing the sombreness of a scene 
 which might easily affect one at all suscepti 
 ble to outward influences. In such an atmos 
 phere a sensitive nature not unfrequently ex 
 periences a certain feeling of unreality, as if 
 dealing with scenes and creatures of the im 
 agination rather than with actualities ; and 
 Farnsworth, whatever the delicacy of his 
 mental fibre, was conscious of such a sense 
 at this moment. He hastened to speak again, 
 as if the sound of his own voice were needed 
 to assure him of the genuineness of the place 
 and scene. 
 
 "But how long has he been dead?" he 
 asked. "And his daughter; what became of 
 her?" 
 
 The grave-digger straightened herself to 
 her full height; brushing back her wind 
 blown hair with one grimy hand, she raised 
 her face so that her deep-set eyes were fixed 
 upon the questioner s face. 
 
 " So you knew Delia Grimwet? " she said. 
 "When was you here before? It d go 
 for you to make her out now, if it s 
 since." 
 
 "Is she here still?" Farnsworth persisted, 
 ignoring her question. 
 
 " Yes," the sexton replied, suddenly sink 
 ing back into the unfinished grave as a
 
 310 A BOOK O NINE TAILS. 
 
 frightened animal might retreat into its den. 
 " Yes ; she lives in the old place." 
 
 "Alone?" 
 
 " Her and the boy." 
 
 He recoiled a step, as if the mention of a 
 child startled or repelled him. Yet to a close 
 observer it might have seemed as if he were 
 making an effort to press her with further 
 questions. If so his courage did not prove 
 sufficient, and he watched in silence while the 
 woman before him went steadily on with her 
 arduous work. Presently, however, he ad 
 vanced again toward the edge of the pit, 
 which was rapidly approaching completion 
 under her familiar labor. 
 
 " Should I find her at home at this time? " 
 he inquired. " Or would she be out at 
 work?" 
 
 The woman started and crouched, much as 
 if she had received or expected a blow. 
 
 " She s out, most likely," she replied in 
 a muffled voice. "She ll be home along 
 about sundown." 
 
 Farnsworth lingered irresolutely a moment 
 or two, as if there were many things concern 
 ing which he could wish to ask ; but, as the 
 woman gave him no encouragement, he 
 turned at last and climbed the slippery, rag 
 ged path up to the church, untethered his
 
 DELIA GRIMWET. 311 
 
 horse, and drove slowly down the hill to the 
 village. 
 
 Cap n Nat Hersey was just coming out of 
 the village store, and to him Farnsworth 
 addressed an inquiry where he might find 
 shelter for himself and horse. 
 
 " Well," the cap n responded, with the de 
 liberation of a man who has very little to say 
 and his whole life to say it in, "well I dunno 
 but ye might get a chance with Widder 
 Bemis, an I dunno as ye could; but there 
 ain t no harm trying, as I knows of." 
 
 Further inquiry regarding the whereabouts 
 of the domicile of the Widow Bemis led to 
 an offer on the part of Cap n Hersey to act 
 as pilot to that haven. He declined, how 
 ever, to take a seat in the buggy. The Cap n 
 had his own opinion of land-vehicles. A man 
 might with perfect assurance trust himself in 
 a boat; but, for his own part, the cap n had 
 no faith in those dangerous structures which 
 roam about with nothing better than dry land 
 under them. He walked along by the side 
 of the carriage, conversing affably with the 
 stranger under his convoy. 
 
 "Is n t it a queer notion to have a woman 
 for a sexton?" Farnsworth asked, as they 
 wended along. 
 
 " Well, yes," the captain returned reflect-
 
 312 A BOOK a NINE TALES, 
 
 ively. " Yes, it is sort of curious. Folks 
 mostly speaks of it that comes here. It is 
 curious, if ye look at it that way. But it all 
 come about as natural as a barnacle on a 
 keel. Old Sexton Grirmvet kept getting con 
 siderable feeble, and Dele she took to help 
 ing him with his work. She was sort of cut 
 off from folks, as ye may say, owing to hav 
 ing a baby and no father to show for it, and 
 she naturally took to heaving anchor alone, 
 or leastways along with the old man. And 
 when the old man was took down with a lan- 
 guishment, she turned to and did all his work 
 for him, having gradually worked into it, 
 as you may say." 
 
 The cap n paused to recover from his as 
 tonishment at having been betrayed into so 
 long a speech ; but, as the stranger had the 
 air of expecting him to continue, he presently 
 went on again : 
 
 "There was them that wanted her turned 
 out when old Grimwet died. Some said a 
 woman of that character had n t ought to have 
 no connection with the church, even to dig 
 ging its graves. But Parson Eaton he was 
 good for em I Ve always noticed that when 
 these pious men gets their regular mad up 
 they most generally have things their own 
 way; and he preached cm a sermon about
 
 DELIA GRIMWET. 313 
 
 the Samaritan woman, and Mary Magdalene, 
 and a lot more of them disreputable Scripture 
 women-folks, and, though he never mentioned 
 Dele by name, they all knew what he was driv 
 ing at, and they wilted. "Tvvas a pitiful sight 
 to see the girl a-digging her own father s grave 
 up there. Me and Tom Tobey and Zenas 
 Faston took hold and finished it for her." 
 
 They moved on in silence a moment or 
 two. Farnsworth s gaze was fixed upon the 
 darkening bay, and no longer interrogated his 
 companion ; but the latter soon again took 
 up his narrative : 
 
 " Twas well the parson stood up for Dele, 
 too ; women-folks is so cussed hard on each 
 other. They would n t ha let the girl live, I 
 believe. I always were of the notion there 
 
 warn t no harm in Dele. Some city chap 
 
 got the better of her. She never was over- 
 smart, but she was awful pretty; and I never 
 believed there was any harm in her. At any 
 rate, she digs a grave as well as a man, and 
 I guess them that s in em don t lay awake 
 none thinking who tucked em in." 
 
 The house of the Widow Bemis was by 
 this time reached, and that estimable lady, 
 who in the summer furnished accomodations 
 to a boarder whenever that rare blessing was 
 to be secured in Kempton, readily undertook
 
 314 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 the charge of Mr. Farnsworth and his horse 
 for the night. The latter was given into the 
 care of her daughter, for the frequent ab 
 sences of the men had accustomed the dam 
 sels of Kempton to those labors which in in 
 land villages are more frequently left to their 
 brothers ; and Farnsworth strolled off toward 
 the wharves, leaving the widow Bemis and 
 Cap n Hersey in an agony of curiosity in re 
 gard to himself and his errand. 
 
 Whatever may have been Farnsworth s 
 feelings at the discovery that the daughter of 
 the dead sexton and the woman of whom 
 he had asked tidings of her were identical, 
 and they must have been both deep and 
 strong he had given no outward sign. But 
 now the settling of his brows, and the disquiet 
 apparent in his eyes betrayed his inward con 
 flict. He strolled out upon one of the rotting 
 wharves about which the tide lapped in 
 mournful iteration, folded his arms upon a 
 breast-high post, and stood gazing seaward. 
 
 The retrospect which occupied his mind 
 was scarcely more cheerful than the gray 
 scene which spread before his eyes. How 
 awful are the corpses of dead sins which 
 memory casts up, as the sea its victims ! 
 The betrayal of a woman is a ghastly thing 
 when one looks back upon it stripped of the
 
 DELIA GRIMWET. 315 
 
 garlands and enchantments of passion and 
 temptation ; and to Farnsworth, with the 
 image fresh in his rememberance of that 
 faded, earth-stained woman digging a grave 
 upon the bleak hillside, the fault of his youth 
 seemed an incredible dream which only stub 
 born and stinging memory converted into a 
 possibility. A retrospect is apt to be essen 
 tially a plea for self against conscience ; but 
 in his gloomy revery Farnsworth found scant 
 excuse for the wreck he had made of the life 
 of Delia Grirmvet. He had gone away, 
 married, and lived honored and prosperous. 
 He would have forgotten, had not some no 
 bility of his nature prevented. With the 
 stubbornness of his race, he had fought long 
 and determinedly against his conscience, but 
 he had been forced to yield at last. The 
 death of his wife, to whom he had been ten 
 derly attached, had at once left him free to 
 make such reparation as might still be possi 
 ble, and had softened him as only sharp 
 sorrow can. He had come to Kempton with 
 the determination of finding Delia, and of 
 doing whatever could be done, at whatever 
 cost to himself. 
 
 He had been unprepared, however, for the 
 woman he found. He had left a fresh, beau 
 tiful young girl; ten years had transformed
 
 316 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 her into a repulsive old woman. He had no 
 means of adequately measuring the force of 
 the storms of scorn and poverty and sorrow 
 which had beaten upon Delia Grimwet in the 
 years that had made of him the cultured, 
 delicately nurtured man he was. What man 
 ever appreciated the woe of the woman he 
 betrays? Indeed, what measure has a man 
 of the sorrow of any woman? Farnsworth 
 had painfully to adjust himself to a condition 
 of affairs for which he should have been pre 
 pared, yet which took him absolutely by 
 surprise. 
 
 He lingered upon the bleak wharf, uncon 
 sciously the object of much mildly specula 
 tive curiosity, until the twilight began to fall. 
 Then with a shiver, no less of mind than of 
 body, he shook off his painful abstraction, 
 and turned his steps toward the path, once 
 well known, which led to the house of Delia 
 Grimwet. It seemed to him, as he paused a 
 brief instant with his hand upon the old 
 knocker, as if nothing here had changed in ten 
 years The sunlight would have shown him 
 traces of decay, but in the gathering dusk 
 the house seemed a pallid phantom from the 
 past, unchanged but lifeless. 
 
 But his knock at once destroyed all illu 
 sions, since it summoned the woman who
 
 DELIA GRIMWET. 317 
 
 belonged not at all to that past which he re 
 membered, but to the pitiful and too tangible 
 present. She held her guttering candle up 
 without a word, and, having identified him, 
 made him, without speaking, a signal to enter. 
 When Farnsworth had left her in the after 
 noon, Delia crouched in the bottom of the 
 grave she was digging, her first feeling being 
 an unreasoning desire for concealment. She 
 thought she should remain passive if the sides 
 of the pit collapsed and buried her. In the 
 old days before her boy was born she had 
 been night after night out on the old wharves, 
 praying for courage to drown herself. After 
 the child came, her feelings changed, and she 
 longed only to escape and to take her son away 
 from the scorn and the sordid life which sur 
 rounded them. Gradually she had become 
 hardened ; hers was one of those common 
 natures to which custom and pain are opiates, 
 mercifully dulling all sensibilities. To-day 
 the appearance of her betrayer had revivified 
 all the old impressions, and for a moment 
 seemed to transport her to the early days when 
 her anguish was new. The keenest pangs of 
 sorrow stabbed her afresh, and she lived again 
 the bitter moments of her sin and shame. 
 Her instinct was to flee from the man whose 
 presence meant to her only pain.
 
 3l8 A BOOK a NINC TALUS. 
 
 But habit is strong, and presently the 
 fading light reminded the sexton that her 
 
 o o 
 
 work was still unfinished, and that Widow 
 Pettigrove, who was past all earthly tribula 
 tion, must have her last bed prepared, what 
 ever the woe of the living woman who worked 
 at it with trembling hands and a sensation as 
 if a demon had clutched her by the throat. 
 Yet work was not unmerciful; it brought 
 some relief, since it served to dilute the 
 thought which rushed dizzyingly to her brain, 
 and by the time her toil was completed she 
 was steadier. When she opened the door to 
 Farnsworth she was not unlike her usual 
 stolid self. She perceived at a glance that he 
 had learned who she was, and she hoped in 
 a blind, aching way, that he had not betrayed 
 his presence to the neighbors, thus to re 
 awaken all the old stinging flight of bitter 
 words. 
 
 Farnsworth followed Delia into the kitchen, 
 without even those greetings which habit 
 renders so involuntary that only in the most 
 poignant moments are they disregarded. 
 With their past between them it was not easy 
 to break the silence. Farnsworth seated him 
 self, and the woman stood regarding him. 
 There was in her attitude all the questioning, 
 all the agony, of her years of suffering. Her
 
 DELIA GRIM WET. 319 
 
 wrongs and her sorrows gave her a dignity 
 before which he shrank as he could not have 
 quailed under the most withering reproaches. 
 Whatever words he would have spoken - 
 and no man can come deliberately to so im 
 portant a crisis without formulating, even if 
 unconsciously, the plea which his self-defence 
 will make were forgotten, or seemed miser 
 ably inadequate now. What were words to 
 this woman, pallid and worn before her time 
 with privation, anguish, and unwomanly toil? 
 The contrast between his rich and careful 
 dress and her coarse garb, between his white 
 hands and her knotted fingers, between his 
 high-bred, pale face and her cowed, weather- 
 beaten countenance, was too violent not to be 
 apparent to them both, as if they were in 
 some strange way merely spectators looking 
 dispassionately at this wretched meeting of 
 those who had once been passionate lovers. 
 
 With each moment the silence became more 
 oppressive ; yet as each moment dragged 
 by it became more difficult to break the 
 stillness. Only a man utterly devoid of re 
 morse or feeling could have framed upon 
 his tongue commonplace phrases at such a 
 time. It seemed to Farnsworth as if he 
 were brought to judgment before the whole 
 universe. His throat became parched. He
 
 320 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 longed to have the candle and the flames 
 flickering in the old fireplace go out in dark 
 ness, and take from his sight the Nemesis 
 that confronted him. 
 
 He broke the silence at last with a cry : 
 
 "Ah, my God, Delia! What have I 
 done?" 
 
 She wavered as she stood, putting out her 
 hand as if reaching for support. Then she 
 half staggered backward into a chair. 
 
 " There is nothing I can say ! " Farnsworth 
 went on vehemently. " There is nothing I 
 can do ! I came here dreaming of making 
 reparation ; but there is no reparation I can 
 make. There is nothing that can change the 
 past, nothing that will undo what I have 
 done to you. Oh, my God ! How little I 
 dreamed it would be like this ! " 
 
 " No," she said slowly, almost stupidly, 
 " nothing can undo it." 
 
 "Why did you not tell me?" he began. 
 "Why" 
 
 But the words rebuked^ him before the} 
 were spoken. He buried his face in his 
 hands, and again they were silent. What 
 the woman, this woman who had never 
 been able to think much, even in her best 
 days, and who now was blunted and dulled 
 almost to stupidity, what she felt in those
 
 DELIA GRIM WET. 321 
 
 bitter moments, who can tell? The man s 
 soul was a tumult of wild regret and un 
 availing remorse, while she waited again for 
 him to speak. 
 
 " But," Farnsworth said at length, a new 
 idea seizing him, "but the our child, Delia? 
 The boy?" 
 
 A shuddering seized her. Unused to giv 
 ing way to her emotions, she was torn by her 
 excited feelings almost to the verge of con 
 vulsions. She clutched the arms of her chair 
 and set her teeth together. In her incohe 
 rent attempts at thought, as she had delved 
 among her graves, there had occurred to her 
 the possibility that the father might sometime 
 take his child from her. Now this fear pos 
 sessed her like a physical epilepsy. Twice 
 she tried to speak, and only emitted a gurgling 
 sound as if strangling. He sprang toward 
 her, but a sudden repulsion gave her self- 
 control. She put out her hands as if to ward 
 him off. 
 
 " Oh, my boy, my boy! " she cried, break 
 ing out into hysterical sobs. " My boy, my 
 boy! " 
 
 She wrung her hands, and twisted them 
 together in fierce contortions which fright 
 ened Farnsworth ; but she still would not 
 allow him to approach her. She struggled
 
 322 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 for composure, writhing in paroxysms dread 
 ful to see. 
 
 " Oh, my child ! " she cried out, in a tone 
 new and piercing; "no, no! not him! Oh, 
 God ! You cannot have my boy ! " 
 
 Farnsworth retreated sharply. 
 
 He had not considered this. Indeed, so 
 different was everything he found from every 
 thing he had expected, that whatever he had 
 preconsidered was swept out of existence as 
 irrelevant. He was confronted with a catas 
 trophe in which it was necessary to judge 
 unerringly and to act instantly, yet which 
 paralyzed all his powers by its strangeness 
 and its horror. He groped his way back to 
 his chair and sat down, leaving the silence 
 again - unbroken save by her convulsive 
 breathing and his deep-drawn sighs. 
 
 All at once a new sound broke in upon 
 them, and the mother started to her feet. 
 
 " He is coming ! " she gasped hoarsely. 
 " I sent him away ; but he has come back. 
 He could not keep away, my beautiful boy." 
 
 Her face was illumined with a love which 
 wellnigh transfigured it. The door was opened 
 violently, and the boy came rudely in, a 
 gaunt, rough whelp of a dozen summers, 
 defiant, bold, and curious. 
 
 " I knew there was something up," the
 
 DELIA GRIMIVET. 323 
 
 young rascal observed with much self-com 
 placency. " I knew when you sent me off 
 to stay all night that somebody s funeral was 
 comin off, and I was bound I d be here to 
 see it." 
 
 Neither the mother nor the father returned 
 any answer. Ordinary feelings were so abso 
 lutely swept away that the woman did not 
 even remember that she should have at 
 tempted to quiet and to excuse the intruder. 
 Even the maternal pride which would usually 
 have been troubled by the impression the 
 child s rudeness must make upcn her guest 
 was overwhelmed by the greater emotion 
 which possessed her whole being. 
 
 Farnsworth had never been more keenly 
 alive in every fibre of his being than at this 
 moment. All his family pride, his refined 
 tastes, his delicate nature, revolted from a 
 kinship with the ugly, uncouth child who 
 stood grinning maliciously upon his guilty 
 parents. His impulse, almost too strong to 
 be resisted, was to turn back and hide himself 
 again in the world from which he had come, 
 to leave this woman and her loutish child 
 in the quiet and obscurity in which he had 
 found them. But he was nobler than his 
 impulses and had paid already too dearly for 
 rashness ; the claim of a son upon the father
 
 324 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 who has brought him into the world grasped 
 his sense of justice like a hand of steel. 
 
 He rose to his feet firm and determined. 
 
 "Go away now," he said to the boy quietly, 
 but in a voice which even the urchin felt ad 
 mitted of no disobedience. " I wish to talk 
 with your mother. I will see you to-morrow." 
 
 "Yes, Farnsworth," the mother said plead 
 ingly. " Go to bed now. I will come to you 
 before long. That s a good boy." 
 
 The boy slow r ly and unwillingly withdrew, 
 his reluctance showing how rare obedience was 
 to him, and the parents were once more alone. 
 
 " You have given him my name," were 
 Farnsworth s first words, as the door closed 
 behind his son. 
 
 " It was father who did that. He said he 
 should remember to curse you every time the 
 name was spoken." 
 
 "And you?" the other asked, almost with 
 a shudder. 
 
 "I did not care. Cursing could not change 
 things. Only I would not let him do it before 
 the boy. I did n t want him to know what 
 sort of a father he had." 
 
 In the midst of his self-abasement some 
 hidden fibre of resentment and wounded 
 vanity tingled at her words; but he would 
 not heed it.
 
 DELIA GRIMIVET. 325 
 
 " I am not so wholly bad, Delia," he said in 
 a moment. " I came back to marry you. It 
 will not change or mend the past; but it is 
 the best I can do now." 
 
 " It is no use to talk of that," she returned 
 wearily ; " you and I are done with each 
 other. Even I can see that." 
 
 She was spent with the violence of her 
 emotions, and only longed to have Farns- 
 worth leave her. She was keenly sensitive 
 now of the nicety of his attire, the contrast 
 between him and her meagre surroundings. 
 The shamefacedness of the poor overwhelmed 
 her. She rose with uneven steps and trem 
 bling hands, and began to put things to rights 
 a little. She snuffed the ill-conditioned candle, 
 and trimmed the fire, whose drift-wood sent 
 out tongues of colored flame. She set back 
 into their usual gaunt and vulgar order the 
 chairs which had been disturbed.. 
 
 Farnsworth watched her with an aching 
 heart 
 
 " Delia," he said at length, " come and sit 
 down. We must decide what it is best to do." 
 
 She obeyed him, although with evident 
 reluctance. All the brief dignity which her 
 elevation of mood had imparted had vanished 
 now, leaving her more haggard and worn 
 than ever. A faded, prematurely old woman,
 
 326 A BOOK O NINE TALES. 
 
 she sat twisting her red, stained hands in a 
 vain attempt to hide their ugliness in the 
 folds of her poor dress. Even self-pity in 
 Farnsvvorth s breast began to vanish in the 
 depth of compassion which the sexton 
 excited. 
 
 " Delia," he said, " I must think for us 
 both, and for the boy. He must be con 
 sidered. For his sake we must be married." 
 
 It was at once with a sense of relief and of 
 humiliation that he saw how she shrank from 
 this proposition. To have fallen from god- 
 hood in the meanest woman s eyes is the 
 keenest thrust at man s pride. It gave Farns- 
 worth a new conception that the gulf between 
 them must look as impassable from her side 
 as from his. He had thus far been too much 
 absorbed in the sacrifices he himself was 
 making to consider that all the desirabilities 
 of his world would not appeal to her as to 
 him, that its very fulness and richness 
 which so held and delighted him would con 
 fuse and repel her. 
 
 " It is of no use ! " he exclaimed, starting 
 up. " I must have time to think. I will 
 come back in the morning. Think your 
 self, Delia, not of me, or even of yourself, 
 so much as of the boy. It is of him that we 
 must have the first care. Nothing can much
 
 DELIA GRIMWET. 327 
 
 change our lives; but the world is before 
 him. Good-night." 
 
 However different may have been the re 
 flexions of Farnsworth and of Delia Grimwet 
 through that long, sad night, their conclusions 
 must have been in some respects identical, 
 for when the former came to the house in the 
 morning with the astonished clergyman the 
 woman acquiesced without any discussion in 
 the performance of the marriage ceremony. 
 It was an occasion which the Rev. Mr. 
 Eaton long remembered, and of which he 
 told to the end of his life, filling out, it must 
 be confessed, as time went on, its spare facts 
 with sundry incidents, trifling, it is true, 
 yet gradually overlaying the bare truth with 
 a completeness which the clerical gossip him 
 self, whose belief always kept pace with his 
 invention, was far from realizing. The only 
 thing he could with accuracy have told, be 
 yond the simple fact of the marriage, was that 
 when, according to his wont, he attempted to 
 add a few words of exhortation and moral re 
 flection, the bridegroom cut him short and 
 showed him to the door with a courtesy 
 perfect but irresistible, the rebuff somewhat 
 softened by the liberality of the fee which 
 accompanied the dismissal. 
 
 The boy during these singular proceedings
 
 328 A ROOK O" NINE TALES. 
 
 
 
 had remained in a state of excited astonish 
 ment almost amounting to stupefaction ; but 
 when the newly united family were alone to 
 gether, his natural perversity broke out, and 
 showed itself in its natural and unamiable 
 colors. To the father the child s every un 
 couth word and act were the most acute 
 torture ; and the mother, partly by woman s 
 instinct, partly from previous acquaintance 
 with her husband s fastidiousness, was to 
 a great degree sensible of this. She made 
 no effort, however, to restrain her child. She 
 seemed to have thrown off all responsibility 
 upon the father, and busied herself in prepar 
 ations for the boy s departure, about which, 
 although neither had spoken of it, there 
 seemed to be some tacit understanding. 
 
 The forenoon was well worn when Farns- 
 worth came to the door with his carriage, for 
 which he had gone in person. 
 
 " Come, Delia," he said, entering the house. 
 " We may as well leave everything as it is. I 
 told Mrs. Bcmis to lock up the house and 
 see to it. Arc you ready? " 
 
 " Farnsworth is," she replied, seating her 
 self in a low chair and drawing to her side the 
 uncouth boy, who struggled to get free. 
 
 He broke in rudely, announcing his readi 
 ness, his joy at leaving Kempton, and his sat-
 
 DELIA GRIM WET. 329 
 
 isfaction at wearing his Sunday jacket, which 
 to his father looked poor enough. 
 
 "But you, Delia?" her husband inquired, 
 putting up his hand to quiet the child. " Are 
 you ready? " 
 
 " I am not going." 
 
 Whether it was relief, remorse, or as 
 tonishment which overwhelmed him, John 
 Farnsworth could not have told. He stood 
 speechless, looking at his wife like one sud 
 denly stricken dumb. The boy filled in the 
 pause with noisy expostulations, depriving 
 the tragedy of even the poor dignity of si 
 lence. The father knew from the outset that 
 remonstrances would not be likely to avail, 
 yet he remonstrated ; perhaps, for human 
 nature is subtle beyond word, he was uncon 
 sciously for that reason the more earnest in 
 his pleading. He would have been glad 
 
 could this woman and her child have been 
 
 
 
 swept out of existence. Already he had to 
 hold himself strongly in check, lest the re 
 action which had followed his heroic resolve 
 to marry Delia should show itself; but 
 he choked back the feeling with all his 
 resolution. 
 
 " No," Delia persistently said, her eyes dry, 
 her voice harsh from huskiness. " I Ve no 
 place anywhere but here. It is too late now.
 
 330 A BOOK a NINE TALES. 
 
 I Ve more feeling than I thought, for I do 
 care something even now to be an honest 
 woman in the sight of my neighbors ; and 
 that 11 help me bear it, I suppose. Take the 
 boy, and do for him all you owed to me. I 
 should spoil all if I went. He is best quit of 
 me if he s to please you and grow like you 
 I 11 stay here and dig graves ; I am fit for 
 nothing else. I want nothing of you. I 
 married you for the boy s sake, and for his 
 sake I break my heart and send him away ; 
 but I will have nothing for myself. The 
 days when I would have taken a penny from 
 you are long gone." 
 
 She spoke calmly enough, but with a cer 
 tain poignant stress which made every word 
 fall like a weight. He did not urge her 
 further. He held out his hand, into which 
 she laid hers lifelessly. 
 
 " Good-bye," he said. " As God sees rge, 
 Delia, I 11 do my best by the boy. I will 
 write to you. If you change your deci 
 sion, but no matter now. I will write to 
 you and to the minister." 
 
 All other words of parting were brief and 
 soon spoken. The boy showed no emotion 
 at leaving his mother, as he had throughout 
 exhibited no tenderness. He climbed noisily 
 into the carriage, and the father and son, so
 
 DELIA GRIMIVET. 331 
 
 strangely assorted, rode together up the hill, 
 past the stark meeting-house, and so on into 
 the world whose seething waves seldom 
 troubled, even by such a ripple as the events 
 just narrated, the dull calm of Kempton ; 
 and to John Farnsworth it was as if the wo- 
 ful burden of remorse which had so long 
 vexed heart and conscience had taken bodily 
 shape and rode by his side. 
 
 Delia had been calm until the two were 
 gone, so calm that her husband thought 
 her still half dazed by the excitement and 
 anguish of the previous night. She stood 
 steadily at the window until the carriage 
 disappeared behind the grave-covered hill. 
 Then she threw herself grovelling upon the 
 -floor in the very ecstasy of woe. She did 
 not shriek, strangling in her throat into inar 
 ticulate moans and gurglings the cries which 
 rent their way from her inmost soul ; but she 
 beat her head upon the bare floor; she 
 caught at the furniture like a wild beast, 
 leaving the print of her strong teeth in the 
 hard wood ; she was convulsed with her 
 agony, a speechless animal rage, a boundless, 
 irrepressible anguish which could not be 
 measured or expressed. She clutched her 
 bosom with her savage hands, as if she 
 would tear herself in pieces ; she wounded
 
 332 A BOOK a NINE TALES. 
 
 and bruised herself with a fierceness so in 
 tense as to be almost delight. 
 
 In the midst of her wildest paroxysm there 
 came a knocking at the door. She started 
 up, her face positively illuminated. 
 
 " They have come back ! " she murmured 
 in ecstasy. 
 
 She rushed to the door and undid -its fast 
 enings with fingers tremulous from eager joy. 
 A neighbor confronted her, staring in dis 
 may and amazement at her strange and dis 
 hevelled appearance. 
 
 " What s come to ye, Dele? " he demanded 
 roughly, though not unkindly. " When ye 
 goin to put the box in Widder Pettigrove s 
 grave? " 
 
 She confronted him for an instant with a 
 wandering look in her eye, as though she 
 had mercifully been driven mad. Then the 
 tyranny of life and habit reasserted itself. 
 
 " I 11 come up now, Bill," she said. 
 
 And she went back to her graves. 
 
 THE END.
 
 Messrs. Roberts B rot tiers Publications. 
 
 A LAD S LOVE. 
 
 By ARLO BATES. 
 16mo, Cloth. Price, $1.00. Paper Covers, 50 Cents. 
 
 It is just the kind of a story to suit the majority of watering-place people who 
 wish to help pass the time with light reading. The scene is laid in Campobello ; 
 and the social life at a sea-side resort, with its impromptu festivities, is attrac 
 tively set forth. The persons who form the principal group in the story are 
 above the usual watering-place gossips, that magnify every innocent flirtation 
 they see ; and the lad who at twenty-one falls desperately in love with a charming 
 widow of thirty-five years, at last sensibly turns to the daughter, loves her and 
 marries her, through the shrewd management of her mother. The object of the 
 book is to show how often and how fervently a callow youth is attracted to some 
 one older and more cultivated than himself; and the analysis of his passion is 
 very well done. Hartford Times. 
 
 This time Mr. Bates, who wields a facile pen, has taken up a facile subject, 
 for the burden of his story is the evolution of a young man s love in the cool 
 shades and sylvan retreats of Campobello. . . . Incidentally he pictures certain 
 aspects of society and gives a fair account of Campobello. A Lad s Love is a 
 readable story, and young women will read it not only with pleasure but also with 
 profit. It will teach them how love acts iti a pure lad. Tlie Beacon. 
 
 Arlo Bates is favorably known as a writer of pleasant and healthy verse, and 
 he appears to equal advantage as the author of this bright novel, which is as 
 breezy as the air of Mount Desert, where the scene is laid. The " Lad " is a 
 youth of twenty-two or so, just through Harvard; and the depth, strength, and 
 variety of his love are well illustrated by his frantic passion for a widow old 
 enough to be his mother, by his rapid transfer of affection to her lovely daughter, 
 and by his nearly getting entangled with a third woman before he secures the 
 right one. There is a thorough-bred air about the book which leaves a good im 
 pression, and a liveliness of fancy and description which promises more good 
 stories from Mr. Bates s pen. The minor characters, though merely sketched in 
 lightly, fill their places admirably, and the two heroines are quite delicious. 
 Pittsburgh Bulletin. 
 
 The author delights in making an analytical study of the mental condition of 
 the principal actors at various stages of the story, and now and then brightens the 
 pages with a crisp epigram that betrays a habit of close observation of human 
 nature in the lines of the story s theme. . . . The people of the story are life 
 like, however, and there is not an impossible nor even an improbable person 
 among them. Springfield Union. 
 
 Sold everywhere. Mailed, post-paid, on receipt of the 
 price, by the Publishers, 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON.
 
 Messrs. Roberts Brothers Publications. 
 
 POEMS BY ARLO BATES. 
 
 Including "BERRIES OF THE BRIER," and "SON 
 NETS IN SHADOW." 
 
 One Volume. 16mo, Cloth. Price, $1.50. 
 Each volume separate, price, $1.00. 
 
 These poems are always poetical ; they are carefully finished ; they 
 are not vers de sac Me ; they do not affect American humor, and they are 
 utterly unpretentious. Mr T B. Aldrich might own a good many of 
 them. They reveal Mr. Bates mind and temper at their very best, and 
 will be enjoyed by those who have an ear for fine, light impressions finely 
 and delicately expressed. The Beacon. 
 
 The poems, all very short, except the " Ballad of the Spinner," are 
 almost all flavorous with love s delicious essence. The perennial passion 
 receives fresh illumination in a hundred ways. Warmth, richness, 
 suggestiveness, smooth-flowing melody, these are some of the traits of 
 Mr. Bates verses, which are well worthy the tasteful setting here given 
 them. 
 
 They are almost invariably the setting of some pretty and thoroughly 
 poetic thought ; and the writer s expression is clear and precise, and 
 studded with bits of exquisite imagery. A rgonaut. 
 
 There are many who will welcome another volume from the pen of 
 Arlo Bates, although it be a sad one The twenty-nine sonnets which 
 make up this little collection are but variations of one melody, and that 
 played in the minor key. They will sink deep into many hearts, for they 
 are the expressions of various moods which all who have known grief 
 and loss will have felt and be able to comprehend. The men and women 
 who have no artistic gifts, and who sit and shed salt tears in stony silence, 
 unable to give their woe adequate words, will feel that a human heart 
 has here been revealed to them able to sympathize with every throb and 
 pulsation of their own. There is not a cry of a bruised soul but will find 
 its echo in some one of these sonnets, and the knowledge that they are 
 the expression of a real and personal sorrow gives them a power and 
 interest that no ideal or imaginary work could possess. Transcript. 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON.
 
 Messrs. Roberts Brothers Publications. 
 
 A WOODLAND WOOING. 
 
 By ELEANOR PUTNAM. 
 16mo, Cloth. Price, $1.00. Paper Covers, 50 Cents. 
 
 A thoroughly wholesome story is A Woodland Wooing, by Eleanor Putnam 
 (the iate Mrs. Arlo Hates). It is as sweet as a meadow of clover and as bright 
 as a crisp October morning. Its simplest events are made fascinating by their 
 rare naturalness. The motherless children of a country doctor figure prominently 
 in the tale, and they devise all sorts of original modes of amusing themselves, of 
 course omitting whatever is incompatible with self-respect or unapproved by con 
 science. Boys and girls are for the most part the story s heroes and heroines, 
 and when they find themselves quite unexpectedly grown into men and women 
 and realize all that maturity means, their natures are strong and unhurt by the 
 evils of self-consciousness or of unwholesome speculations regarding the signifi 
 cance of this life or the next. They are children of fine, vigorous intellectual 
 fibre and noble impulses that lead them toward worthiness, happiness, and use 
 fulness, and the story of their progress toward higher things is charmingly told. 
 The Delineator. 
 
 Like a cool breeze on a sultry day comes this little book, A Woodland Wooing, 
 by Eleanor Putnam, fresh and sparkling, with almost child-like fun, and not 
 even the shadow of a moral spectre to be found stalking anywhere between its 
 dainty covers. . . . The Yankee country-folks all around are photographed very 
 accurately to our mind s eye, arid it is difficult to say whether they are more 
 amusing than the widely-travelled and elegantly-Bohemian family of Sparhawks, 
 whose advent in the village makes such a sensation. The infant Sparhawks are 
 especially droll, and remind one strongly of those famous personages, Toddy 
 and Budge." In fact it is just the sort of book to read aloud, so as to have some 
 one to laugh with over its joyous humor. Home Journal. 
 
 One of the breeziest, brightest books of the year. It is not only charmingly 
 original, but thoroughly amusing. Its characters are drawn with all the skill of 
 the literary artist, and stand out in the mind of the reader like beautiful pictures 
 upon the canvas. The reading will make old gray heads feel again young. It 
 will revive the visions of youth, with spring. flowers, when all the world stretched 
 away in brightness. The story is a summer camping-out, told in alternate chap 
 ters by a brother and sister, in which all sorts of people are introduced to the 
 reader in a most delightful and amusing way. It matters not that it contains 
 much nonsense ; life needs a good deal of such to spice it up. The woodland 
 wooing, it may be remarked, is carried on under many and trying circumstances. 
 But it all ends well. It is indeed a bright, breezy, pleasing book, and tears will 
 only come in the remembrance that the hand that penned the lines has ceased 
 forever from such pleasing earthly tasks. Chicago Inter-Ocean. 
 
 Sold everywhere. Mailed, post-paid, on receipt of the 
 price, by the Publishers, 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON.
 
 PRINCE VANCE. 
 
 A Story of a Prince with a Court in His Box. By ELEANOR 
 PUTNAM and ARLO BATES. Illustrated by Frank Myrick. 
 
 "Prince Vance" is an Entertaining Fairy Story of thf wildest and most 
 fantastic adventures and of amusing and original impossibilities, -which, 
 however, carry with them a stern puritan moral. This allegiance of un 
 fettered imagination and straightforward, wholesome, moral teaching is 
 unusual, and gives the little book a special value. 
 
 Small 4to. Cloth gilt. Price, $1.50. 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON.

 
 
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