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 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
THE 
 
 COUNTY ROAD 
 
 BY 
 
 ALICE BROWN 
 
 V*^ or THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 
 
 d)e Wotv^itit pre^^, Cambntige 
 1906 
 
REESE 
 
 COPYRIGHT 1906 BY ALXCB BROWN 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 
 
 Published October iqab 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 A Day Off . . 1 
 
 Old Immortality 23 
 
 Bachelor's Fancy 47 
 
 The Cave of Adullam 73 
 
 A Winter's Courting 97 
 
 Rosy Balm 123 
 
 A Sea Change 147 
 
 The Tree of a Thousand Leaves .... 191 
 
 The Pilgrim Chamber 217 
 
 The Twisted Tree 247 
 
 The Looking-Glass 269 
 
 A Hermit in Arcadia 295 
 
 A Crown of Gold 323 
 
A DAY OFF 
 
Of^ THE " \ 
 
 UNIVEPf^iTV ■ 
 
 or 
 
 A DAY OFF 
 
 Abigail Bennet stood by the kitchen table, 
 her mixing-bowl before her. She hummed a 
 little under her breath, as she paused, con- 
 sidering what to make. There were eggs on 
 the table, in a round comfortable basket that 
 had held successions of eggs for twenty years. 
 There were flour and sugar in their respective 
 boxes, and some butter in a plate. It was an 
 April day, and Abigail's eyes wandered to the 
 kitchen window at the sound of a bird-call 
 from the elm. A smile lighted her worn face. 
 The winter had been a hard one, and now it 
 was over and gone. This, also, was a moment's 
 peace in the midst of the day. Her husband was 
 comfortably napping in the front room. He had 
 broken his arm in midwinter, and that had tem- 
 porarily disarranged the habit of his life. Abi- 
 gail had not owned it, even to her most secret 
 self, but she was tired of his innocent supervision 
 of indoor affairs, the natural product of his idle- 
 ness. Jonathan was a born meddler. He inter- 
 fered for the general good, and usually it did no 
 harm; for he was accustomed, in his best estate, 
 to give minute orders at home, and then hurry 
 
4 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 away to the hayfield or his fencing. Abigail 
 scrupulously obeyed, but it was without the irri- 
 tating consciousness of personal supervision. 
 Now it was different. 
 
 As she felt the stillness of the day, and the 
 warmth of the soft spring air blowing in at the 
 window, she pushed back the bowl against her 
 measuring-cup and made a little clink. In- 
 stantly, as if the sound had evoked it, a voice 
 sprang from the sitting-room. Jonathan was 
 awake. 
 
 "Nabby," he called, ''what you doin'.?" 
 
 Abigail stood arrested for a moment, like a 
 wood-creature startled on its way. 
 
 "My land ! " she said, beneath her breath. 
 Then she answered cheerfully, "I'm goin' to 
 stir up a mite o' cake." 
 
 "What kind?" 
 
 " Oh, I dunno'. One-two-three-four, mebbe." 
 
 "Where's that dried-apple pie we had yes- 
 terday ? " inquired Jonathan, with the zest she 
 knew. "Ain't there enough for supper?" 
 
 "I dunno' but there is." 
 
 "Then what you makin' cake for?" 
 
 "I dunno'. I thought mebbe we'd better 
 have suthin' on hand." 
 
 "How many eggs is there in one-two-three- 
 four?" 
 
 "Why, there's two, when ye make half the 
 
A DAY OFF 5 
 
 receipt." Abigail's tone was uniformly hearty 
 and full of a zealous interest; but she shifted 
 from one foot to the other, and made faces at 
 the wall. 
 
 "Ain't there any kind o' cake you can stir 
 up with one egg?'^ 
 
 "Why, there's cup cake; but it's terrible poor 
 pickin', seems to me." 
 
 Jonathan rose and took his way to the kitchen. 
 He appeared on the sill, tall and lank, his 
 shrewd, bright-eyed face diversified by the long 
 lines that creased the cheeks. Abigail stopped 
 grimacing, and greeted him with woman's spe- 
 cious smile. 
 
 "Don't ye do it to-day," said Jonathan, not 
 unkindly, but with the tone of an impeccable 
 adviser. "You have the apple pie to-day, an' 
 to-morrer you can stir up a cup cake. Eggs are 
 scurse yit, an' they will be till the spring gits 
 along a mite." 
 
 "Well," answered Abigail obediently. 
 
 She began setting away her cooking materials, 
 and Jonathan, after smoothing his hair at the 
 kitchen glass, put on his hat and went out. 
 Presently she saw him, one foot on the stone 
 wall, talking with a neighbor who had stopped 
 his jogging horse on the way to market. There 
 was a flurry of skirts on the stairs, and Claribel 
 ran down, dressed in her blue cashmere, her 
 
6 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 girdle in her hand. She had a wholesome, edi- 
 ble prettiness, all rounded contours and rich 
 bloom. 
 
 "Here, mother," she called, and thrust the 
 girdle at her. "This thing hooks behind. It's 
 awful tight. You see if you can do it." 
 
 "You wait a minute," said Abigail. "I'll 
 wash the flour off my hands." She went to the 
 kitchen sink, and afterwards, standing at the 
 roller-towel, she regarded Claribel with a fond 
 delight that always amused the girl when she 
 could stop to note it. Claribel had told her 
 mother, before this, that she acted as if girls 
 were worth a thousand dollars apiece. "My!" 
 said Abigail, pulling discreetly at the hooks, 
 " it is tight, ain't it ? I 'm afraid you '11 feel all 
 girted up." 
 
 "I'll hold my breath." She held it until her 
 cheeks were bursting with bloom, and the girdle 
 came together. 
 
 Abigail put up a tendril of hair in the girl's 
 neck and smoothed a bit of lace. 
 
 "Now you hurry off," she said. "If I's you, 
 I'd put on my things an' slip out the side door, 
 whilst father 's out there talkin'." 
 
 Claribel was pinning on her hat at the glass. 
 "\Miat 's the matter of father.?" she asked. 
 
 "Oh, nothin'! only he's got one o' his terrible 
 times, — an' nobody to it, to-day. If he sees 
 
A DAY OFF 7 
 
 you're goin' anywheres, like's not he'll set to 
 an' plan it different." 
 
 " Well, he need n't," said Claribel. " I 've got 
 to have some Hamburg an' some number sixty 
 cotton. I'll be back by noon." 
 
 "You don't want I should call out to Ebenezer 
 an' ask him for a ride.^" inquired her mother, 
 at the window, a doubtful eye on the farmer still 
 gossiping without. 
 
 "Now, mother ! " Claribel laughed. "You 
 know well enough what I'm goin' to do. I'm 
 goin' to walk, an' Ballard '11 overtake me when 
 he goes to get the mail. It's about time now." 
 
 "Well," said her mother, and she left the 
 window and came to hold Claribel's jacket. 
 "My soul ! " she said despairingly. " There's 
 your father now." 
 
 Jonathan's step was at the door. It was 
 brisker than when it bore him forth. His face 
 had lighted in new interest. 
 
 "Where you goin'.?" he asked Claribel at 
 once. 
 
 She was walking past him to the door. 
 
 "Oh, just up to the Corners," she answered 
 casually. "I've got to have some things." 
 
 "You wait a spell," said Jonathan. He 
 glanced into the glass, and decided he need not 
 shave. "I'm goin' up along to git some onion- 
 seed. Ebenezer says old Lang 's got some, fust 
 
8 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 quality, an' if we don't look out it '11 all be 
 gone." 
 
 "O father!" cried Abigail involuntarily. 
 
 "You come out an' help me git the bits in," 
 said Jonathan to his wife. *'I can manage the 
 rest with one hand." 
 
 Claribel followed them hesitatingly out 
 through the shed. 
 
 *' Father," she began; but Jonathan never 
 turned. "Father!" 
 
 "Well, what is it ? " he called over his shoulder, 
 and her mother dropped behind and walked 
 with her. 
 
 "Don't you take on," urged Abigail. There 
 were tears in her own eyes, and the warm air on 
 her forehead made her think of youth as well 
 as spring. "You know he can't drive very well, 
 on'y one hand so. Don't you mind." 
 
 Claribel's tears also had sprung, and two big 
 crystal globes ran out and splashed her cheeks. 
 
 " It was a kind of an agreement," she said pas- 
 sionately. "Ballard's got two watches picked 
 out at Ferris's, and he wants me to see which 
 one I like best. He'll be awful mad, and I 
 shan't blame him." 
 
 "Father," called Abigail. "Father!" She 
 ran on into the barn where he had the horse 
 standing while he gave him an impatient one- 
 handed brushing with a bundle of hay. " Father, 
 
A DAY OFF 9 
 
 Claribel 's made a kind of an agreement to go 
 with Ballard. You wait a minute whilst I slip 
 on my t'other dress, an' I'll go with ye." 
 
 "Here, you git in them bits," said Jonathan. 
 "God sake! Don't you hender me when that 
 onion-seed's goin' by the board. They'll be 
 married in four weeks, won't they.^ Well, I 
 guess Claribel can stan' it if she don't see him 
 for twenty -four hours." 
 
 Abigail got the bits in, and went on deftly 
 harnessing. She spoke but once. That was when 
 Claribel came and began to fasten a trace. 
 
 "Go 'way, dear," said the mother, in an 
 eloquent tenderness. "You '11 git horse-hairs all 
 over you." 
 
 Then Claribel stepped silently into the wagon; 
 her father followed her, and they drove away. 
 
 It was three o'clock in the afternoon when they 
 came home. Jonathan was in high spirits. He 
 had got his onion-seed ; and then, having heard 
 of an auction, five miles farther on, where there 
 was a cultivator as good as new, he had bought 
 some crackers and cheese at the grocery and 
 driven there. He and Claribel had eaten their 
 lunch in the wagon, and then Claribel had sat 
 drearily by while her father bid and reft bar- 
 gains away from other bidders. Now Claribel 
 was heavy-eyed, and her mouth looked pitiful. 
 She ate sparingly of the early supper her mother 
 
10 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 set out for them, and then, after washing the 
 dishes, sat awhile by the window in the dusk. 
 Her mother knew she was watching; but Bal- 
 lard did not come, and at nine o'clock the 
 girl walked droopingly off to bed. 
 
 Abigail was late in going to sleep that night. 
 She lay looking into the darkness, tears some- 
 times gathering in her eyes and then softly 
 wiped away on a corner of the sheet. It was 
 not that she failed to bear a little disappoint- 
 ment for Claribel; but, to her mind, youth 
 was youth. There were times when one wanted 
 things, and if they had to be put off, they were 
 not the same. One bud could never open twice. 
 
 When breakfast was over, Jonathan settled 
 himself in the sitting-room with the county 
 paper, and Claribel slipped into the pantry and 
 beckoned her mother. The girl spoke shyly: 
 
 "I don't know but I'll run over to Ballard's 
 and ask his mother for that skirt pattern." 
 
 "So do," said Abigail, with understanding. 
 
 "You see" — Claribel went on. She bent her 
 head, and the corners of her mouth trembled. 
 "I don't want you should think I'm foolish; 
 but yesterday was a kind of a particular day 
 with us. 'T was a year ago yesterday we were 
 engaged, and it was kind of understood we 
 were going to look at the watch together. The 
 reason I told Ballard I'd walk along and let 
 
A DAY OFF 11 
 
 him overtake me — well, I did n't dare to have 
 him come here, for fear father 'd spoil it some- 
 how. And then he saw me drive by with father, 
 and not a word to say why, and father was in 
 a hurry and would n't let me stop, — and if I 
 was in Ballard's place I should be mad as fire." 
 
 "You go right over," responded Abigail, 
 something throbbing in her voice. "Slip out 
 the porch door, and clip it right along." 
 
 Again Abigail stood at the table, her mixing- 
 bowl before her, and at the clink of her spoon 
 Jonathan's voice came promptly from the other 
 room: 
 
 "Nabby, what you doin' of?" 
 
 This time her muttered exclamation had the 
 fierceness of accumulated wrongs, but she added 
 cheerfully : 
 
 "I'm mixin' up a mite o' cake." 
 
 "What kind?" 
 
 For an instant Abigail compressed her lips, 
 and then she added, desperately, as one whose 
 resolve had hardened: 
 
 "Cupcake." 
 
 "How many eggs?" 
 
 "One." At the instant of speaking, she took 
 two eggs from the basket and, one in either 
 hand, broke them at the same instant upon the 
 edge of the bowl. Jonathan's ears were keen, 
 but they did not serve him against the testimony 
 
12 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 of that one innocent crack. Abigail beat them 
 hastily, and pouring them into her butter and 
 sugar, breathed again. 
 
 "You call Claribel. I want her to help me a 
 mite down sullar," said Jonathan, on his way 
 to the kitchen. 
 
 Abigail, at his step, crumpled one eggshell 
 in her hand and hastily thrust it into the coals. 
 She laid a light stick over it. 
 
 "I want to have her sprout some o' them 
 Haters in the arch." 
 
 "She can't do it this forenoon," said his 
 wife glibly. "She's gone out." 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "Down to Mis' Towle's. I sent her to carry 
 back that peck measure you borrered last 
 week." 
 
 A strange exhilaration possessed her. Abigail 
 did not remember to have lied willfully in all her 
 life before. Her diflBcult way had been, against 
 all temptation, to tell the bare truth and suffer 
 for it; but now that she had begun to lie, she 
 liked it. She looked at her husband, as he stood 
 in the doorway gazing innocently over her 
 head at the window where the spring made a 
 misty picture, and wondered what he would say 
 if he guessed what was in her heart. She hardly 
 thought herself, save that it was something new 
 and wild: the resolve to say anything that came 
 
A DAY OFF 13 
 
 into her head, and take the consequences. 
 Jonathan was pondering. 
 
 "Why," said he slowly, at last, "seems to me 
 I carried back that peck measure myself, day or 
 two ago." 
 
 Now Abigail remembered seeing him walk 
 out of the yard with it in his hand ; but she did 
 not flinch. 
 
 " Oh, no, you did n't ! Claribel 's just took it." 
 
 There was another pause, and Jonathan 
 spoke again. 
 
 " Claribel asked me for some money t' other 
 day. Said she wanted to git two more gowns. 
 You think she needs 'em ?" 
 
 "I know she does," returned Abigail vigor- 
 ously. "You don't want she should walk out 
 o' this house without a stitch to her back, do ye, 
 an' have Ballard set to an' clothe her?" 
 
 "You gi'n her any money this winter?" 
 
 Abigail remembered her hard-won store of 
 butter-and-eggs money, put aside from the mo- 
 ment Ballard had begun his courting, and she 
 remembered the day when she and Claribel had 
 stolen off to the Corners to spend the precious 
 store in fine cloth and trimming. But she 
 looked her husband straight in the eye. 
 
 "Not a cent," she answered, and liked the 
 sound of it. 
 
 "Well," concluded Jonathan, " I '11 hand her 
 
14 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 some to-morrer. I '11 make it what you think 's 
 best." 
 
 For a moment her heart softened, but Jona- 
 than spoke again: 
 
 "You ain't a-goin' to make weddin' cake, be 
 
 ye?" 
 
 The strange part of her new communion with 
 him was that, as her tongue formed the lie, her 
 mind flashed a picture of the truth before her. 
 Now she had a swift vision of the day when he 
 had gone to town meeting, and she and Claribel 
 had baked the wedding cake, in furious haste, 
 and set it away to mellow. 
 
 "No," said she calmly; "I ain't a-goin' to 
 make no cake. I got a little on hand." 
 
 "When'dyehaveit?" 
 
 " Oh, I dunno' ! I got a loaf or two." 
 
 "Well," Jonathan ruminated, "I dunno 's I 
 remember your bakin' any." 
 
 " I did n't bake it. 'T was some Aunt Lu- 
 cretia left in her crock when she moved out 
 West." She thought with wonder of the ease 
 with which new worlds could be created merely 
 by the tongue. It gave her a sense of lightness 
 and freedom. She could almost forgive Jona- 
 than for meddling, since he had introduced her 
 to these brilliant possibilities. 
 
 "That 's terrible yellerfor one egg,'' he com- 
 mented, as she poured her cake into the pan. 
 
A DAY OFF 15 
 
 " It had two yolks," said Abigail calmly. She 
 felt an easy mastery of him. Then she closed 
 the oven door, cleared off her cooking table, and 
 sat down to sew. 
 
 This was one of the days when Jonathan 
 seemed possessed by the spirit of discovery. He 
 took up a bit of edging from the window-sill, and 
 held it in a clumsy hand. 
 
 "How much do ye pay for that trade?" he 
 inquired. 
 
 "Two cents," responded Abigail. 
 
 " Two cents ! That 's more 'n two cents a 
 yard!" 
 
 " No. It 's a cent an' a half a yard an' five 
 yards for two cents. We got five." 
 
 "I never heerd o' such carryin's on." Jona- 
 than spoke helplessly. " They can't do business 
 that way." 
 
 "They do." She spoke conclusively. 
 
 He took up another wider remnant. This 
 was a coarse lace. 
 
 "How much d'ye pay for that?" he asked. 
 
 "Nothin'," said Abigail. "I made it." 
 
 Jonathan ruminated. He felt exceedingly 
 puzzled. It was not that he distrusted her. 
 No moment of their life together had failed 
 to convince him that she was honest as the 
 day. 
 
 " I dunno 's I ever see you doin' anything like 
 
16 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 that," he commented. "How'd ye do it? 
 Looks as if 't was wove." 
 
 "I done it on pins," said Abigail wildly. 
 
 "Common pins?" 
 
 "No. Clo'es-pins." 
 
 Jonathan frowned and gazed at her, still 
 reflecting. 
 
 "Mebbe you could make some to sell," he 
 ventured. "Looks as if there might be some 
 profit in't." 
 
 "I don't want no profit," returned his wife, 
 unmoved, and Jonathan presently went out to 
 the barn, ruminating by the way. 
 
 Then when his step had ceased on the shed 
 floor, Abigail laid down her sewing. She looked 
 briefly up to heaven, as if she interrogated the 
 bolt that was presently to stun her; but the bolt 
 did not fall, and she began to laugh. She 
 laughed until the tears came, and her face, suf- 
 fused with mirth, looked a dozen years to the 
 good. She dried her eyes, but without wiping 
 away any of that new emotion. She could not 
 yet blame herself for anything so rare. 
 
 The noon dinner was on the table, and Claribel 
 had not come. Her mother had set forth a goodly 
 meal, and she talked cheerfully through it. But 
 Jonathan was never to be quite distracted. 
 
 "Where's Claribel?" he asked, with his 
 second piece of pie. 
 
A DAY OFF 17 
 
 ^ "She ain't comin'," answered her mother, at 
 random. "I'll set suthin' out on the pantry- 
 shelf, an' she can have it when she wants." 
 
 Jonathan paused, with a choice morsel on the 
 way to his mouth. 
 
 "You don't s'pose she's fetched up at Bal- 
 lard's an' stayed there to dinner, do ye?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "Well, what if she has?" 
 
 " Nothin', only I wanted to know. I 'd step 
 over there arter dinner an' fetch her." 
 
 Abigail laid down her fork. She spoke with 
 the desperation of one already lost. 
 
 " Now, father, I '11 tell ye plainly, I ain't goin' 
 to have Claribel disturbed. She 's up-chamber, 
 layin' down with a sick headache, an' I've 
 turned the key in the door." 
 
 "Well, ye need n't ha' done that," Jonathan 
 wondered. "She might as well sleep it off." 
 
 " I '11 sprout the 'taters," she asserted vigor- 
 ously, "but I ain't a-goin' to have her round 
 with a headache an' git all beat out so she don't 
 do a stitch o' work to-morrer." 
 
 Jonathan said nothing, and after dinner she 
 sped upstairs, locked the door of Claribel's 
 room, and put the key in her pocket. Then, 
 with a mind at ease, she washed her dinner 
 dishes and went down cellar. There she 
 sprouted potatoes with a swift dexterity and a 
 
18 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 joyous heart. Claribel was abroad somewhere, 
 she knew, roaming the free world. That was 
 enough. 
 
 At five Jonathan finished his nap, and came 
 heavily to the door above. 
 
 "Here, you," he called. "I've be'n up- 
 chamber to find out how Glaribel is. The 
 door 's locked an' there ain't no key inside. You 
 got the key?" 
 
 Abigail rose and dusted the dirt from her 
 hands. Her task was done. 
 
 "No," said she. "I ain't got no key." 
 
 "I thought you said you locked the door. 
 Did n't you take the key?" 
 
 Abigail was mounting the cellar stairs. She 
 faced him calmly. 
 
 "No, I never said any such thing," she re- 
 turned, with an easy grace. " Clary 's locked it, 
 I s'pose. If she don't answer, she's asleep. 
 You let her be, Jonathan. It 's no way to go 
 routin' anybody out when they've got a head- 
 ache." 
 
 "Well," said Jonathan, and grumbled off to 
 the barn. 
 
 Abigail felt more and more under the spell of 
 her new system. It swept her like a mounting 
 flood. She had lied all day. It was easy and 
 she liked it. With a mirthful feeling that some 
 compensation was due Jonathan, she made 
 
A DAY OFF 19 
 
 cream-of-tartar biscuits and opened quince pre- 
 serve. The one-two-three-four cake was golden 
 within and sweetly brown on top; it had not suf- 
 fered from the artifice that went to the making 
 of it. 
 
 The door opened and Claribel came in. She 
 had her jacket on her arm, and her cheeks were 
 all a crimson bloom. A fine gold chain was 
 about her neck, and immediately she drew a 
 watch from her belt and opened it, with a child's 
 delight. 
 
 " Look, mother, look! " she cried. The words 
 followed one another in a rapid stream. "He 
 wa'n't mad a mite. He said he knew 'twas 
 something I could n't help. And we went and 
 got it, and had dinner at the hotel. I guess I 
 shan't ever forget this day long 's I live." 
 
 Abigail was holding the watch, spellbound 
 over its beauty. But at that she broke into a 
 laugh, wild and mirthless. 
 
 "No," said she, "no. I guess I shan't 
 either." 
 
 "Mother, what you mean?" The girl was 
 answering in a quick alarm. "Anything hap- 
 pened to you.'^" 
 
 Abigail quieted at once. 
 
 "No, dear, no," she said. "I've had a real 
 nice day. On'y I 've kinder worried for fear you 
 would n't see Ballard, an' all. Now you take 
 
20 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 off your things, an' father '11 be in, an' we '11 have 
 supper." 
 
 But when they were sitting at the table, Jona- 
 than kept glancing at Claribel, her red cheeks 
 and brilliant eyes. 
 
 "Ain't you kinder feverish?" he asked, and 
 Abigail answered: 
 
 "See here, father. Ballard's give her a 
 watch. Ain't that handsome?" 
 
 Jonathan turned it over and over in his hand. 
 
 "I guess it cost him suthin'," he remarked. 
 " Well, to-morrer we '11 see if we can't git to- 
 gether a little suthin' more for clo'es." 
 
 Claribel went to bed early, to dream, with 
 her watch under her pillow, and the husband 
 and wife sat together by the fire below. When 
 the clock struck nine, they rose, in lingering 
 unison, and made ready to go upstairs. Abigail 
 cleared her sewing from the table, and Jonathan 
 shut the stove dampers and wound the clock. 
 
 "They 've got that feller over to the Corners," 
 he announced, as he waited for her to set back 
 the chairs. 
 
 "What feller?" 
 
 "The one that stole Si Merrill's team. They 
 clapped him into jail, an' I guess there '11 be con- 
 sid'able of a time over it. He had n't a word 
 to say." 
 
 Abigail was standing before him, her hands 
 
A DAY OFF 21 
 
 clasped under her apron, as if they were cold. 
 Her face looked tired and pale. She spoke 
 with a passionate insistence. 
 
 " Jonathan, I 've found out suthin'. It don't 
 do to do the leastest thing that 's wrong." 
 
 "Why, no," Jonathan acquiesced, getting a 
 newspaper and laying it before the hearth for 
 the morning's kindling. "Anybody's likely to 
 git took up for it." 
 
 " It ain't that," said Abigail. Her small face 
 had grown tense from the extremity of terrible 
 knowledge. " You might go along quite a spell 
 an' not git found out. It's because" — She 
 halted a moment, and her voice dropped a note 
 — "it's because wrong-doin's so pleasant." 
 
 "You take the lamp," said Jonathan. Then 
 he remembered that the argument should be 
 clinched, and added, with his Sunday manner: 
 
 "The way o' the transgressor is hard." 
 
 "It ain't," asserted Abigail, at the stairs. 
 " It 's elegant. It 's enough to scare ye to death, 
 ye have such a good time in it, an' ye go so fast. 
 It 's like slidin' down hill an' the wind at your 
 back. Mebbe the feller that stole Si's team 
 grabbed an apple off 'n a tree once an' that 
 started him. I don't blame him. I don't 
 blame nobody." 
 
 Jonathan was beginning the ascent, and she 
 paused and looked back at the kitchen, as if 
 
22 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 there were the inanimate witnesses of her 
 perfidy. 
 
 "I've had a splendid day," she said aloud. 
 " I 've had the best time I 've had for years. I 
 ain't ever goin' to have another like it. I don't 
 dast to. 'T would n't take much to land me in 
 jail. But I ain't sorry, an' I ain't a-goin' to say 
 I be." 
 
 "What you doin' of down there?" called 
 Jonathan. "Who you talkin' to?" 
 
 " I 'm comin'," said Abigail. " I '11 bring the 
 light." 
 
OLD IMMORTALITY 
 
OLD IMMORTALITY 
 
 Old John Buckham stood at the kitchen door, 
 watching his wife while she picked her way 
 along the path between his house and the Fos- 
 ters'. It was early spring, and there was still 
 snow in crusty patches; but the path was kept 
 open in all weather because Mrs. Buckham 
 liked to take that way. She came slowly, her 
 slender figure wrapped in its Irish cloak and her 
 sweet winter-apple face looking out from the 
 quilted hood. 
 
 "You be careful there!" shouted old John. 
 "It 's all of a glare of ice." 
 
 Mrs. Buckham reached the doorstone safely, 
 and there she stamped her feet and shook her 
 skirts free of fringing frost. 
 
 "No, 't ain't either," she said, in a pleasant 
 treble. "You 've laid so much ashes down 
 it '11 all spring up clover, come next May." 
 
 Her husband was a tall, clean-looking man 
 with an aquiline nose, and whimsical lines 
 about the firm-cut mouth. He put out a hand 
 to help her into the kitchen, but she repulsed 
 him with a little pat like the quick play of a 
 cat's paw. She spoke in a merry tenderness : 
 
26 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 "There! there! I ain't a hunderd." 
 
 She was taking off her hood by the kitchen 
 stove, her husband standing by, when he re- 
 marked incidentally: 
 
 "Mr. Blaisdell 's in the fore-room." 
 
 "Mr. Blaisdell! Not our minister?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "In the fore-room? He must be froze." 
 
 "No, he ain't. I blazed a fire. I should 
 ha' set him down here by the kitchen sto', but I 
 thought you'd have a conniption fit." 
 
 "Well!" she smoothed her hair with both 
 hands, and turned toward the parlor door. 
 " What 's he want ? Anything particular ? " she 
 asked, in a manner suited to ecclesiastical 
 themes. 
 
 " Oh, jest a visitation, I guess," said old John. 
 Then his jaw stiffened perceptibly, and he 
 added, " He 's heerd 'em call me * Old Immor- 
 tality,' an' he wants to bring me to book for 
 sayin' I expect to live forever." 
 
 "John!" 
 
 "There! there, Mary! don't you mind. You 
 need n't go in if you don't want to. He can talk 
 to me from now till cockcrow. Do him good." 
 
 "Well, I guess I shall go in," said Mrs. Buck- 
 ham, and she lifted the latch and entered the 
 parlor, her husband following. 
 
 The minister sat there by the air-tight stove. 
 
OLD IMMORTALITY 27 
 
 in the guarded calm of an atmosphere not yet 
 thawed beyond a short and torrid radius. He 
 was a Hght, thick-set young man with an earnest 
 look and no sign of humor yet developed in him. 
 He rose to meet his hostess in her dignified 
 approach, and listened to her "Pleased to see 
 you," with some lessening of tension. John 
 Buckham threatened to be a hard nut to crack, 
 and the calm old woman seemed at once to 
 promise some amelioration of the hour. She 
 sat down within scorching distance of the stove ; 
 but old John took a chair by the window, and 
 with a careful finger followed a line of frost 
 upon the pane. To his wife's experienced eye 
 he looked like a boy detected in misdoing, and 
 bent on at least smudging the window while his 
 guilt was being reckoned; but the minister's 
 glance was on her, and she denied herself even a 
 warning headshake. The young man made two 
 or three conversational forays into fields 
 bounded by the weather and the hygienic value 
 of his own brisk walk from town. Then, with 
 an unhappy haste, he caught up a thread of 
 talk where it had been broken. 
 
 "Your husband and I, Mrs. Buckham, have 
 been having a little discussion. Rather, I 
 might say, I hope to lead him into one. Of 
 course I was hardly settled here when they told 
 me ' Old Immortality' does n't intend to die. I 
 
28 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 was greatly interested. I felt that I ought to 
 know the grounds of his assurance, — or, I 
 might call it, his belief." 
 
 Old John's face lighted with an emotion 
 desperately summoned. 
 
 "Ever hear," he asked ingratiatingly, "of the 
 man down by Peppermint Bridge that 's tryin' 
 to invent a dog-barker.^" 
 
 "No," said the minister, with a hopeful cour- 
 tesy. He did not know old John. He could 
 believe, until the moment of enlightenment, that 
 even theoretical dog-barkers had some bearing 
 on a life beyond the grave. 
 
 Old John continued, with a false assurance, 
 avoiding his wife's eye: 
 
 " He 's been to work a matter o' ten year with 
 two pieces o' wood an' a kind of a bellus he got 
 out of an old melodeon. When it 's done, he 's 
 goin' to take out a patent on it. 'Hendrick's 
 Dog-barker,' that 's what it 's goin' to be named 
 — ' Hendrick's Dog-barker ' ! " 
 
 Mrs. Buckham sat straight and tall, as if 
 chair-backs had no meaning. A tiny spot of red 
 burned on each cheek; her hands were folded. 
 She could not bring her mate to shame by 
 public censure ; he knew that, and he was trad- 
 ing on it. 
 
 The minister laughed briefly, following old 
 John's lead. 
 
OLD IMMORTALITY 29 
 
 " I hardly see the utility of such a notion," he 
 hesitated. 
 
 " Great sale for a thing like that," declared 
 old John. ** Give one o' the handles a h'ist, fill 
 up the bellus with air, an' then let her go, an' 
 she barks out jes' like a little yappin' dog. A 
 child could work it. Widders an' old maids 'd 
 buy 'em by the hunderd an' keep 'em in the 
 front entry to guard the premises. ' Hendrick's 
 Dog-barker'!" He laughed softly to himself, 
 yet his guilty eye wandered to avoid his wife. 
 
 "The man is undoubtedly insane," said the 
 minister sharply. 
 
 "Oh, no! Hendrick ain't insane. He's got 
 a kind of an ingenious turn o' mind, that 's all. 
 But they 're a queer set down there to Pepper- 
 mint Bridge. Why, winter 'fore last, the night 
 school meetin' was app'inted it snowed great 
 guns. Some o' the young fellers got through 
 the drifts an' they hil' the meetin', an' got a 
 majority, an' voted to build the new schoolhouse 
 out o' slippery-elm." 
 
 Mrs. Buckham had not spoken, and for the 
 moment old John felt the irresponsible joy of 
 one escaping penalty. 
 
 " Peppermint Bridge ! " he repeated, careering 
 on. "I guess so! The things that go on there 
 'd fill a Bible. There was Deacon Bray; as 
 soon as he moved into his new house he let the 
 
30 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 old one to a couple o' school-teachers from 
 Boston. Well, they come down along the last 
 o' June an' settled themselves, an' the first Sun- 
 day over walks the deacon's two boys — reg'lar 
 black sheep they be" — 
 
 "John," said Mrs. Buckham, "you put in 
 another stick o' wood." 
 
 Old John brought his lean length upright and 
 opened the stove door with a cheerful "Gee!" 
 and a shake of his burned fingers. But he went 
 on: "Over comes the two boys and says, 'Ain't 
 there no jobs you 'd like to have done ? We 'd 
 be real pleased,' says they. The schoolma'ams 
 let 'em split some kindlin' an' mow round under 
 the apple-trees an' clean up the sullar, an' every 
 Sunday they 'd come as reg'lar as a clock an' 
 work like silkworms. The deacon he 'd gone 
 off to meetin', ye see, so he never sensed what 
 was goin' on. The boys never set foot inside 
 the meetin'-house, an' he 'd give up expectin' it. 
 They struck on that when they got their ma- 
 jority. Well, so 't went on. The schoolma'ams 
 kinder set 'em off to the neighbors. 'Our 
 admirers,' they called 'em. 'Our admirers!' 
 Well, there 't was. The schoolma'ams had 
 their summer, and went off in the fall. Next 
 summer they took the house ag'in, but no boys ! 
 They saved up jobs an' done 'em themselves, 
 an' then they curled their hair an' put up their 
 
OLD IMMORTALITY 31 
 
 parasols an' walked over to deacon's to say how 
 much they liked the place." 
 
 "John!" warned his mate. 
 
 "But them boys had slipped into the vast 
 unknown. One day one o' the schoolma'ams 
 could n't Stan' it no longer, an' sl^e says to old 
 Elbridge Lane they 'd hired to do some o' the 
 jobs the boys never applied for, — she says, 
 * Where 's our two admirers ? ' says she. El- 
 bridge leaned on his scythe an' begun to wheeze. 
 He ain't got a tooth in his head except two in 
 front, in the receipt o' custom, he keeps to stiddy 
 his pipe an' whistle through. 'Well,' says El- 
 bridge, * did n't you know what they come for ? ' 
 The schoolma'am bridled. She wa'n't any too 
 young. 'They offered to do our work,' says 
 she. 'Why,' says Elbridge, — 'why, last year 
 Deacon Bray left his hard cider stored in your 
 suUar, an' this summer 't ain't here.' " Old 
 John was lying at ease in the great rocker, his 
 legs outstretched, his doom for the moment for- 
 gotten. He opened his well-furnished mouth 
 and roared ; but in the midst the silence blighted 
 him, and he looked from the minister to his 
 wife with a relaxing jaw. "Well!" said he, — 
 "well!" 
 
 No conversational tactics would serve his 
 purpose. The minister was not diverted. 
 
 "Mr. Buckham," said he, rather sharply, " I 
 
32 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 am told you made the statement at Friday even- 
 ing meeting that you did n't expect to die." 
 
 Old John sat upright and put the tips of his 
 fingers together. His face settled into an ex- 
 treme seriousness. This was his look when 
 matters were under discussion at town meeting 
 and the issue was grave. 
 
 "Yes," he answered, "I said that." 
 
 "Did you refer to your immortality after 
 death.?" 
 
 "I referred," said old John, bringing his fist 
 down on his knee, "to the life I 'm livin' now 
 right here in Rockin'ham County. I said I 
 should n't die, an' I ain't a-goin' to." 
 
 "What basis have you for your belief? No 
 doubt you can give me chapter and verse." 
 
 "I don't base it on chapters nor verses. I 
 base it on what I know. There is no need o' my 
 dyin', an' I ain't a-goin' to." 
 
 "Where do you get your assurance, Mr. 
 Buckham.?" 
 
 "I feel it. That's enough for me." 
 
 " Do you assume that others can taste of the 
 same immortality.?" 
 
 " I don't know anything about that," said old 
 John obstinately. "That's their lookout. I 
 only know I ain't a-goin' to die." 
 
 His wife began speaking in a tremulous key. 
 Two tears were on her cheeks. 
 
OLD IMMORTALITY 33 
 
 "He ain't ever had a day's sickness in his 
 life. His teeth is as sound as a nut. They 
 ain't ever ached, an' he 's kep' all his hair" — 
 
 "There, there, Mary!" said her husband, 
 with a whimsical tenderness ; " anybody 'd think 
 you wanted to see me droppin' to pieces like a 
 feather duster." But when she put her hand- 
 kerchief to her eyes the sight enraged him, and 
 he turned to the young man. " Now look here," 
 said he, " le' 's have it out here an' now. I ain't 
 a-goin' to have anybody comin' into my house 
 an' stirrin' up strife, let him be what he will. I 
 don't believe I 'm goin' to die. There, now! put 
 that in your pipe an' smoke it. If you think I 
 don't believe the Bible, you can think so. If 
 you think I ain't fit to go to the communion 
 table, you can say so an' I '11 keep out. But as 
 for sayin' I 'm goin' to die an' be buried under- 
 ground, I won't — for I know I ain't. There ! 
 that 's my last word." 
 
 "Well!" said the minister, in his turn, — 
 "well!" And he rose to go. He got out of the 
 house in a dazed fashion, with a shake of the 
 hand judiciously graduated to express sympathy 
 with the wife and admonition to the husband. 
 But at the door he paused. 
 
 " I should be extremely sorry, Mr. Buckham," 
 he said, with an awkward honesty, "if you 
 should stay away from the communion table, or 
 
34 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 if I have in any manner " — He turned to the 
 wife with a boyish smile. "You bring him 
 along, Mrs. Buckham," he ended. "Don't 
 you let him stay out of the fold." 
 
 "There!" said old John, as he and his wife 
 entered the house together, " he ain't a bad little 
 chap." But his valiant demeanor had 
 shrunken; he was a conciliatory figure casting 
 droll, beseeching eyes at the woman he wished 
 to please. His wife knew her power at such 
 crises. She was sorry for him, but he had 
 mixed his cup, and he must taste it. She went 
 in with the step of a justly offended woman and 
 took up her knitting by the kitchen fire. Old 
 John fidgeted about the room and found himself 
 perfunctory occupations. He opened the clock 
 door and touched the pendulum stealthily, like 
 an idle boy. Then he tore a strip of paper from 
 the edge of the county "Star" and began to 
 make a lamplighter; but his great fingers got in 
 his way, and he gave it up. 
 
 "Oh, the dogs!" he said. 
 
 He looked at Mary. There was a little 
 tremble at the corner of her mouth. He knew 
 it well. 
 
 "You want I should put another stick o' 
 wood in the fore-room sto'?" he asked hope- 
 fully. 
 
 " No, I guess not," she answered. Her tone 
 
OLD IMMORTALITY 35 
 
 had a gentle neutrality most discouraging. 
 Old John's temperature fell. 
 
 ** Oh! " said he. He went to the window and 
 stood drumming on the pane. He began watch- 
 ing the road, and contracted his gaze in the 
 manner of one who sees unexpected succor. 
 "Mary!" cried he joyously. "Here's doctor!" 
 
 "The land suz!" cried Mary, rising and roll- 
 ing up her yarn. "He ain't goin' by, is he.^" 
 
 " No, he 's turnin' in. I '11 go out an' see if he 
 won't drive into the barn." He passed her to 
 get his hat; but he laid a hand on her shoulder 
 and said, "Darn the ministers!" 
 
 "There! there!" said Mary. They were 
 friends again. 
 
 The old lady "clipped it" about the kitchen 
 and set out a dish of red apples, and a pitcher for 
 John to get the doctor a glass of cider, if he 
 would. When the two men came in, she was 
 waiting for them in a smiling expectation. The 
 doctor was a young man with sandy hair and 
 knowing spectacles. 
 
 " How 's the nicest woman in the world ? " he 
 asked of Mrs. Buckham. 
 
 Her mouth relaxed, in spite of her. 
 
 " There ! there ! " she said. " You let me take 
 your hat. John, you get his coat off. He 's 
 'most froze." 
 
 "No, I'm not," said the doctor, standing in 
 
36 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 front of the stove and regarding them as if they 
 were "own folks" whom he had found after 
 long absence. "I'm warm all through the 
 minute I get in here. John, you old sinner, are 
 you still going to live forever?" 
 
 Old John grinned at him, but he answered 
 obstinately: "Yes, I be goin' to live forever, 
 unless I miss my calculations, an' I don't see no 
 signs on 't." 
 
 " Took out your patent yet ? " asked the doctor. 
 
 Mrs. Buckham passed him the apples, and 
 he split one with a twist of his strong hands. 
 
 "Going to keep the stock all to yourself, or 
 do you think you could let the rest of us come in 
 for a share or two?" 
 
 John stole a look at his wife. 
 
 " What 's the matter, Buckham ? " asked the 
 doctor. " You look guilty ; been stealing sheep ? " 
 
 " I '11 tell you what 's the matter of him," said 
 the wife. Yet old John was not afraid; fair- 
 weather signals were in her look. " He 's been 
 talkin' to the minister about livin' forever, an' I 
 had to set by an' hear it." 
 
 The doctor threw back his head and laughed. 
 
 " Talked to the minister, did you, John ? " he 
 asked. " Would n't back down a peg, would you ? " 
 
 " I ain't a-goin' to back down when I 'm in the 
 right," said old John sulkily. 
 
 "I bet you ain't. Say, John, what you going 
 
OLD IMMORTALITY 37 
 
 to do all the time you 're living forever ? You 
 don't s'pose it '11 kind of pall on you after a 
 while, do you?" 
 
 " I ain't a-goin' to live forever all in one day," 
 said old John scornfully, as if he accepted a 
 trifling argument. "I ain't got to take it like a 
 dose o' bitters. There '11 be one day, an' then 
 there'll be another day, an' that's all there is 
 about it." 
 
 "And first you know, you '11 find you've lived 
 forever. Well, I hope it '11 turn out as pleasant 
 as you think." 
 
 " I don't know whether it 's goin' to turn out 
 pleasant or not," said John. "That ain't what 
 I 'm layin' my plans for. I 'm jest goin' to do it, 
 that 's all — I 'm goin' to be here. Some things 
 about it are kinder pleasant. Last May I was 
 over to Abel Tolman's when he was settin' out 
 some young apple-trees. Abel 's a year young- 
 er 'n I be. * What 's the use ? ' says he. ' They 
 won't bear for three years, an' mebbe I shan't 
 be alive to eat 'em.' " 
 
 " Yes, an' what did father do then ? " said the 
 old wife. There was a clinging fondness in her 
 tone. "He came home an' brought up one o' 
 them late russets out o' the suUar, an' eat it an' 
 went out an' planted the seeds." 
 
 " Yes; I did," said John. " An' I says to my- 
 self, ' Them seeds '11 come up an' I '11 watch 'em 
 
38 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 grow, an' when it comes time I '11 graft 'em, an' 
 I '11 see 'em blow an' see 'em rot for all Abel 
 Tolman.' An' Abel Tolman could do the same 
 if he had any seem to him." 
 
 "Well," said the doctor, "I should n't wonder 
 if you did, you 're such an obstinate old dog. 
 Now I must go along. Mrs. Buckham, I saw 
 your niece this morning." 
 
 " She 's sick!" said the old lady, in responsive 
 fright. 
 
 "No, she 'snot. Her little girl's sick." 
 
 "There, there! Mary!" said old John. He 
 put out a hand to her, and she drew a step 
 nearer and rested her fingers on his arm. 
 
 "What is it.^" she asked the doctor. 
 
 "Well, she's got a cold on her lungs." 
 
 " There 's lots of lung fever 'round," trembled 
 the old lady. " That little creatur' ! John, you 
 harness up an' take me right over there." 
 
 John sat down by the fire. 
 
 "I shan't harness up an' I shan't take you 
 over there," said he. " Doctor, you look here. 
 She 's been up three nights this week with the 
 Fosters, an' she 's all beat out. If anybody 's 
 goin' to Mandy's, I will. I can wash dishes an' 
 I can set up nights. Mary, you know I can. 
 Did n't I do it that other winter John was down 
 in Maine loggin', an' you was over to the Fos- 
 ters' bringin' 'em through the measles?" 
 
OLD IMMORTALITY 39 
 
 The old wife stood by the fire, her hands 
 trembling and soft beseechment in her face. 
 The doctor went up to her, and stroked her 
 shoulder. 
 
 "Look here," said he, "I guess he 's right for 
 once. You 're pretty well run down with the 
 Fosters" — 
 
 "She 's all beat out," John growled. 
 
 " If you get over there you '11 have a fit of — 
 homesickness. You just let your husband go 
 and see how things are. I '11 take him over my- 
 self, this afternoon, and he can spend one night 
 anyway. The big Foster boy '11 stay with you, 
 won't he ? And I '11 drive round in the morn- 
 
 ing." 
 
 The old wife cried briefly over the "little 
 creatur' " sick without her, but she was curi- 
 ously tired ; so, with an abatement of spirit that 
 affected her with a mild wonderment, as it did 
 her husband, she yielded, and in half an hour 
 the two men had driven away. As they were 
 jingling out of the yard, old John laid his mit- 
 tened hand on the reins. The doctor pulled up. 
 The husband turned a troubled face back to the 
 house, where the slender figure stood in the 
 doorway, erect and purposeful, and yet some- 
 how appealing. 
 
 "Say, Mary," he called, " you 're goin' to be 
 all right, ain't you?" 
 
40 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 " Course I 'm all right," she answered, with 
 the thin sweetness of her tender voice. "You 
 won't get there 'fore dark." 
 
 That was a week of snow. John stayed at 
 Mandy's and did chores, and the doctor brought 
 him daily news of his wife. She was well. She 
 was tired. Then she was ill. The baby was 
 out of danger, but John ceased to think of the 
 baby in that moment of alarm. He followed 
 the doctor to the sleigh, and took the place be- 
 side him. For half the way neither of them 
 spoke. Then, as they were flying along the 
 Evergreen Mile, where woods darken the road 
 on both sides, old John said, in an unmoved 
 voice : 
 
 "I s'pose it 's on her lungs?" 
 
 "Yes," returned the doctor. 
 
 There was another space of hurrying flight, 
 and then old John remarked: 
 
 "When the old parson had it, he was out of 
 his head." 
 
 "Yes," said the doctor gently, flicking at the 
 horse. "She won't know you." 
 
 "How long did he hold out.?" 
 
 "Parson?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Three days." 
 
 Mrs. Foster was at the kitchen stove, when 
 they went in, stirring something in a saucepan. 
 
OLD IMMORTALITY 41 
 
 Her broad back, saluting old John, gave him 
 that pang of distaste struck out in us when we 
 find even a kindly alien inheriting our home. 
 She turned on them her mild face, now creased 
 with worriment. 
 
 "There ain't any change," she said to the 
 doctor, briefly, in answer to his look. He nod- 
 ded, walked into the bedroom, and closed the 
 door behind him. 
 
 Old John took off his coat and hat, and hung 
 them in their places with a dull remembrance of 
 the old wife's play at anger over his untidy ways. 
 Then he waited by the stove, warming his cold 
 hands; and Mrs. Foster, after another look at 
 him, drew a chair toward him, but did not 
 speak. The doctor came out, preoccupied and 
 grim, and without a word to either of them, 
 walked out of the house. The old man followed 
 him to the sleigh, and stood there, his hair blow- 
 ing in the wind. Tears were in his eyes. His 
 mouth worked. 
 
 "God A'mighty!" he broke out, when the 
 doctor gathered up the reins. " Ain't you goin' 
 to speak?" 
 
 "I'll be back by seven," said the doctor. 
 
 Old John stood there for a moment watching 
 him drive into the west, where there was a line 
 of saffron light. It was an unfriendly world. 
 Even the sky seemed strange. He stood there 
 
42 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 with the cold aloofness of it pressing upon his 
 heart, and rousing in him the sickness of ac- 
 cepted grief. Then he crept into the kitchen, 
 where there was no sound but the humming of 
 the kettle on the stove. He stole on tiptoe to the 
 bedroom door. Mrs. Foster sat by the bedside, 
 her kind eyes bent on the pathetic figure there, 
 her hand on Mrs. Buckham's wrist. She looked 
 up, at the creaking of a board, and rose respon- 
 sive, with a motion bidding him take her place. 
 He did it, terrified lest Mary should be roused 
 and greet him with unrecognizing eyes. But 
 she did not stir, and he sat there while the dusk 
 fell and neighbors stole into the kitchen with 
 cautious feet. The doctor came and went, and 
 in the evening a watcher took Mrs. Foster's 
 orders, and there was tea at midnight and food 
 eaten with a hushed solemnity. The day 
 dawned in a wintry glow, and she was no better. 
 Old John stumbled to the kitchen lounge, and 
 covering himself with his army overcoat, fell 
 asleep. That forenoon the minister came. 
 Old John was sitting over the fire, his hands 
 hanging between his knees, his head drooped 
 over them. He looked up and nodded, and the 
 minister laid a hand upon his shoulder. 
 
 "I saw Doctor Braintree in the post-office," 
 said the minister. 
 
 "Yes," said old John, "I think 's likely." 
 
OLD IMMORTALITY 43 
 
 The minister hesitated. "Shall I" — he 
 said. "Could I see her?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 " I was afraid not. May I pray with you ? " 
 
 "Do's ye like," said old John listlessly — 
 "do's ye like." 
 
 When the prayer was over, the minister stood 
 there unhappily drawing on his gloves and long- 
 ing to comfort his poor flock. Old John looked 
 at him with dull eyes. 
 
 " You need n't fret yourself about my livin' 
 forever," he said bitterly. "Makes me laugh 
 to think on't. It's all over an' done." 
 
 "What's over.?" asked the minister. 
 
 " What I said about livin' forever. You can 
 tell 'em all. You can git up in meetin' an' tell 
 'em if you want. Tell 'em old John 's give it 
 
 "That isn't important," said the minister. 
 "It doesn't matter how long we live." 
 
 "It does, too," said old John fiercely. "Don't 
 tell me it don't matter. Not when the only 
 creatur's took away that made ye live? You 
 look-a-here. She 's goin' to die. If there 's any 
 place for her, there 's a place for me, an' my 
 place is there an' nowher's else." 
 
 "Living or dying," said the minister softly, 
 "we are the Lord's." 
 
 "No wonder they hooted an' laughed," old 
 
44 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 John went on, in the same tone of dull retro- 
 spection. "They said everything died an' was 
 changed into suthin'. I never thought o' her 
 dyin'. We 've done everything together for over 
 forty year. We 've 'most breathed together. I 
 s'pose I thought if I kep' alive it 'd keep her 
 alive, too. But I can't. I ain't got no more 
 power ag'inst the way things go than if I was a 
 drop o' water in the sea." 
 
 "We shall be changed," said the minister. 
 
 " She 's got to have her powder," said John, 
 rising, and the minister went away. 
 
 Another day dragged by, and at dusk the 
 doctor came on old John, with his milk pails, 
 plodding in from the barn. This was the third 
 visit for the day, and John had not expected 
 him. It was the first time he had not waited 
 outside the bedroom door to hear the verdict. 
 When he saw the doctor the strength of his arms 
 failed him. He set down his pails and waited. 
 Again the west was yellow. To the doctor the 
 light was lovely. He called out as he came: 
 
 "Well, Old Immortality, feel as if you were 
 in the first quarter of eternity or 'long about the 
 full.?" 
 
 Old John's face had the immobility of wonted 
 grief. "It 's gone out o' me," he said. "The 
 peth has all gone out o' me." 
 
 "No, it hasn't, either," said the doctor. 
 
OLD IMMORTALITY 45 
 
 "It's only run down into your boots. See 
 here ; I did n't tell you what I thought this 
 morning. I know it now. She 's going to 
 live." 
 
 It seemed a long time before the old man 
 could draw the world back into his vision. 
 
 "Live?" he repeated. "Is Mary goin' to 
 live?" 
 
 " Of course she is. You don't suppose we 've 
 had this fight for nothing?" 
 
 Old John turned upon him a face exquisitely 
 radiant of hope. His hand shook as he laid it 
 upon his trembling mouth, and the doctor 
 threw one arm about his shoulder. 
 
 " We '11 feed her up," said he. " She '11 know 
 you fast enough. To-morrow you can go on 
 living forever." 
 
 Old John took off his hat and stood there 
 bareheaded to the sky. " I 'm goin' to do what 
 the rest do," he said. "It's better. Stay a 
 little while an' then travel the same road. What 
 if I 'd lived to set under them apple-trees we 
 talked about, an' set there all alone ? No. I 'm 
 goin' the app'inted way." 
 
 Three weeks after that the pale little old 
 woman sat by the window, not near enough for 
 any draught to strike her, but so that she could 
 see old John tinkering the gate, and looking up 
 to satisfy his eyes, from time to time, that she 
 
40 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 was there. Young Tolman drove up for a 
 moment's halt, and called to him: 
 
 " Father 's got over that spell o' his. He 
 wanted I should tell you he wa' n't goin' to hand 
 in his cheeks yet a while." 
 
 Old John lifted himself from his labor, laid 
 the hammer on the gate, took off his hat, and 
 passed a hand over his forehead. "Well," he 
 returned moderately, "you tell him it's the road 
 we 've all got to travel." 
 
 "That 's new doctrine for you," said young 
 Tolman. " I thought you 're goin' to live for- 
 ever. Could n't ye git your patent.?" 
 "I ain't goin' to apply." 
 "Give it up? Can't ye resk it?" 
 The light of controversy lighted up John's 
 face. " I could if I 'd a mind to," said he. " All 
 is, I 've made up my mind to train with the com- 
 pany." 
 
BACHELOR'S FANCY 
 
BACHELOR 'S FANCY 
 
 Cynthia Gale sat by the window in the long 
 shed chamber, her hands at momentary ease. 
 She was a sHght, sweet creature, with a delicate 
 skin, and hair etherealized by ashen coverts. 
 Her eyes were dark, and beauty throbbed into 
 them with drifting thoughts. Cynthia was 
 tired. She had been at work at the loom since 
 the first light of day, and now she had given up 
 to the languor of completed effort, her head 
 thrown back, her arms along the arms of the 
 chair, in an attitude of calm. Her hair had 
 slipped from its coil, and fallen at the sides of 
 her face in gentle disarray. She was very 
 lovely. 
 
 The room, the scene of her toil and resting, 
 was dark with age and significant in tokens of a 
 disused art. The loom stood well in the centre, 
 its great upright beams obstructing the light 
 from window to window. All about were the 
 lesser implements of a weaver's trade : the linen 
 wheel, the reels and swifts. On a chest were 
 skeins of indigo-blue yarn Cynthia had dyed, 
 and near by, the flaxen thread she had un- 
 earthed from an ancient hoard under the rafters. 
 
50 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 At last, she knew how to weave. She had 
 walked a weary way in the pursuit of her trade, 
 and now she had reached the first of many goals. 
 
 The stillness of the autumn day made a great 
 world about her where everything was happy 
 because everything was busy. A woodpecker 
 settled on the locust outside, and began drum- 
 ming. She looked out at him from the idleness 
 of a well-earned rest, and smiled. It seemed to 
 her a wonderful earth where there was so much 
 to do. From first to last, she saw, creation 
 moved and toiled, and she, too, strove. With- 
 out conscious thought, she felt the strength and 
 beauty of the twisting chain. 
 
 Cynthia had come to happiness by a long 
 road. Her first memories were of the poor- 
 house near the sea, where her mother, a sad 
 waif out of the drift of life, had been swept, to 
 die. Cynthia knew nothing about her father, 
 except that he drank and played the violin. 
 People said he invented things : what things she 
 never heard. He was clever with his hands and 
 brain; but nothing he had was used to his own 
 advantage. He was one of life's pensioners. 
 Cynthia, growing up at the poorhouse, seemed 
 to have no more to do with life as it is than he. 
 She did the housework set her as her portion, 
 with an absent care, and then escaped into the 
 open for some mysterious sustenance that she 
 
BACHELOR'S FANCY 51 
 
 understood as little as the people who watched 
 her ways. There were hours when, tramping 
 inland, she lay prone under the pines in the 
 pasture, smelling at life, and very happy. There 
 were more when she sat looking at a great island 
 of fern, entranced by something she could not 
 apprehend, and had no need to, because feeling 
 was enough. Though she did her tasks, she 
 was called lazy, and she lived, in a sense, apart 
 from people, until one day Andrew Gale, driving 
 about to buy cattle, met her in the country road 
 as she was coming home, like Ruth from her 
 gleaning, only that Cynthia's arms were piled 
 with golden-rod instead of grain. Her eyes 
 were brimming with still happiness. Her 
 cheeks had a bloom over their summer tan. 
 Andrew caught his breath and stared again. 
 The next day, after patient watching, he found 
 her by the sea, and again he met her when she 
 went to gather grapes. In a month he married 
 her and took her home to the great house where 
 he had lived alone since his mother's death, with 
 only old Hannah to do the work in a perfect 
 fashion that left him lonelier than before, in the 
 solitude made by her deaf ears. 
 
 Cynthia blossomed like a flower, and from 
 some inner secret of being she felt like one. 
 This was like growing in a garden with fructi- 
 fying soil, the sun upon her, and gentle rains, and 
 
52 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 one great tree to shade her from too strong efful- 
 gence. Andrew was the tree. He was a silent 
 creature, the emotion in him hidden by a fine 
 reserve; but he tended and protected her until 
 she grew worshipful of him in a way neither of 
 them quite realized. All Cynthia's capacity for 
 love bloomed out in a fervor that made her 
 vivid, with a charm added to her beauty. When 
 they had been married a few months, old Han- 
 nah died, and then Cynthia, shrinking from a 
 new presence in their intimate solitude, did the 
 work alone. She threw it off easily enough, 
 without heart or fancy, and very swiftly, to give 
 her time to be with Andrew in the fields or dur- 
 ing his trips over the countryside. Housework, 
 to her mind, was a dull means to life, only made 
 tolerable because Andrew was satisfied with 
 everything she did. It was devoid of grace, not, 
 like weaving, a road to happy fantasy. In spite 
 of it, she kept the purely untrammeled habit of 
 life which lies in a perfect freedom, with love at 
 the end of each day's work. Again her estate 
 seemed to her like that of the flowers of the 
 field. She had nothing to do but live and 
 bloom. 
 
 When she had been married a year, her own 
 individual passion came upon her. One day 
 she went up into the shed chamber in search of 
 an old saddle Andrew remembered as one of the 
 
BACHELOR'S FANCY 53 
 
 family holdings, and found herself in a mysteri- 
 ous workshop. This was the weaving room. 
 It had a strange look of waiting, of holding 
 secrets it was ready to divulge, of keeping a 
 strange silence it might some time break. In- 
 stant recognition laid hold on her. At first it 
 seemed curiosity ; then it grew into something 
 more piquing. Thrown upon a bench, as if the 
 last weaver had left it there, was a book written 
 in a delicate yet unformed hand, in faded ink 
 upon a yellowed page. She turned it swiftly. 
 There were the patterns for weaving the old 
 blue coverlets of which the house already had a 
 store. The names made her breathless with 
 their sound of homely poesy: Bachelor's Fancy, 
 Girl's Love, Primrose and Diamonds, Chariot 
 Wheels and Church Windows, Pansies and 
 Roses in the Wilderness. There were full direc- 
 tions in the faded hand, and the patterns had 
 been made in the careful drawing of one who 
 rules her lines and works from a pathetic igno- 
 rance. Cynthia ran downstairs tumultuously, 
 and unfurled the book before Andrew where he 
 sat mending the harness. 
 
 "See here!" she cried. "See what I've 
 found." 
 
 Andrew looked up with an abstracted interest. 
 
 "Oh," said he, " that 's Argentine's book." 
 
 "Who was Argentine.^" 
 
54 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 ** She was great-grandmother Pyncheon's sis- 
 ter. She was a great weaver. She stuck to it 
 when everybody else had give it up. She was 
 goin' to be married, but he was lost at sea, an' 
 after that she never did much but weave. Them 
 coverlets you set such store by were all hers." 
 
 Cynthia had treasured the coverlets with an 
 unreasoning love. Their pattern pleased her. 
 The close firm weave awoke respect, beside 
 more modern fabrics. New passion stirred in 
 her from that first interest. 
 
 "O Andrew!" she breathed, "do you s'pose 
 I could weave coverlets.?" 
 
 It was not Andrew's custom to deny anything 
 in their little world. 
 
 "I guess so," said he indulgently. "I guess 
 you could do anything you set out to. Mebbe 
 old Foss could put you on the road." 
 
 Old Foss lived a mile away, in a little house 
 filled with treasures of ancient usage which he 
 seemed to prize only because collectors came at 
 intervals and fixed a market value in his mind. 
 Next day Andrew hitched up and went down to 
 borrow him; but Foss clung to his hearthstone. 
 He could weave, he said, but weaving had gone 
 out. He guessed, with cotton cloth as cheap as 
 it was now, there's no need of wastin' anybody's 
 time over a loom. Next day, Cynthia herself 
 went down with her book of patterns, and he 
 
BACHELOR'S FANCY 55 
 
 gave her a few grudging rules. Then she 
 started on her ignorant way, and to-day was the 
 culmination of long desire. Bachelor's Fancy 
 was in process of growth. It was only a ques- 
 tion of time when she should have a coverlet of 
 her own to hoard with Argentine's. 
 
 The silence in the shed chamber grew more 
 drowsy with the mounting day. Suddenly Cyn- 
 thia was aware that she was more than half 
 asleep, nodding over the verge of something 
 almost tangible, it was so deep and still. She 
 was hungry, too, but that she scarcely knew. A 
 slice of bread and a cup of milk had made her 
 early breakfast, and since then this breathless 
 achievement had lifted her outside the pale of 
 daily needs. But now she rose and went sway- 
 ing down the stairs, her eyelids heavy. The 
 house below was empty. Andrew had been 
 away a week with the threshing machine, leaving 
 the next neighbor to milk and "feed the crit- 
 ters." Cynthia had half promised to go over to 
 the neighbor's house to sleep, but the passion 
 for weaving had so engrossed her that now she 
 scarcely knew light from darkness, and the short 
 intervals in her work it seemed foolish to spend 
 away from home. Besides, she missed Andrew 
 less if she stayed in their familiar places, where 
 the walls were reminiscent of him. In the 
 bottom of her heart was always a crying hunger 
 
56 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 for him, an aching loneliness. But she could 
 bear it. She had the weaving and a child's 
 eager hope to bring him the work of her own 
 hands. 
 
 Down there in the kitchen she looked about 
 and smiled a sleepy smile at its disorder. Her 
 plate and cup were on the table, and there was a 
 pile of dishes in the sink. Even the milk pails 
 were unwashed, and she did shrink momentarily 
 under the guilt of that. 
 
 "O my soul!" said she. 
 
 Ashes had blown across the hearth, and the 
 kitten had rolled an egg from the table to the 
 rug. Through the open bedroom door her un- 
 made bed was yawning. It was sweet and 
 clean. The sun lay brightly on the tick, and 
 the autumn breeze blew on snowy sheets. Yet 
 it was disorder, and Cynthia knew it, as any 
 housewife would know, or any man used to the 
 rigor of routine. She was a slattern. Her 
 house tattled the tale even to her own eyes. 
 Nevertheless, she had achieved Bachelor's 
 Fancy, and her mouth curled in a smile that 
 widened to a pretty yawn. She stretched herself 
 out on the lounge and went to sleep. 
 
 There was a step on the threshold, impatient, 
 swift. Cynthia opened her eyes from deep 
 beatitude to a flood of noon sunlight in the dis- 
 ordered room, and a figure standing in the midst 
 
BACHELOR'S FANCY 57 
 
 of it. She rose to her elbow, pushing back her 
 hair. Then she gave a cry: 
 
 "Andrew! Andrew! O Andrew!" She was 
 on her feet, on tiptoe to fly to him, but his face 
 arrested her. "Andrew!" she called, "what 
 is it.?" 
 
 He had had a hard week. A man had failed 
 them, and he had been doing double work, feed- 
 ing the machine in dust and heat and for two 
 days with a beard of barley in his eye. They 
 had taken the threshing by the job, and he had 
 put it through madly, to get home to Cynthia, 
 spurred always by the certainty of her loneliness, 
 and half ashamed of his childish worry over her. 
 He was dead tired, he was hungry, dirty, hot. 
 Even his face was blackened from the dust, and 
 little moist runnels had streaked and whitened 
 it. The sight of him amazed her, and she stood 
 there a-wing, ready to go to him, her child's 
 cheeks creased with drowsiness and her great 
 eyes dark. But something about his set mouth 
 and glowing eyes forbade her nearer greeting. 
 
 "O Andrew!" she breathed again, "I did n't 
 think you 'd come." 
 
 " You did n't think I 'd come ? Why did n't 
 you.?^" 
 
 Instantly there flashed into her mind a story 
 she had heard about the Gale temper. Andrew 
 was a slow man, the neighbors said, "till you got 
 
58 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 him roused. Then you better stan' from un- 
 der." Andrew had owned it to her once, with a 
 shamefaced grin. But after his confession they 
 had both laughed, and she had felt his arms 
 about her in that mutual understanding which 
 was more than human trust, but a something 
 ineffable neither could define. Now for the first 
 time in her life there was a barrier between 
 them, invisible but potent. She did not dare 
 approach him. 
 
 " Why did n't you think so ? " he repeated. 
 
 She faltered in her answer. "You said 
 'twould be a week." 
 
 " It 's been a week. I said I 'd be here 
 Thursday noon." 
 
 "Yes" — she opened her mouth in futile 
 protest and then closed it. But the truth came 
 to her, and she told it with a childlike confidence 
 that it would be the same to Andrew as to her. 
 "I got weavin'. I forgot." 
 
 "You got weavin'!" he repeated. Then he 
 looked about the room, and its disorder made 
 satirical commentary on her words. But Cyn- 
 thia had gained courage. The mention of her 
 new triumph reminded her that she had a joy to 
 bring him. 
 
 "O Andrew!" she breathed, "I've learned 
 it. I 've learned Bachelor's Fancy. Mine 's 
 as good as Argentine's." 
 
BACHELOR'S FANCY 59 
 
 Andrew stood looking at her for a moment, 
 her distended eyes, her pretty mouth where the 
 smile was just beginning, and would come if he 
 invited it. But at that moment the smile was 
 not for him. It meant a child's absorption in a 
 foolish game, and oblivion of him for whom 
 there were hard work and barley beards. He 
 turned abruptly. 
 
 " Well," he announced, " I 've got no more to 
 say." 
 
 He had taken a step toward the open door, 
 but her voice followed him. It was sharp with 
 quick alarm. 
 
 "Andrew, where you goin'?" 
 
 He turned upon her. 
 
 " I '11 tell you where I 'm go in'. I 'm goin' on 
 to Trumbull's with the thrashers, an' git a meal 
 o' victuals." 
 
 " But, Andrew, I '11 git dinner. I can, in no 
 time. There 's eggs. You like eggs, Andrew." 
 
 "Mebbe you don't remember what we said 
 that last mornin' I set off. I told ye I 'd bring 
 Miles an' t' other men to dinner. It ain't been 
 out o' my mind a minute. For two days I 've 
 been houndin' 'em to finish up, so 's we could 
 git here this noon. What do you s'pose I 
 wanted to do it for ? I wanted to show off. I 
 wanted to let 'em see how well we were fixed. 
 An' this kitchen don't look as if there 'd been a 
 
60 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 meal o' victuals cooked in it sence the time o' 
 Noah. It ain't a kitchen; it 's a hurrah's nest." 
 
 "O Andrew!" She backed piteously away 
 from him, with a sudden, alien sense of a house 
 not her own. She seemed to herself in that in- 
 stant to be not his wife, but a guest by whom his 
 hospitality had been abused. Then again she 
 trembled into speech. " Maybe you 've done 
 with me, Andrew. Maybe you don't want me 
 to stay here any more." 
 
 " I don't care what ye do nor where ye go," 
 said Andrew blindly. " I 'm goin' to Trum- 
 bull's." He strode out and away down the 
 path, and she heard him hailing the threshers at 
 the gate. They answered jovially, and then 
 the heavy team went grinding on. 
 
 She sat down upon the couch and looked 
 about her. The sun came cruelly in at the win- 
 dow, and showed the room in all its dusty dis- 
 array. The dazed spot in her brain cleared, and 
 left her vulnerable to pain. She saw his house 
 as he had seen it, and for the instant felt how he 
 had hated it and her. With that certainty she 
 met also the ultimate pang of youth which 
 knows when its hour is spoiled, and says, " This 
 is the end." There was but one thing to do. 
 She must take herself away. She went to the 
 cupboard and reached to the upper shelf where 
 old Hannah used to keep her toothache drops. 
 
BACHELOR'S FANCY 61 
 
 There was laudanum enough in them, Andrew 
 had said, to kill an army. It would kill her. 
 But as she stood there in the stillness with the 
 bottle in her hand, distaste came upon her for 
 the ugliness of such a death, and that moment, 
 sounding in her ears, she heard the sea. 
 Whether it was because she had begun her life 
 by it, or through some quickness of the mind, 
 running over the possibilities of a decent death, 
 she remembered a little mate of hers who had 
 been playing in a dory when the anchor slipped, 
 and had drifted out, never to be seen again. 
 And now the sea was calling her. 
 
 "You gi' me a match, won't ye?" called old 
 Nancy Hutchens from the door. "I won't 
 come in. I 'm all over muck from the swamp 
 down there. I crossed by the willers, to save 
 steps." 
 
 Cynthia tucked the bottle back in its place 
 and crossed the kitchen swiftly, taking a card 
 of matches as she went. Old Nancy stood 
 there on the door-stone, a squat figure with one 
 shoulder higher than the other. She had the 
 imposing equipment of an aquiline nose and 
 sound white teeth at seventy. Her thick gray 
 hair was drawn back into a knot, and the lines 
 in her brown face were crisp and deep. A life, 
 solitary in itself, and yet spent among people in 
 a drifting way, had touched her face with little 
 
62 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 quizzical shades of meaning. Her cold pipe 
 was in her hand, waiting to be filled. 
 
 " Here 's the matches," said Cynthia. 
 
 Nancy took them with a mechanical touch, 
 and remained looking at her. 
 
 "Law!" said she, "'t ain't wuth it." 
 
 "What ain't?" repeated Cynthia. 
 
 " What you 've got on your mind, whatever 
 't is. Wait a day an' it '11 be a thing o' the past. 
 If 't ain't in a day, 't will be in a year, or ten 
 year, or a lifetime. Wait long enough, an' the 
 whole on us '11 be underground." 
 
 "Yes," said Cynthia, "we shall be under- 
 ground." But her mind was not with the old 
 woman, but on her own preparations for flight. 
 The tawdry room still troubled her, the slat- 
 ternly picture he must find when he came home. 
 She would leave his house in order for him. 
 "Look here, Nancy," said she suddenly, "you 
 stay the rest o' the day an' help me clean." 
 
 Nancy smiled satirically. She looked up at 
 the blue sky, sown with flying white, and then 
 over the line of upland where her fate, every day 
 renewed, was waiting for her. 
 
 "I don't clean for myself," she said. "My 
 bed ain't been made nor slep' in for a fortnight. 
 I been trampin' the countryside." 
 
 "I '11 give you a dollar!" 
 
 "I ain't got much use for dollars till winter 
 
BACHELOR'S FANCY 63 
 
 time, an' then I guess I shall be provided for. 
 I got a passel o' herbs to sell this fall." But 
 she was searching Cynthia's face with her 
 impersonal glance, and her mind altered. 
 " Law, yes ! " said she. " It 's as good a way 
 o' passin' time as any other. You let me pull 
 off these muddy boots. You got a pair o' rub- 
 bers I can scuff round in? Where you goin' 
 to begin .^" 
 
 With the word, she had caught up an old pair 
 of Andrew's shoes beside the shed door, and 
 slipped her feet into them. Cynthia left her, 
 and went flying upstairs with an unregarding 
 haste. She went first to the shed chamber, and, 
 without a glance at her precious handiwork, 
 closed the door upon it. Then, running to the 
 other rooms in turn, she breathed dull satisfac- 
 tion at finding them in comfortable array. 
 There was the west chamber; she had put that 
 in order when Aunt Patten had been expected, 
 a week before, to spend the night, and the other 
 rooms had to match it because Aunt Patten 
 would go mousing round. Cynthia had laughed 
 with Andrew, in the doing, over so patently 
 setting her scene for a meddler. But Aunt 
 Patten had diverged, on her visiting way, and 
 Cynthia's pains had seemed unnecessary. 
 
 At the foot of the stairs Nancy was awaiting 
 her. She had an air of large leisure; yet in 
 
64 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 some subtle fashion her man's attitude showed 
 the reserve strength in her and inspired content. 
 
 "What be I goin' to fly at fust?" she asked 
 indulgently, as at a madness not her own. 
 
 "You sweep the sittin'-room," returned Cyn- 
 thia. "When the dust is settled, you can do 
 the winders. I '11 begin on the bedroom." 
 
 Cynthia did not, it seemed to her, think at all 
 as she went about her work, doing it swiftly and 
 still with the far-off sound of the sea in her ears. 
 She was simply a different creature from that 
 other happy woman who had been weaving 
 coverlets that morning. She had brought upon 
 herself a colossal punishment. She never 
 stopped to wonder whether the punishment were 
 just. It was simply there. 
 
 At one she and Nancy had some eggs and tea, 
 and in mid afternoon they met in the kitchen, 
 each about her task. Cynthia was baking now, 
 cream-o'-tartar biscuits and custard pie, and 
 Nancy was cleaning the woodwork with great 
 sweeps of her lean arm. 
 
 " I did n't know you was such a driver," she 
 said at length, as she sat on the top of the step- 
 ladder, taking a pull at her pipe. 
 
 "I guess I ain't been," said Cynthia, her 
 pretty brows in a painstaking frown over the 
 scalloped edges of the pie. " I ain't done much 
 housework." 
 
BACHELOR'S FANCY 65 
 
 "You like it?" asked Nancy. 
 
 A swift terror fled across Cynthia's face, like 
 a beating wing. At that moment she liked 
 housework better than anything on earth. It 
 was not a cold routine. It had at last a poignant 
 meaning. It meant Andrew and her home. 
 But she answered stolidly, "I guess so." 
 
 " If you 've took it on yourself, you 've got to 
 like it," said Nancy philosophically, rising and 
 knocking the ashes from her pipe. " You hand 
 me up that bar soap. That 's the wust o' men- 
 folks. Once you 've got 'em, you got to slave 
 for 'em. Lug 'em or leave 'em ! But don't git 
 'em, I say. Look here, now! Fifty year ago 
 come November, I said I 'd marry a man down 
 Sudleigh way. I went to stay a spell with his 
 mother. Well, sir! I come home an' I broke it 
 off. 'I ain't a-goin' to spend my days makin' 
 sugar gingerbread,' says I. *No, sir! Nor cut- 
 tin' it out in an oak-leaf pattern, — not by a long 
 chalk!'" 
 
 " He likes sugar gingerbread," said Cynthia to 
 herself. *' I guess I 've got time to make some." 
 
 "I warrant ye the colored pop'lation never 
 felt freer 'n I did when I see him walkin' away 
 down the path arter I told him 't was broke off," 
 chuckled Nancy, moving the step-ladder along. 
 " I never had a minute's sorrer over it, — not a 
 second." 
 
66 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 " I guess I '11 put in a mite o' ginger," said 
 Cynthia, stirring breathlessly. "Do you use 
 ginger, Nancy?" 
 
 " Law! I dunno what ye do, it 's so long sence 
 I 've tried any. I don't concern myself with 
 sweet trade. I can make as good a meal as I 
 want out o' crackers an' cheese an' wash it down 
 with a drink o' water out o' the well. Look 
 here ! did it ever come into your head that every- 
 body ain't called to preach, an' everybody ain't 
 called to marry.?" 
 
 "Some ain't fit," said Cynthia bitterly, her 
 passionate mind on her own defects, " they ain't 
 fit to marry." 
 
 " 'T ain't only that, — they 're like a bird in a 
 cage. You look here ! men folks think they 're 
 dull sometimes, settled down in a pint measure 
 with one woman. Lordymighty! the women 's 
 dull, too, on'y they don't let on. Pious little 
 devils ! they go round washin' dishes an' moppin' 
 up under the sto', an' half on 'em wants to be 
 trampin' like me, an' t' other half dunno what 
 they want. Keep out on 't, I say! keep out 
 on't!" 
 
 Nancy lifted her voice in a tuneful stave, the 
 words satirically fit, but Cynthia was not listen- 
 ing. The notes fell upon her like a patter of 
 unregarded rain, as she creased her ginger- 
 bread and beat her mind back from futile won- 
 
BACHELOR'S FANCY 67 
 
 derment over her own plight when Andrew 
 should be here alone. 
 
 "The house has got to be jes' so," pursued 
 Nancy. " The woman 's got to be jes' so. 
 They can come home all over gurry, but she 's 
 got to have on a clean apron an' her hair slicked 
 up to the nines. They can set all the evenin' 
 huskin' together an' hootin' over old stories, an' 
 come stumblin' in when they git ready, an' find 
 doughnuts an' pie set out complete. What 's 
 fair for one 's fair for another, I say." 
 
 "No, it ain't!" cried Cynthia, suddenly awak- 
 ened. She stood straight and slender in the 
 middle of her kitchen. Defensive fires burned 
 hotly in her eyes. " Nancy, I ain't goin' to have 
 such talk in here. I can't stand it. You think 
 of him gettin' all over dust an' dirt workin' like a 
 dog. You think of it, Nancy! It 's his house. 
 It 's no more 'n right he should have it the way 
 he wants it. I should like to know if he ain't 
 goin' to have anything the way he wants it.^" 
 Her voice choked in passionate championship of 
 the man whose pride was hurt. 
 
 But Nancy only gave a derisive chuckle. 
 "Law!" said she. "You needn't worry. I 
 guess they '11 look out for themselves. I never 
 see a man yet but had time enough for that." 
 
 At five o'clock the house was in order and 
 Nancy had started on her homeward way, a 
 
68 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 dollar in her pocket, and, despite some ruthless 
 indifference on her part, a basket of food in her 
 hand. Cynthia dismissed her with an unwitting 
 solemnity. 
 
 " Good-by, Nancy," said she. "You 've been 
 a real help to me. I don't know how I should 
 have got through it if it had n't been for you." 
 
 "It 's clean as a ribbin," Nancy called back 
 cheerfully. "But land! cleanin' up 's nothin'. 
 Trouble is to keep it so. Well, I '11 be pokin' 
 along." 
 
 Cynthia stood and watched her well-knit 
 figure swinging on between the willows that 
 marked the road. Then she turned back to her 
 clean house for a last look and the renewed cer- 
 tainty of its perfect state. She walked delicately 
 about the kitchen, lest a grain of dust should 
 mar the speckless floor. The food not yet 
 cooled from the oven was in the pantry. All 
 through the lower rooms there was the fragrance 
 of cake and bread. It was a house set in order, 
 and finding it perfect, she made herself sweet 
 and clean, and changed her working dress for a 
 crisper calico. In the doing, she thought sol- 
 emnly how she had once helped bathe a child 
 that had died at the poorhouse, and prepare it 
 for burial. This body of hers was also being 
 prepared, and though she had no words to say 
 so, it seemed to her the body of her love. And 
 
BACHELOR'S FANCY 69 
 
 all the time the sea kept calling her, with its as- 
 surances of manifold and solemn refuge. 
 
 Presently she was ready to go. She had made 
 the clothing she had slipped off into a little 
 bundle, to leave none but fresh things behind 
 her, and now she took it in her hand and stepped 
 out at the front door. That she closed, but the 
 windows were still open. It was better that 
 storms should invade the house than that he 
 should find it inhospitably shut. Day and night 
 could be trusted with their welcome to him. 
 But turning from the door, she smelled her gar- 
 den, and its autumn bitterness of breath awoke 
 in her a final pang of homesickness. She laid 
 down her bundle and hurried round to the well, 
 to draw bucket after bucket of water and drench 
 the roots she had tended since the spring. It 
 was a separate good-by to every one. Here 
 were the delicate firstlings whose day had long 
 been over, and the hollyhocks that had made the 
 summer gay. Dahlias and asters were the ones 
 to keep this later watch, but she sprinkled them 
 impartially, whether they were to bloom again 
 or wither till the winter's spell. The moon was 
 rising behind the wooded hill, and there was 
 suddenly a prophetic touch of frost in the air. 
 She stood for a moment listening to the stillness, 
 recognizing life as if it all came flooding in on 
 her at once, only to retreat like a giant wave and 
 
70 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 wash some farther shore. Her brain appre- 
 hended what her tongue could never say. She 
 understood the meaning of service and harmoni- 
 ous living. It was no more dull to her now than 
 daily sunrise. She looked at Andrew's house, 
 builded by another Gale over a hundred years 
 ago. It meant more than a shelter. It was the 
 roof of love, the nest of springing hopes. Yet, 
 being a child at heart, she could not stay after 
 he had found her for one day unworthy, and she 
 was too young to know how storms may pass. 
 
 The man came heavily along the darkened 
 road and reached the gate as she did. She saw 
 him and dropped her bundle in the shade of the 
 lilac at the fence. Andrew did not speak. He 
 threw open the gate, stepped in, and put his 
 arms about her. He held her to him as we hold 
 what is almost lost to us through our own lax 
 grasp; but when he spoke to her, she did not 
 hear, and when he loosed his clasp to look at her, 
 she sank down and would have fallen. 
 
 "Cynthy, for God's sake!" he cried, and his 
 voice recalled her. Then she gained her feet, he 
 helping her. "What is it, dear.? what is it, 
 dear.?" he kept saying, and she answered him 
 with her tremulous breath upon his cheek. 
 Presently they went up the path together, and in 
 at the front door. " By George, don't it smell 
 good!" said Andrew. His voice, in nervous 
 
BACHELOR'S FANCY 71 
 
 joviality, was shaking, like his hands. " Le' me 
 git a light, honey. I 've got to look at you. Got 
 to make sure you're here!" 
 
 The blaze from the shining lamp struck full 
 on her, and Andrew caught his breath. Cyn- 
 thia looked like the angel of herself. Her tired 
 face, overlaid by joy, was like that of a child 
 awakened from sleep to unexpected welcome. 
 She seemed an adoring handmaid, incredulous 
 of the beauty of her task. Andrew felt the 
 wistfulness of her air, the presence of things 
 unknown to him. He went over to her and 
 drew her nearer. 
 
 " You knew I 'd come, " he said. " You knew 
 I could n't Stan' it after I'd been ugly to you. 
 Look at this house ! You fixed all up, an' made 
 it neat as wax. I started just as they set down 
 to supper, an' put for home. I 've been scairt 
 'most to death all the afternoon. I dunno what 
 I thought would happen to you, but I had to 
 come." 
 
 " I 've cleaned the house," said Cynthia, like 
 a child. "I got old Nancy." 
 
 " Yes, dear, yes," he soothed her. " You knew 
 I 'd come. You knew I would n't stay away 
 a night after I broke your heart. You tell about 
 your weavin', dear. I want to hear it now." 
 
 "My weavin'.?" repeated Cynthia vaguely. 
 The words roused her a little from her happy 
 
72 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 dream, and for one luminous instant she felt the 
 significance of all the threads that made the web 
 of life. She laughed. " 'T was only Bachelor's 
 Fancy," she said. "I learned it, that's all. 
 There 's lots o' things I 'd ruther do. You go 
 in the pantry, dear, an' look." 
 
 Andrew left her with a kiss that was like meet- 
 ing, not good-by. But as he took the lamp from 
 the table, Cynthia slipped out at the front door. 
 
 "Where you goin'.^" he called. 
 
 " Only out to the lilac," she answered throb- 
 bingly. "I dropped somethin' there." 
 
 While he lingered for her, she came back and, 
 as she ran, tossed her little bundle into the closet 
 under the stairs. The hues of youth were on 
 her face. Her eyes were wet and glad. 
 
 " I 'm terrible hungry, too," she told him. 
 "Come! there's sugar gingerbread." 
 
THE CAVE OF ADULLAM 
 
THE CAVE OF ADULLAM 
 
 "I HAVE often thought," said the young min- 
 ister, "that your house might be called the Cave 
 of Adullam." 
 
 Miss Lucretia Blaine adjusted her glasses, as 
 if they might help her to some mental insight, 
 and then illogically directed her puzzled gaze at 
 him over their top. She was short and plump, 
 with brown eyes and an abundance of bright 
 hair lapsing into dun maturity. There was so 
 much of the hair that it was difficult to manage, 
 and she had wound it in a sort of crown. So it 
 happened that she carried her head in a fashion 
 that looked like haughtiness and belied the pa- 
 tient seeking of her dove's eyes. She was not 
 much given to reading, even Bible reading, and 
 the minister's pictorial talk perplexed her. It 
 was vaguely discomfiting, in a way, much like 
 the minister himself. He was a short and mus- 
 cular man, with a scholarly forehead, a firm 
 mouth, and eyeglasses magnificently set in gold. 
 He had always disturbed Miss Lucretia, coming 
 as he did after a mild and fading pulpit dynasty. 
 She could never understand how he knew so 
 much, at his time of life, about human trials and 
 
76 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 their antidotes; his autocracy over the moral 
 world was even too bracing, too insistent. 
 Now she took off her glasses and laid them 
 down, regarding him with that blurred, soft- 
 ened look which is the gift of eyes unused to 
 freedom. 
 
 "I don't know," said she, "as I rightly 
 understand." 
 
 "The Cave of AduUam!" repeated the min- 
 ister, in his pulpit manner. " David was there, 
 if you remember, in the time of his banishment, 
 'and every one that was in distress, and every 
 one that was in debt, and every one that was 
 discontented gathered themselves unto him.' It 
 was a refuge. Your house appeals to me, in a 
 figurative sense, as being somewhat the same 
 thing. The poor, the unfortunate, flee hither 
 to you. This is the Cave of AduUam." 
 
 New trouble added itself to Miss Lucretia's 
 look. This unnecessary classifying merely 
 greatened her accepted load. She only saw her- 
 self pottering about, doing her chores and serv- 
 ing the people who were mysteriously meted out 
 to her. Life was very simple until it became 
 complicated by words. 
 
 "Well," said she vaguely, "I guess there 's a 
 good many such places, if all was known." 
 
 "Yes," returned the minister, "we all have 
 some earthly refuge." 
 
THE CAVE OF ADULLAM 77 
 
 "I should like to know what Cousin 'Cretia 's 
 got ! " came a young voice from the doorway, — a 
 woman's voice, melodious, full. There stood 
 Lucrece, a distant relative defined within some 
 limit of cousinship. She was tall and strenuous, 
 a girl all life and the desire of life. Her pose 
 had an unconsidered beauty; her muscles, 
 whether in rest or action, obeyed according pur- 
 poses and wrought out harmony. The minister 
 caught his breath as her face flowered upon him 
 like some exotic bloom. He had a young wife 
 at home, and her he truly cherished ; yet no one 
 could look upon Lucrece and continue quite 
 unmoved. 
 
 Miss Lucretia only smiled at her. She was 
 used to the incursions of the young and passion- 
 ate thing. Dealing with the hot moods Lucrece 
 engendered seemed more or less like feeding a 
 tame leopard in the kitchen. 
 
 "I 'd like to know," continued Lucrece rap- 
 idly, in her moving contralto, "what refuge 
 Cousin 'Cretia 's had! There's great-uncle 
 Pike in the parlor chamber. He 's got dropsy. 
 He likes it. There 's Cousin Mary Poole in the 
 west room. She 's got nerves. Cousin 'Cre- 
 tia 's had to hear her clack from sunrise to sun- 
 set for going on nine years. Mary Poole and 
 Uncle Pike have got their refuge, both of 'em. 
 Where's Cousin 'Cretia's?" 
 
78 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 "There, there!" counseled Lucretia. "You 
 come in, dear, an' se' down." 
 
 The minister cleared his throat. He was 
 momentarily dashed by this onslaught of the 
 human, and the natural man in him agreed with 
 Lucre ce. Yet officially he could not concur. 
 
 "All these trials," said he, with no abatement 
 of his former emphasis, "will be stars in the 
 crown of her rejoicing." 
 
 "Oh!" returned the girl bitingly. She came 
 in and stood by the mantel, her head held high, 
 as if it carried a weight she scorned. "But 
 what about now ? They 're having their refuge 
 now. What about Cousin 'Cretia's ? " 
 
 "Crechy!" came a wheezing voice from 
 above. "Crechy, you step up here a minute ! " 
 
 This might have been a signal for concerted 
 effort. Another voice, dramatically muffled, 
 issued from the west room. 
 
 "Crechy, you mind what I say! You come 
 in here first! Crechy, you come!" 
 
 Lucretia rose in haste and made her capable 
 way out of the room, fitting on her glasses as she 
 went. 
 
 "There!" said Lucrece triumphantly, having 
 seen the proving of her point, "they're both 
 calling on her at once. That 's what they do. 
 They 're neck and neck when it comes to 
 trouble. If one finds a feather endwise in the 
 
THE CAVE OF ADULLAM 79 
 
 bed, the other falls over a square in the carpet. 
 And Cousin 'Cretia 's got to smooth it all out." 
 
 The minister felt his poverty of resource. 
 The young creature interrogating him at white 
 heat would have flouted his divine common- 
 places. He knew that, and decided, with true 
 humility, that he should only be able to meet 
 her after a season of prayer. 
 
 " I cannot account for it," he said, rising with 
 dignity. " I fear I must be going. Please say 
 good-by to Miss Lucretia." 
 
 The girl accompanied him to the door with all 
 the outward courtesy due him and his oflSce ; but 
 her mind seemed suddenly to be elsewhere. 
 She shook hands with him; and then, as he 
 walked down the path between beds of velvet 
 pinks, her fighting blood rose once more, and 
 she called lightly after him, " What about Cousin 
 'Cretia.?" 
 
 But he made no answer, nor did she wait for 
 one. On the heels of her question she turned 
 back into the sitting-room and flung herself at 
 full length on the broad lounge, where she lay 
 tapping the white line of her teeth with an im- 
 patient finger. Presently Lucretia came down 
 the stairs and, entering the room, gave a quick 
 look about. Her eyes interrogated Lucrece. 
 
 "Yes," said the girl carelessly, "he 's gone. 
 He thinks I 'm awful." 
 
80 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 Lucretia sat down again by the window and 
 took up her work. There was an abiding still- 
 ness about her. She was very palpably a citizen 
 of the world, and yet not of it, as if some film lay 
 between her and the things that are. 
 
 "Have both of 'em had a drink of water?" 
 asked the girl satirically. 
 
 "Yes, both of 'em!" 
 
 "Have they ordered what they want for 
 supper .^ " 
 
 A slow smile indented the corners of Lucre- 
 tia's mouth. "Well," said she indulgently, "I 
 b'lieve they did mention it." 
 
 " I bet they did ! And to-morrow it '11 be just 
 the same, and to-morrow, and to-morrow. It 's 
 all very well to talk about Caves of AduUam. 
 Where 's your cave.^" 
 
 Lucretia dropped her work and gazed at the 
 girl with unseeing eyes. She had the remote 
 look of one who conjures up visions at will. 
 "Don't you worry," said she. "I don't mind 
 them no more than the wind that blows." 
 
 "Well," said Lucrece moodily, "I suppose 
 everybody 's got to have something. Only it 
 seems as if you had everything. They all come 
 and sponge on you. So do I. To-day I 'm 
 madder 'n a hatter, and I put for you." 
 
 Lucretia's glance returned to a perception of 
 tangible things. 
 
THE CAVE OF ADULLAM 81 
 
 "What is it, Lucrece?" 
 
 The girl spoke with the defiance of one who 
 combats tears. 
 
 "I 'm not going to be married." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " All the money Tom saved he put in with his 
 father. He wants it out now, to go into the 
 lumber business, and his father won't let him 
 have it. And Tom 's got nothing to show for it." 
 
 Lucretia sat motionless, a slow flush rising 
 into her face. One might have said she looked 
 ashamed. The room was very still. A bee 
 buzzed into the entry, and described whorled 
 circlets of flight. The sound of his wandering 
 was loud, out of all proportion to its significance. 
 "That means putting off our marrying for a 
 year or two," said Lucrece indifferently. Then 
 having cried a few tears and angrily wiped them 
 away with her hand, she crushed her pink cheek 
 into the sofa pillow for a moment, and, as if she 
 flung aside an unworthy mood, rose to her feet 
 with a spring. 
 
 "Tom pretty much hates his father," said she. 
 " He 's ashamed to be the son of a miser. He 's 
 afraid he might catch it. But he need n't 
 worry. Tom 's as good as they make 'em." 
 She walked to the door and then, returning, 
 stooped over Miss Lucretia and kissed the top of 
 her head. " Don't you mind," said she. " It '11 
 
82 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 all come out right. I 'm just like them two 
 upstairs, only mine 's temper where they 've got 
 nerves and dropsy. Why, Cousin 'Cretia, what 
 is it.?" 
 
 Two tears were rolling down Lucretia's 
 cheeks. They splashed upon her hand. Lu- 
 crece had never seen her look so moved and 
 broken. 
 
 " Why," said the girl, " you taking it so hard as 
 that, just my being married ? It 's only put off." 
 
 Lucretia rose and folded her work conclu- 
 sively. Her cheeks were pink under their tears, 
 and her voice trembled. 
 
 " Don't you worry, dear," said she, a humor- 
 ous smile beginning to flicker on her lips. "I 
 s'pose I can have my mad fit, too, can't I? 
 There! you run along now. I 've got to get in 
 the clo'es." 
 
 It was a dismissal not to be gainsaid, and 
 Lucrece went wonderingly away. At the door 
 she hesitated. 
 
 " I guess I '11 go across lots," said she. 
 "There 's old Armstrong coming up the road. 
 I can't talk to him as I feel now." She took the 
 narrow path skirting the house front, and 
 stepped over the low stone wall into the orchard. 
 There she walked away with a lilting motion, 
 and still with the erect pose of one who carries a 
 burden lightly. 
 
THE CAVE OF ADULLAM 83 
 
 Miss Lucretia stood in the middle of the 
 sunny room, so still that all the little noises of 
 the day seemed loud about her. There was the 
 ticking of the clock, the booming of bees on the 
 jessamine sprays, and chiefly the thickened beat- 
 ing of her heart. Suddenly, as if mounting 
 thought had cast her forth on one great wave, 
 she hurried out of doors and down the path to 
 the gate. There, her hand on the palings, she 
 waited for Dana Armstrong. Yet she did not 
 glance at him, as he came striding along the 
 road, but into the green field opposite, and again 
 her eyes had the unseeing look of one to whom 
 visions are more palpable than fact. 
 
 Dana Armstrong was over sixty, but he car- 
 ried himself like a youth, with the free step and 
 sinewy vigor of one whose time is yet to come. 
 And still, in spite of that assertive strength, the 
 years had marked him with their telltale tracery. 
 His cheeks were deeply scored with long, crisp 
 lines ; his mouth dropped slightly at the corners. 
 The gray eyes were cold, though a fanciful mind 
 might have found in them some promise, how- 
 ever unfulfilled, some hint of blue. 
 
 "Dana Armstrong," called Miss Lucretia, 
 "you come here! I want to talk with you." 
 
 He quickened his walk, his eyes warming a 
 little at sight of her. She swung open the gate, 
 and he stepped inside. 
 
84 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 "Anything happened?" he asked concern- 
 edly. 
 
 "No. You come in a minute." 
 
 She preceded him along the path, her short 
 steps breaking in upon the time of his. They 
 crossed the sun-lighted entry into her sitting- 
 room, and there Dana took off his hat with a 
 grave deliberation much like reverence. It had 
 been years since he entered this room, and the 
 memory of time past shook him a little, dulled as 
 he was by the routine of life and its expediency. 
 
 "Be seated," said Miss Lucretia, taking her 
 accustomed place by the window. He laid his 
 hand upon a chair, and then withdrew it. This 
 had been Grandfather Blaine's chosen spot, and 
 he remembered how the old man used to sit 
 there thumbing over his well-worn jokes when 
 Dana Armstrong came courting the girl Lucre- 
 tia, all those years ago. He could not have 
 taken the chair without disturbing some har- 
 mony of remembrance; so he sat down on the 
 sofa where Lucrece had lain, and held his hat 
 before him in his stiff, half-bashful way. 
 
 "I hear Tom ain't goin' to be married this 
 year," said Miss Lucretia, "him and my Lu- 
 crece ! " Her voice came from an aching throat. 
 It sounded harsh and dry. 
 
 Armstrong started slightly. 
 
 "Well!" said he. 
 
THE CAVE OF ADULLAM 85 
 
 " I 'm told Tom's money 's in with yours, an' 
 you won't give it up to him." 
 
 Dana's eyes darkened. His forehead con- 
 tracted into those Hues she remembered from a 
 vivid past, when his face made her one book of 
 life, to be conned with loyal passion. Yet she 
 was not looking at him now; there was no need. 
 Only it was the young Dana, not the old one, 
 who sat there. That gave her courage. She 
 could throw herself back into that time when no 
 mischance had come between them, and speak 
 with the candor of youth itself, which scorns to 
 compromise. Her eyes were fixed upon the 
 square of sunlight on the floor. Little shadows 
 were playing in it, and once the bulk of a hum- 
 ming bird swept past. The sunlight had a curi- 
 ous look, as if in that small compass lay the 
 summer and all the summers she had lived, wit- 
 nesses now to her true testimony. She began in 
 an unmoved voice, and Dana listened. She 
 seemed to be speaking from a dream, and inch 
 by inch the dream crept nearer him, and gradu- 
 ally enfolded him without his will. 
 
 ** When I heard that, not an hour ago, I says 
 to myself, *Ain't Dana Armstrong got over the 
 love o' money ? Ain't he killed that out of him 
 yet?'" 
 
 "There, there!" said Dana hastily, exactly as 
 he had used to check her years ago. 
 
86 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 "No, it ain't any use to say 'There, there!' " 
 But she was not speaking as the girl was wont to 
 speak. The girl had been quick-tempered, full 
 of beseeehings, hot commendation, wild re- 
 proach. " We 've got to talk things over. It 's 
 a good many years, Dana, since you an' I were 
 goin' to be married that fall, an' you give me up 
 because my sister was in consumption, an' you 
 would n't have her live with us." 
 
 He turned full upon her, and seemed to ques- 
 tion her face, the stillness of her attitude. These 
 were strange words to be spoken in the clear 
 New England air. They shook him, not only 
 from their present force, but because they held 
 authority from what had been. They seemed 
 to be joining it to what still was, and he felt the 
 continuity of life in a way bewilderingly new. 
 His voice trembled as he answered with some 
 passion : 
 
 "I didn't give you up!" 
 
 "No, not in so many words. You only said 
 Lindy might live for years. You said there 'd 
 be doctors' bills, an' my time all eat up waitin' 
 an' tendin' — an' so I told you we would n't con- 
 sider it any more. An' you went an' married 
 Rhody Bond, an' she helped you save — an' you 
 got rich." 
 
 The words, meagre as they were, smote blight- 
 ingly upon him. He saw his life in all its bar- 
 
THE CAVE OF ADULLAM 87 
 
 renness. Yet he was not the poorer through 
 that revelation. A window had been opened, 
 disclosing a tract of land he had hitherto seen 
 only by inches. It was hopelessly sterile, — but 
 the window was wide and he could breathe, 
 though chokingly. The woman's voice sounded 
 thin and far away. 
 
 "I thought when I lost you my heart broke. 
 I don't know now what happened. Somethin' 
 did ; for after that I was different. For I did set 
 by you. I knew your faults, an' they 'most 
 killed me : that is, one of 'em did, — your lovin' 
 money so. But even that never 'd ha' separated 
 us if it had n't bid fair to hurt somebody that 
 could n't fight for herself. Nothin' could ever 
 have separated us." She spoke recklessly, as if 
 none but the great emotions were worth her 
 thought. In spite of outer differences, she was 
 curiously like the young Lucrece. There was 
 the same audacity, the courage strong enough to 
 challenge life and all its austere ministrants. 
 But still she did not look at him. If she had 
 looked, it might have been impossible to go on. 
 
 "I didn't give you up, Dana Armstrong," 
 said she. "I never give you up one minute." 
 
 The man leaned forward and bent his brows 
 upon her, over burning eyes. 
 
 "What do you mean.?" he asked, with the 
 harshness of emotion leashed and held. 
 
88 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 "I never give you up one minute. When 
 Lindy died, I was here all alone. You were 
 married then, but I set by you as much as ever. 
 I did n't even blame you for choosin' money 
 instead o' me. I could n't blame you for any- 
 thing, any more 'n if you was my own child. 
 You could hurt me. You could n't make me 
 blame you." Her voice ended in one of those 
 lingering falls that stir the heart. It was quite 
 unconsidered. She had as yet no purpose in 
 moving him, even by the simplest eloquence: 
 only her own life was eloquent to her, and she 
 could not voice it save with passion. 
 
 " I thought it all over," she said rapidly, like 
 one giving long considered testimony. "I 
 thought it over that summer you an' Rhody 
 moved into the new house. I used to set here 
 nights, with the moon streamin' in through the 
 elms, an' consider it. I knew I could n't give 
 you up, an' it come over me it wa'n't needful I 
 should. I prayed to God. I made a bargain 
 with Him. I said, * If I won't speak to him, nor 
 look at him, nor sin in my thoughts. You let me 
 have some part of him!' An' God was willin'. 
 From that time on it was as if you an' me lived 
 here together: only it was our souls. I never 
 touched your life with Rhody. I never wanted 
 to. Only every day I talked to you. I told you 
 how I wanted you to be good. I tried to be 
 
THE CAVE OF ADULLAM 89 
 
 good myself. I tried to do all I could for them 
 that was in need. But I never lived my life 
 with 'em, even when I was tendin' upon 'em an^ 
 gettin' kind of achey trottin' up an' down stairs. 
 You an' me were always together, your soul an' 
 mine. The minister says everybody has a ref- 
 uge. I guess he 'd say that was my refuge. 
 He 'd say 't was my cave." Her voice broke 
 upon the word, and she laughed a little in a 
 whimsical fashion. 
 
 He stretched out his hand, and his face soft- 
 ened in an uncomprehending sympathy. But 
 she seemed not to see the movement, and went 
 on. 
 
 "There was no harm in it. I 've come to the 
 conclusion we can set by folks as much as we 've 
 a mind to, so long as we don't clutch an' grab, — 
 so long as it 's all spirit. I don't know what 
 spirit is, but I know it 's suthin' we 've got to 
 take account of in this world, same as any other. 
 Well, I went with you, step an' step. When 
 little Tom was born I could have eat him up, I 
 loved him so." 
 
 Famished mother-longing had come into her 
 voice, and thenceforward she spoke recklessly. 
 Rehearsing her devotion to the man, she bound 
 herself in stiff er phrasing; when it came to the 
 child, she could name the great name and feel no 
 shyness over it. 
 
90 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 "Up to then, I 'd said my prayers for you. 
 Then I had the boy to pray for — him an' you. 
 When he went to school, he was stronger 'n' 
 heartier 'n any of 'em, an' I was proud of him. 
 When he begun to wait on my Lucrece, I got 
 sort of acquainted with him, an' I says to myself, 
 'He don't set by money the way his father did.' 
 An' I thanked my God for that." 
 
 Dana's hands were trembling. He put up 
 one of them to cover his betraying mouth. 
 
 " I kep' near you every step o' the way," said 
 Lucretia mercilessly. " When you got the bet- 
 ter o' yourself an' give the town that school- 
 house, I kneeled down an' thanked God. When 
 you done suthin' mean, I tried to go through it 
 with you an' make you see how mean it was. I 
 ain't been away from you a minute, Dana Arm- 
 strong, not a minute all your life. I 've tried to 
 help you live it the best that ever I knew how." 
 
 The man started up in irrepressible passion. 
 "God!" he said brokenly. "If I'd only 
 known!" But he could not have told what it 
 was he should have known. This was only a 
 blind arraignment of a sterile past. 
 
 "When Rhody died," said the woman, with 
 the least little break in her voice, "I guess I 
 dropped away a mite. I could n't do no less. 
 Seemed as if 't would be stretchin' out my hand 
 to you, an' that I never did." 
 
THE CAVE OF ADULLAM 91 
 
 " I come over here a year an' a day after she 
 died," said Dana hotly. "You wouldn't so 
 much as walk downstairs to see me!" 
 
 "No," answered Lucretia softly, "I would 
 n t. 
 
 "You would n't take the gift of me!" 
 
 "Them things were past an' gone," she told 
 him gently, as if she feared to bruise some pite- 
 ous memory. " There 's a time for all things. 
 The minister said so last Sunday. The time for 
 some things ain't ever gone by ; but for some it is. 
 If you an' I could have grown old together" — 
 A spasm contracted her face, and it was a mo- 
 ment before she could go on. " But we are old, 
 an' we 've got there by different roads. 'T would 
 be like strangers livin' together. But our souls 
 ain't strangers. Mine has lived with you, day 
 in, day out, for forty year." 
 
 Pure joy possessed her. She was transfig- 
 ured. Her face flushed, her eyes shone, each 
 with a spark in it, a look not altogether of this 
 earth. She was radiant with some undefined 
 hope : perhaps of that sort bred, not of circum- 
 stance, but out of things unseen. The man was 
 chiefly puzzled, as if he had been called on to 
 test an unsuspected bond. This plain speaking 
 about the eternal was quite new to him. It had 
 an echo of Sunday talk, and yet without that 
 weariness attendant on stiff clothes and lulling 
 
92 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 tunes. He seemed to be standing in a large 
 place where there was great air to breathe. 
 Hitherto he had been the servant of things pal- 
 pable. Now it began to look as if things were 
 but the tools of Life, and Life itself, august, 
 serene, sat there in the heavens beside her 
 master, God, in untouched sovereignty. 
 
 "There!" said Lucretia suddenly, as if she 
 broke a common dream. " I only wanted to tell 
 you how I 've battled to have you do what 's 
 right. I don't know as I 've earned anything 
 of you by battlin', for maybe you 'd ha' for- 
 bidden it if you 'd had your way. But I wanted 
 to tell you there 's things fightin' for your soul, 
 an' you better think twice afore you kill out any- 
 thing in them that 's young. Tom an' Lucrece 
 — they 've got it all before 'em. You let 'em 
 come together afore it 's any ways too late." 
 The note of pleading in her voice seemed as 
 much for herself as for another. She might 
 have been demanding compensation for her 
 years. She had shown him the late blooming of 
 her life, for him to justify. Something he mys- 
 teriously owed her, and, with that obedience 
 men give to women when the cry is loud and 
 clear, he knew it must be paid. He rose and 
 stood regarding her. His face worked. His 
 eyes held blue fire. He felt young again, in- 
 vincible. But though thoughts werecrowding 
 
THE CAVE OF ADULLAM 93 
 
 on him, he had only one word for them, and that 
 her name. 
 
 "Lucretia!" 
 
 "What is it?" she asked quietly. 
 
 He hesitated and then broke forth blunder- 
 ingly, like a boy. " Should you just as soon I 'd 
 come in here, once a week or so.^" 
 
 She answered as a mother might who refuses 
 because she must, for hidden reasons. 
 
 " I don't think we 've any call to see much of 
 one another. We 've both got a good deal to 
 think over, an' if Tom an' Lucrece should get 
 them a house, you 'd want to run round often 
 an' set with them." 
 
 He bent his head in an acquiescent courtli- 
 ness, and went haltingly out at the door. Miss 
 Lucretia sat there, her hands dropped loosely in 
 her lap, not thinking, but aware of life, as if the 
 years were leaves fluttering down about her in 
 autumnal air. They prophesied no denial, nor 
 hardly yet decay: only change, the prelude to 
 winter and then again to spring. She sat there 
 until a voice came querulously: 
 
 "Ain't it 'most supper time ? You come up 
 here ! I '11 ventur' you forgot to blaze the fire ! " 
 
 Next morning, a little after ten. Miss Lucretia 
 went into the garden, to do her weeding. The 
 sun lay hotly on her hair and burnished it to 
 gold. Her cheeks were warm with sunlight and 
 
94 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 her hands thick coated with the soil. Life and 
 the love of it were keen within her, strong 
 enough to grip eternal things, sane, common- 
 place like these of earth, and make them hers 
 forever. 
 
 The gate clanged, and then there came a rush 
 of skirts. Lucrece was on her like a swooping 
 wind. 
 
 "Cousin 'Cretia!" she cried. "Cousin 'Cre- 
 tia! Get up here! I 've got to speak to you." 
 
 Miss Lucretia rose and found the throl3bing 
 creature ready to grasp and hold her. Young 
 Lucrece was lovely, like the morning. The 
 moodiness of yesterday had quite gone out of 
 her. Sweet, quivering sentience animated her, 
 obedient to the call of life. Her beauty clothed 
 her like a veil: it seemed a wedding veil. 
 
 "What do you think?" she said rapidly, in a 
 tone like the brooding note of birds. "Mr. 
 Armstrong 's paid over all Tom's money, every 
 cent. And he 's given him the deed of the house 
 in the Hollow. And this morning he came over 
 and kissed me — old Armstrong did ! — and said 
 he hoped we 'd be married right away. I 'm 
 awful happy. Cousin 'Cretia!" 
 
 Lucretia stood there holding the trowel in her 
 earthy hand. Her voice dropped liquidly. 
 
 "Did he.?" she said, not looking at Lucrece 
 at all. "Did he.?" 
 
THE CAVE OF ADULLAM 95 
 
 The tension of her tone struck keenly on the 
 girl and moved her to some wonder. 
 
 " What makes you so pretty, Cousin 'Cretia? " 
 she asked, half timorous because the other 
 woman seemed so far away. "What makes 
 you speak so? Is it because I'm glad?" 
 
 "Yes," answered Lucretia softly. "An' I 'm 
 glad, too!" 
 
A WINTER'S COURTING 
 
O- THE ^ 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 A WINTER'S COURTING 
 
 "Keep the knittin' for take-up work," called 
 Mrs. Bourne from the Sudleigh stage, where she 
 sat regnant upon an underpinning of bags and 
 packages. "Tack the spread as soon as ever 
 you git round to it. Don't you leave the cake 
 jar open, an' don't you let the squashes freeze." 
 
 "I '11 'tend to everything," cried Myra, with 
 shrill sweetness. " Good-by, mother, good-by !" 
 
 Mrs. Bourne gave a stiff nod in return and the 
 stage drove on. It was a three-seated vehicle, 
 but she, the only passenger, seemed to over- 
 crowd it by her portly presence. She wore the 
 black clothes that had served her, since her hus- 
 band's death, for intermittent mourning, and 
 now she had shrouded her face from the Novem- 
 ber wind in a blue barege veil. Mrs. Bourne was 
 loyal in her widowhood, but she could not think 
 the worse of herself for this trifling inconsistency. 
 It argued a fault in the weather, not in her. Yet, 
 though her face was hidden away, Myra knew 
 what dominating power looked from the deep- 
 set eyes, and what lines had been graven about 
 the mouth by the lifelong habit of a woman 
 sworn to rule. 
 
100 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 Myra glanced about at the sear autumn land- 
 scape and up at the bright sky, as if, her mother 
 being gone, she owned a heritage. Then she 
 ran into the house and went at once to the glass 
 between the kitchen windows, to settle her blown 
 hair. It was long since she had taken a mo- 
 ment for leisurely acquaintance with herself — 
 hardly, indeed, without guilt, since her mother, 
 years before, had caught her, with the soft hair 
 about her shoulders, interrogating her image in 
 the glass. Mrs. Bourne had, without comment, 
 taken the kitchen shears from the table and 
 remarked : 
 
 "You set down in that chair." 
 
 Myra obeyed her, wonderingly, and snip! 
 snip! the golden locks were quivering on the 
 floor. Myra remembered now that she had 
 screamed aloud in the terror of it, this murder- 
 ing of her beauty, as if a hand were at her 
 throat. But her mother had said, not unkindly, 
 " Beauty is a snare," and set her to reading the 
 verses in Proverbs commendatory of good 
 women. The hair had grown again as thick 
 and golden as before, but to this day Myra 
 mourned that first lost mane, as if its precious- 
 ness in some way equaled the pang of parting 
 from it. Since then, not daring to challenge a 
 jealous eye, she had worn it braided in a hard, 
 smooth knot, and her mother, seeing that, con- 
 
A WINTER'S CaUHtlNG ioii 
 
 eluded that vanity was dead in her. But now, 
 in the wide sunny kitchen, humming with 
 warmth, Myra snatched out the pins impetu- 
 ously and let the glory tumble to her waist. 
 Then she wreathed and twisted it in a fashion 
 learned from passionate observation of summer 
 visitors at church, and when she had finished, 
 her delighted blue eyes met her enchantingly 
 under the waving gold. She was smiling at her- 
 self in glad abandon when it suddenly came over 
 her that her head befitted a holiday, and with a 
 sudden daring, she ran upstairs to her little cold 
 bedroom and there slipped off her working calico 
 and put on the blue cashmere made for Sunday 
 wear. It was high in the neck, with a plain 
 binding; but madness was upon her and she 
 stole in to the guest-room bureau and took out 
 great-aunt Nancy's best fichu, turned in her 
 dress, and fitted the lace about her sweet young 
 throat. The vision smiled at her, and she 
 caught her breath. It seemed well to sin for 
 such an end as this. 
 
 It was the middle of the afternoon and she sat 
 down by the kitchen window in the sun and felt 
 her own delightfulness. At five she ate a light 
 supper, and then settled herself by the hearth, 
 holding a gift-book from the parlor table. It 
 was bound in red morocco, and it gave her a 
 sense of happy holiday. While she sat there in 
 
itfe THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 her dream, there was a footstep on the path. 
 The knocker fell. Myra started to her feet. 
 She was not afraid. It had not occurred either 
 to her or to her mother that it was unsafe to keep 
 the house alone. Holding the lamp in one hand, 
 the red book tucked under her arm, she opened 
 the door and peered out into the moonlit dusk. 
 A man stood there. 
 
 **Why!" trembled Myra, backing away from 
 him, "when 'd you come back.^" 
 
 "This mornin'," said Ansel Forbes. "Ain't 
 you goin' to ask me in.?" 
 
 Myra, her cheeks aflame, stepped aside and 
 he followed her into the room. He was a hand- 
 some fellow with an upright carriage, strong 
 features, and the eagle's glance. 
 
 "You 've been gone quite a spell," said Myra, 
 setting down the lamp. 
 
 "A year," he answered, casting time behind 
 him as of no account. He threw off his coat, 
 walked up to her, and took her trembling hands. 
 They stood together before the fire, and Myra 
 feared his look and loved it. 
 
 "What made you dress up.?" asked Ansel. 
 "Did you know I 'd come.?" 
 
 "No," said Myra, her head drooping. "Mo- 
 ther 's gone away, an' I never have a chance to 
 wear my blue cashmere in the house." 
 
 Ansel still held her hands. They struggled 
 
^ A WINTER'S COURTING 103 
 
 then a little, to withdraw themselves, and in re- 
 sponse he bent and kissed her on the lips. 
 
 " Oh ! " cried Myra, flushing to the hair. " Let 
 me go, Ansel! Let me go!" 
 
 The faint plea challenged him. 
 
 "I won't," he said quietly and kissed her 
 again. 
 
 Myra stood trembling, but not with fear or 
 anger or any emotion hostile to him. 
 
 "You like me," he said, "you know you do. 
 We should be married now, if your mother had 
 n't broke it off a year ago." 
 
 Myra's eyes were wet and pleading. 
 
 "You went away," she said irrelevantly. 
 
 "Course I went away. Do you s'pose I was 
 goin' to May here an' live 'longside o' you an' 
 run the farm an' see you go nippin' by to meetin' 
 with your mother an' never turn your head? 
 No, sirree ! I traveled up to Boston, an' I went 
 into the express business an' I saved my money, 
 an' when I heard your mother was goin' away 
 to spend the winter with Lucy Ann, I threw up 
 my business an' put for home." 
 
 " Lucy Ann 's sick. She 's got a bad knee," 
 said Myra, waveringly, to gain time. 
 
 "Glad she has." 
 
 "Ansel!" 
 
 " Well, I am. One bad knee won't hurt her. 
 She 's got a good one, ain't she ? An' I am glad. 
 
104 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 It 's took your mother off the ground, an' I 've 
 got a chance to say my say." 
 
 "Mother thinks some of havin' Lucy Ann 
 come home to live," said Myra, still shyly. 
 " She got her lameness by bein' in the shoe-shop 
 so long." 
 
 " Well, she better take her home to live. Lucy 
 Ann 's a widder, without chick nor child. Let 
 her come home here, an' keep your mother com- 
 pany while you 're livin' with me. Myra 
 Bourne, you leave your hands where they be. 
 If you don't, I '11 kiss you again. Guess I will 
 anyway." But in a moment he released her and 
 pointed to a chair by the hearth. "You set 
 down there," said he. 
 
 Myra did it, chiefly because her trembling 
 would not let her stand. Then he stood before 
 her and sometimes, in the stress of talk, turned 
 away and walked back again. 
 
 "You stay there, Myra, while I expound the 
 gospels. You 've always minded, ain't you ? " 
 
 "I 've always minded mother." 
 
 "Yes. Well, that ain't turned out very well. 
 Now you 're goin' to mind me. An' you 're goin' 
 to keep on doin' it till I see you 're a reformed 
 character, an' then I '11 mind you. After we 've 
 got settled down livin' together, we '11 mind each 
 other, turn an' turn about. But this is the way 
 we 're goin' to begin. I 've got a horse out here. 
 
A WINTER'S COURTING 105 
 
 Now you get up an' put on your things an' we '11 
 ride over to Parson True's an' get married." 
 
 Myra sprang to her feet. She looked the 
 wild defensiveness of timid creatures. 
 
 "Why, Ansel Forbes!" she cried, "you're 
 crazy." 
 
 "No, I ain't. Put on your things." 
 
 "Why, I would n't do such a thing, not if the 
 world was to stop to-morrow." 
 
 "Why would n't you?" 
 
 " Mother would n't want I should. She 
 don't mean me to marry, ever. She ain't very 
 strong." 
 
 " Your grandmother ! She 's stronger 'n 
 you '11 be if you ain't looked out for." 
 
 "She has rheumatism," ended Myra weakly. 
 
 "Lucy Ann 's goin' to give up the factory an' 
 come an' live with her, ain't she?" 
 
 "She may change her mind." 
 
 " Now, look here, Myra, I '11 make a bargain 
 with you. A winter ain't much to give up out 
 o' one lifetime, is it ? You just give this winter 
 up to me." 
 
 Myra forgot herself. 
 
 " I 'd give you all my lifetime if I could," she 
 said. 
 
 "That's the talk. But s'pose you can't? 
 S'pose your mother 's comin' home along in 
 March, an' you want to stay here with her? 
 
106 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 You just marry me now an' stay with me over 'n 
 my house till then. Then come spring, you can 
 trot back here, an' live with your mother, an' I '11 
 go back into the express business." 
 
 "But would n't you ever come home ?" Myra 
 asked incautiously. 
 
 "Not if you felt you 'd better be here with 
 your mother. But we 'd have three months to 
 look back on. That's a good deal, Myra, come 
 to think of it. It 's better 'n growin' old alone 
 an' wizenin' up an' thinkin' you ain't ever had 
 your life as some folks have it." 
 
 "Yes," said Myra absently. 
 
 He took her hands and drew them up about 
 his neck, and Myra let them stay, though she 
 seemed unconscious of them. 
 
 "I never heard of such a thing in my life," 
 she said at last. 
 
 "What.?" 
 
 " Doin' that — marryin' " — she blushed — 
 "in that kind of a hit or miss fashion." 
 
 "No, I never heard of it either, but there 's 
 lots o' things we ain't heard on. We ain't so 
 terrible knowin', if we were born in Sudleigh." 
 
 "Delia Mason was married last month. I 
 stood up with her. It said 'for better, for 
 worse.' " 
 
 " That 's it, you see. With some folks it 's all 
 better. That means when they can keep right 
 
A WINTER'S COURTING 107 
 
 along with nothin' to part 'em. We ain't so 
 lucky. With us, it 's got to be ' worse. ' Same 
 thing, though." 
 
 "I don't know what Parson True 'd say." 
 
 " It 's all said. I see him on the way. He 's 
 goin' to set up till 'leven to wait for us. I got 
 the license in my pocket." 
 
 "Ansel! You must be crazy." 
 
 Her hands dropped from his neck, but he put 
 them back again. 
 
 " Parson True 's been in it all along. He 
 wrote to me off an' on. He promised he would. 
 Little things, you know — whether you were 
 sick, or dead, or takin' notice of anybody else." 
 
 "S'poselhad?" 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " S'pose there 'd been anybody else. What 
 did you mean to do ?" 
 
 " Come home an' bust him. It 's gettin' along 
 in the evenin', Myra. I don't like to keep the 
 old parson up." 
 
 " No ! No ! " said Myra, withdrawing herself. 
 Her face had paled and the look of anticipation 
 dulled out of her eyes. " Mother never 'd over- 
 look it in this world." 
 
 " She won't know it. She 's forty miles away. 
 Nobody writes to her from here. Like 's not 
 nobody '11 find it out till she comes home. When 
 she does, here you '11 be waitin' for her, fire all 
 
108 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 built, supper on the table, an' you ready to fetch 
 an' carry same as ever." 
 
 "But s'pose I should. Where " — 
 
 He interrupted her. 
 
 " Where we goin' to live ? Right over in my 
 house." 
 
 " It ain't been opened for a year." 
 
 " Well, it 's open now. I brought along old 
 Betsy from the Holler, an' she 's cleanin' this 
 minute, for all she 's worth. There 's a b'iler o' 
 water on the stove an' Betsy 's sluicin' down the 
 walls. 'T ain't as if I had n't had it put in good 
 repair that summer you said you 'd marry me. 
 Myra!" His voice compelled her. It was full 
 of new, deep meanings. The woman in her 
 leaped to meet that mastery. 
 
 " What is it, Ansel ? " she asked timidly. 
 
 "Don't you like me?" 
 
 "Yes," she answered, so thaU^jp#^|o bend 
 to hear. "Yes, I like you." ^^«^ ,^ 
 
 " How much ? Well enough for that, if your 
 mother 'd let you ?" 
 
 "Oh, yes! Yes!" 
 
 " Did n't you mind it when I went away ? " 
 
 Myra answered with pathetic quiet, like a 
 child. 
 
 "I 'most died." 
 
 Ansel spoke now with a grave assurance, as at 
 something argued out and finished. 
 
A WINTER'S COURTING 109 
 
 "Now, you get your hat, dear, an' I'll un- 
 blanket the horse." He was throwing his coat 
 on as he spoke. Myra clasped her hands and 
 almost wrung them. 
 
 "But, Ansel!" she cried. "I can't leave the 
 house alone. Mother 'd kill me." 
 
 "It 's just to ride over to Parson True's." 
 
 "I don't mean that. I mean all the time." 
 
 " You won't have to to-night. Betsy won't be 
 through cleanin' for a couple o' days. I '11 leave 
 you here till then. I won't stay here, dear, nor 
 eat a meal o' victuals. After we 're settled down 
 over to my place, we can run over two or three 
 times a day an' keep track o' things. Get your 
 hat, dear." 
 
 Myra turned in pale obedience, and brought 
 out her hat and jacket from the closet under the 
 stairs. Ansel was waiting for her gravely, hat in 
 hand. 
 
 "You better bundle up," said he. "It's 
 awful cold. I '11 unhitch the horse." 
 
 When Myra ran down the walk to the gate, 
 her breath came sharply and her throat was 
 dry. It was like a dream and she would not 
 have been surprised to find the "out-doors" 
 empty and Ansel gone. But he was there. 
 He lifted her into the wagon, sprang in be- 
 side her, and they drove away. Once or twice 
 she opened her lips, to argue or remonstrate. 
 
no THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 but he only answered from his muflOiing coat 
 collar : 
 
 "You better not talk. It 's terrible cold." 
 
 Then she found herself listening to the horse's 
 hoofs, beating along with her tumultuous 
 thought. 
 
 At the parson's gate Myra stood trembling 
 while the horse was blanketed, and when Ansel 
 took her hand she shrank a little. 
 
 "Ansel," she breathed, "let 's go back." 
 
 "You're cold, dear," he answered tenderly. 
 "Don't you tremble so." 
 
 Then suddenly, again like a dream, they were 
 in the minister's sitting-room, where the fire 
 flickered behind great iron dogs, and Myra had 
 taken her jacket off and was putting her hands 
 to the blaze. She had resolved on the way to 
 beseech Parson True to tell her all about this 
 custom of marrying for a time, and undoing the 
 habit of it when necessity should serve. But 
 though she began with a trembling word, no- 
 body seemed to notice her, save to be doing little 
 cherishing things for her in an observant way, 
 and she hardly knew how to speak. 
 
 " We 're in a good deal of a hurry," said An- 
 sel, cutting short her frightened questioning, and 
 then, still in a dream, she was trembling beside 
 him, her hand in his, and Parson True's grave 
 daughter was standing in the background look- 
 
A WINTER'S COURTING 111 
 
 ing at them in that comprehending way of hers, 
 as if she understood the love she did not share, 
 and Parson True was saying the words. There 
 was cake and wine, and the parson blessed her 
 in old-fashioned phrases, and she and Ansel 
 were in the wagon again, whirling off toward 
 home. Again there was silence between them, 
 and even walking up the path with her Ansel 
 did not speak. But at the door he kissed her. 
 "Don't you cry, dear," he said. "I don't 
 want you should ever cry. I shan't come near 
 till old Betsy 's cleaned the house. Then I '11 
 come. It '11 be a day or two. You be ready." 
 He strode back along the path, and Myra, wait- 
 ing, heard his wheels upon the road and along 
 the driveway to the house. She watched until 
 she saw the lantern moving about while he un- 
 harnessed. Then she went in and, taking off 
 her things, sat down by the dying fire. It was a 
 dream still, beautiful but terrifying, and under 
 it all was the sense of her own wrongdoing. 
 She saw herself through her mother's eyes, and 
 her mind went back to the day when she had 
 been guilty before, and all her golden hair lay 
 scattered at her feet. But some infection rested 
 on her from the man's robustness and, with a 
 daring recognition of life within her, she said 
 aloud: "My hair grew again." Then she rose 
 and, with a thought of omen in a dying fire, 
 
m THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 piled on wood and blew until it answered 
 her. 
 
 Next morning she awoke with a throbbing 
 consciousness of some new world about her, and 
 all that day she hurried about the house, setting 
 it in order and making her clothing into orderly 
 piles, lest he should summon her away. She 
 found herself referring the smallest questions to 
 him, as if, in some quick transference of loyalty, 
 she had merely bent her nature to new bonds. 
 As she worked, the night before was vague 
 and troubled to her, and still the sense of her 
 wrongdoing grew and grew. If it had not 
 been for the smoke from Ansel's chimney, she 
 could have dismissed it all as some unproved 
 imagining. 
 
 At the end of the second afternoon she sat by 
 the fire, idle. The latch lifted, in neighborly 
 fashion, and Ansel walked in. 
 
 " She 's gone," he said, warming his hands at 
 the blaze. 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 " Old Betsy. The house is clean, all but the 
 attic, an' we '11 leave that till spring. Come, 
 dear, get your things." 
 
 "What for?" Myra managed to ask, trem- 
 bling. 
 
 "Ain't you comin' home to get my supper? 
 I'll cover up the fire." Then he laughed a 
 
A WINTER'S COURTING 113 
 
 little. " You 've got to mind me now," he said, 
 with a catch in his voice not quite like laughter. 
 "You promised." 
 
 Myra brought out a shawl, a Rob Roy plaid 
 she had worn skating when they were children, 
 and put it over her head. Ansel had been cover- 
 ing the fire, and now he took her hand and lee. 
 her down the path and along the road to his 
 house, where all the curtains were hospitably up 
 and lamps were lighted. He opened the door. 
 
 "You go in," he said, and Myra, in a trance 
 of obedience, stepped across her sill into the 
 great kitchen where the fire blazed and the table 
 was set for two. She hung her shawl on a nail 
 where Ansel's mother had used to hang hers. 
 
 "You want me to get supper?" she asked 
 simply. 
 
 Ansel put his arms about her and held her to 
 him. 
 
 " I '11 be good to you," he promised her. 
 "I '11 be good to you." 
 
 "But it's only for this winter," said Myra 
 wistfully, and he answered: 
 
 "No, it 's only for this winter." 
 
 The strangest part of it all was its familiarity. 
 In a week Myra went singing about her house, 
 and it seemed to her that she had always sung 
 and always lived with somebody who treated her 
 like a beloved child and was pleased with all she 
 
114 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 did. She tried new dishes out of old Mrs. 
 Forbes's cookery book, and Ansel drove five 
 miles to buy citron, with the unquestioning de- 
 votion of other lovers in riding for a flower. She 
 wore her blue cashmere every afternoon now. 
 Ansel had recommended it, in his unregarding 
 way, and she had trembled out something about 
 "mother" and the desirability of having it "for 
 nice" another year. But that afternoon they 
 drove to the "street" and, Ansel standing by, 
 she picked out a red cashmere and a sweet 
 delaine with forget-me-nots sown over it, and 
 after they were made she felt less guilty about 
 the blue. Yet none of their pastimes made her 
 neglect the work her mother had laid out for her. 
 She tacked the spread, and even quilted one 
 pieced long ago and left in the attic for a leisure 
 time ; and Ansel sat by the quilting frame, rolling 
 up the finished work, telling her stories, picking 
 up her thimble for her, and bridging silences 
 with laughter. They planned things, while they 
 sat together, house-bound in winter days, always 
 what they should do to make the place more gay 
 and livable. It was Ansel who first touched 
 upon the garden. He had always been, as his 
 mother said, a great hand for flowers, and one 
 day Myra found him by the window busy with 
 pencil and paper. 
 
 "What are you doin' .?" she asked. 
 
A WINTER'S COURTING 115 
 
 "Plannin' out the garden beds," said Ansel 
 absorbedly. " We '11 move the pinies, so 't you 
 can see 'em from the kitchen winder when 
 you 're moldin' bread. The hollyhocks, too. I 
 never did like 'em out there in the open where 
 they '11 thrash and bang in a gale o' wind. 
 We '11 put 'em down by the orchard wall." 
 
 Myra leaned her head against his shoulder 
 and thought how wonderful it was to live in a 
 country where a great benevolent creature like 
 this made all things bright. Suddenly she sat 
 up and looked at him in swift remembrance. 
 
 "Ansel!" she cried, "that '11 be in the spring." 
 
 "Yes, so 'twill." 
 
 " Well, in the spring, mother '11 come home. 
 I shan't be here." 
 
 Ansel laid down the pencil and folded the 
 paper. 
 
 " No," said he, in a sad abstractedness. " So 
 you won't." 
 
 The tears brimmed her eyes and, seeing them, 
 he took up the pencil again. "Well," said he 
 briskly, " we might as well do our plannin', if it 
 ain't goin' to come to pass. Them columbines 
 now " — and the fairy tale went on. 
 
 The sun rose higher and brought a smiling 
 March. There was a sound of moving water 
 and the earth smelled good. One day Ansel 
 was fencing, and Myra ran to him from the 
 
116 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 kitchen, when she had a word to say, her bright 
 hair blowing in the wind. 
 
 "Say," he called after her, as she sped back 
 after one such trip, " d' you see that letter I laid 
 on the end o' the mantelpiece ? I took it out o' 
 the office when I got the horse shod, an' forgot 
 to say so." 
 
 Myra nodded, and her pace sagged to a 
 leaden walk. Foreboding was at her heart, and 
 she held the letter for a moment before tearing 
 it open. It said exactly what she knew it 
 would. She dropped it and went wavering to 
 the door. 
 
 "Ansel ! " she called weakly. "Ansel ! " 
 
 He threw down his axe and came. Myra 
 was sitting stolidly by the hearth, her great eyes 
 dark with trouble. 
 
 "She 's comin' home," she announced, with- 
 out looking at him. 
 
 "Your mother.?" 
 
 "Yes. She's comin' home." 
 
 "Lucy Ann with her?" 
 
 "She don't say." 
 
 There was a pause, while Ansel gravely looked 
 at her. Suddenly Myra lifted her eyes to his 
 and cried out harshly: 
 
 "You know what it means, Ansel ? I 've got 
 to go over there. I 've got to!" 
 
 Ansel put his hand gently on her hair. 
 
A WINTER'S COURTING 117 
 
 "There, honey," said he, "don't you fret." 
 
 " We made the bargain, did n't we, Ansel ? 
 We said we 'd have three months together, an' 
 then 't would be all over." 
 
 "We certain did. Now, don't you think 
 about it. I '11 go over an' open the winders an' 
 start the fire." 
 
 If the first weeks of her marriage had been a 
 dream of pleasure, this was a dream of pain. 
 That day and the next Ansel was ever at her 
 side. He helped her set her mother's house in 
 order and carried over the food she had cooked 
 for the home-coming supper. Myra worked 
 with tears streaming down her cheeks, and al- 
 ways in sad silence. Her face had fallen into 
 haggardness in those few hours. Her eyes 
 looked from it woefully. On the afternoon of 
 the second day her mother's house was warm 
 and welcoming, and Myra, at her own window, 
 stood with Ansel, waiting for the stage. When 
 they should see it dip into the hollow beyond the 
 barn it would be time enough to go. 
 
 "Ansel," she said, clinging to him, "I 've tied 
 up my clothes in a sheet. All but the dresses. 
 Them I could hang over my arm. I don't want 
 to jam my cashmeres, even if I never should 
 wear ^em any more." 
 
 "You leave 'em here a spell," said Ansel 
 softly, his cheek down on her hair. "They '11 
 
118 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 be a kind of a comfort to me till I get used to it. 
 I '11 bring 'em over 'twixt daylight an' dark, 
 some night soon, an' leave 'em. I need n't stop 
 to speak to anybody." 
 
 " Ansel, what you goin' to do left here alone ? 
 You goin' back to Boston.^" 
 
 *' I don't know 's I rightly know yet," said 
 Ansel gravely. ** There! there's the stage!" 
 He seemed to be hurrying her out at the door, 
 and that last touch of his hands was more than 
 she could bear. 
 
 "O my soul!" she cried, "my soul!" stum- 
 bling along the road to her task. " Oh, I never 
 can bear it in this world! I never can." 
 
 But when Mrs. Bourne and Lucy Ann, stiff 
 but walking steadily, came in at the front door, 
 Myra was there to meet them, a little flushed 
 and trembling, though not quite in her old way, 
 and no one saw the change in her. Lucy Ann 
 was like her mother, strong-willed and resolute, 
 though of a robust good-humor. 
 
 "Ain't you done your hair different?" she 
 asked, when Mrs. Bourne had bestowed a meagre 
 kiss on Myra, and it was her turn for greeting. 
 
 Myra put her hand dreamily to her head. 
 
 "I guess I have," said she. She seemed to 
 herself so truly another creature that a change of 
 fashion was less than nothing to her. In the 
 hour before supper, she fell stolidly into her ac- 
 
A WINTER'S COURTING 119 
 
 customed ways, stepping in and out from pantry 
 to kitchen as if no other house had ever earned 
 her love. Mrs. Bourne and Lucy Ann were 
 busy unpacking the top layers of their trunks, to 
 leave the balance of the work till morning, and 
 at six Myra summoned them. 
 
 '* Come," she called. Her voice rang sharply, 
 and they came, vaguely alarmed by it. 
 
 The table was beautiful in the nicety of its 
 array, and the fragrance of tea filled the air be- 
 guilingly. Mrs. Bourne assumed her place, and 
 Lucy Ann, following Myra's motion to her, took 
 the seat opposite. Myra was about to slip into 
 the one between them, but midway she paused, 
 straightened herself, and stood with her hands 
 upon the chair. 
 
 "Mother!" she cried chokingly. 
 
 "The land!" ejaculated Mrs. Bourne, setting 
 the teapot down in haste. " I 'most scalded me. 
 Myra, what 's the matter?" 
 
 "Mother, I 've got to tell you something." 
 
 "Then for the land sake, out with it!" re- 
 torted Mrs. Bourne, alarm upon her face. 
 "What have you been up to ? You ain't burnt 
 the house down. You lost the bank book? 
 Myra, you 'd ought to be trounced, standin' there 
 like a bump on a log. You speak up an' tell." 
 
 Myra spoke, and her voice sounded to her 
 hollow and of no avail. 
 
120 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 " I 've got married. I 've married Ansel 
 Forbes." 
 
 Mrs. Bourne sat wide-eyed and open-mouthed. 
 
 "Married Ansel Forbes.^" she echoed. 
 
 "Yes, mother, I have. An' I ain't sorry. 
 An' don't you try to make me sorry, for I 
 shan't be." 
 
 "Well," said Mrs. Bourne irrelevantly; "you 
 set down an' eat your supper." 
 
 It was what Myra had meant to do, now 
 that her news had been told, but her voice 
 went on in spite of her. A spark had sprung to 
 either eye. Her cheeks burned hotly. 
 
 "I 've got to get his supper," she said sharply. 
 "I must go now. I must go home." 
 
 She had reached the door before the two 
 women recovered themselves to any understand- 
 ing. 
 
 " Wait a minute," called Lucy Ann. She rose 
 stiffly and walked after her, moved by a sense of 
 the joylessness of such leave-taking. She put a 
 detaining hand upon her sister's arm. 
 
 "There, Myra," said she kindly, "like as not 
 you 've done real well. They say Ansel 's been 
 left something by his aunt up there in Boston, 
 an' the express business an' all. Mother, you 
 speak up, won't you ? " 
 
 Mrs. Bourne opened her mouth, but no words 
 came. Myra had been pinning the little Rob 
 
A WINTER'S COURTING Ul 
 
 Roy shawl over her head, and now she unlatched 
 the door. 
 
 " Good-by, mother," she said huskily. "I 'U 
 be over after supper." 
 
 At the gate she heard her mother calling her. 
 
 "Myra!" came the voice, in the old, quick 
 tones. "Myra!" 
 
 A sob caught Myra in her throat, and she 
 stood trembling. She did not answer; she only 
 turned her face away and set her feet toward 
 Ansel's. And the voice absolved her. 
 
 "You tell Ansel to come over with ye!" 
 
 Myra threw open the gate and ran along the 
 road. There were frogs peeping in the distance, 
 and the west showed a ray of yellow light. She 
 sped up the driveway and her heart failed her 
 because the house was dark. She opened the 
 door and hurried forward into the kitchen. 
 
 "Ansel!" she cried passionately. "O An- 
 sel, you here ? " 
 
 A fire was flickering on the hearth and Ansel 
 rose slowly as she came to him. It was in- 
 credible to find him there, solid and warm and 
 hers. She hid her face upon his arm. 
 
 " I can't stay there," she choked, between her 
 sobs. " This is my home. I 've got to live in it. 
 Ansel, you had your supper ? " 
 
 " No," said Ansel, stroking her hair. 
 
 "Wa'n't you goin' to have any?" 
 
122 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 " When you come an' got it for me." 
 "What made you think I 'd come?" 
 He laughed softly at her foolishness and, as 
 
 she stood there quieting into peace, new wisdom 
 
 broke upon her. 
 
 "May be you thought 't would be this way, 
 
 when you told me I could go back ? " she said. 
 "May be I did." 
 
 * "May be Parson True thought so, too?" 
 "May be so, honey. Now, le' 's have our 
 
 supper." 
 
ROSY BALM 
 
ROSY BALM 
 
 Miss Arletta was seeing the minister out 
 through the kitchen, because he had tied his 
 horse at the barn, and it was easier to go that 
 way. He was a tall, stooping man with thin 
 gray hair and a long, benevolent face. Miss 
 Arietta, behind him, looked very small; yet she 
 was a woman of good height, though of excep- 
 tional thinness. Her little face showed all its 
 bones pathetically, and a perpetual smile dwelt 
 upon it and behind the glitter of her gold-bowed 
 spectacles. People said she wore off her flesh 
 by being spry. 
 
 Midway in the large kitchen, comfortably 
 lighted by pale winter sunlight, the minister 
 paused. He sniffed a little, and his mild face 
 took on a look of pleasure. 
 
 "Why, Miss Arietta, I smell flowers." 
 
 Miss Arietta laughed. 
 
 "No," she said, "it 's rose-water. I 've be'n 
 fixin' it up with glycerine an' some other trade I 
 know, to put on my hands. They git terrible 
 chapped, this winter weather." 
 
 "Yes," the minister agreed, "so my wife 
 says." 
 
126 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 "Why, look here!" called Miss Arietta, her 
 hand upon the door. "You wait a minute, an' 
 I '11 fill a vial for her; I got some right here." 
 
 "Well," said the minister hesitatingly; but he 
 threw back his coat again, and loosed his com- 
 forter, while Arietta ran to the cellar way for her 
 bottle, and, after much rinsing and peering 
 through it at the sun, proceeded to fill it from her 
 larger store. 
 
 " You tell Mis' Hardy to put it on nights, an' 
 after she 's washed her hands," she counseled. 
 "Tell her I '11 drop in an' see how 't works. 
 Tell her I 've enjoyed your call; but she must n't 
 leave off comin' now it 's cold." 
 
 "She would have come," the minister ex- 
 plained again, "I have no doubt; but this ques- 
 tion of the missionary fund keeps her much oc- 
 cupied." 
 
 "Poor little creatur's!" said Miss Arietta. 
 Her mind had flown to the heathen on foreign 
 shores. " Don't seem 's if there could be any- 
 body these times without gospel privileges. 
 Makes me terrible ashamed to think I ain't got 
 more 'n that poor miserable dollar to give." 
 
 "The widow's mite," said the minister kindly. 
 Miss Arietta was wrapping the bottle in a piece 
 of newspaper. " It is not the size of the offering 
 that renders it blessed. Miss Arietta. Remem- 
 ber the parable." 
 
ROSY BALM 127 
 
 "There!" said she. "Don't ye tip it over in 
 your pocket. That cork ain't none too good. 
 You tell Mis' Hardy, if she likes it there '11 be 
 more where that come from." 
 
 The minister spoke his gentle thanks, and now 
 Miss Arietta opened the door. The December 
 wind blew up an outer fringe of her thin hair, 
 and the minister also bent his head to its in- 
 clemency. 
 
 " I am obliged. Miss Arietta," he called back. 
 "You ought not to be so generous with your 
 recipe. You might sell it." 
 
 Arietta, nodding and smiling, watched him 
 out of the yard, and then shut the door and 
 turned back to the warmth of her still house. 
 She liked people. Visitors were like the wind 
 itself: they brought vigor and tidings. But she 
 was always glad when the wind was over and the 
 visitors had gone. After she had tucked a stick 
 of wood into the kitchen stove, and warmed her 
 hands there, she went into the sitting-room and 
 took her low rocker by the window. She was 
 turning sheets that day. They were scarcely 
 worn at all; but it was pretty work, and she did 
 it more times a year than she would have liked 
 to tell. Presently she dropped her sewing in her 
 lap and began musing over unhappy India as the 
 minister had described it. Miss Arietta would 
 not have been altogether willing to tell the min- 
 
128 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 ister how hard it was to keep from dwelling, in 
 keen delight, on his picture of foreign lands, nor 
 how easy to forget the pity of it th^t suffering 
 should invade that paradise of bloom. She re- 
 membered the heathen's godless state, and said, 
 "Poor creatur's!" But even at the utterance, 
 she knew this was the guilty protest of a mind 
 secretly in love with heathendom itself. She 
 prized her gospel privileges, but she liked also to 
 be warm, and her irrepressible fancy cast up be- 
 fore her the picture of wintry Sundays in church 
 when hot soapstones cooled with the feet that 
 sought them, and heaven itself was nothing but 
 a sizzling coral strand. Yet that way stretched 
 a dangerous latitude. She caught herself back 
 to the old dutiful regret that she could give so 
 little, and took up her sewing. But suddenly she 
 dropped the work again into her lap, and spoke 
 aloud : 
 
 "My land! mebbe that 's the way." 
 Immediately she saw herself making a lotion 
 for the hands and selling it broadcast. Arietta's 
 mind always moved by leaps, straight for the 
 brightest goal. In that moment of conception, 
 she saw her scheme full grown. She was mak- 
 ing the lotion by quarts, by gallons, in vats and 
 reservoirs. Her house, her clothes, were redo- 
 lent of rose-water and sweet essences. Bottles 
 with printed labels were on druggists' shelves all 
 
ROSY BALM 129 
 
 over the country, and ladies with chapped hands 
 were crowding counters in throngs, all asking, 
 "Have you Rosy Balm?" That was to be its 
 name. And all the profits that came flowing in 
 would be put scrupulously into the bank, and, at 
 the end of every month, sent off to India for the 
 breaking of error's chain. 
 
 That night Miss Arietta slept intermittently; 
 but she dreamed of rose-gardens and dusky 
 maidens on sea-beaches where the pebbles were 
 pink beads, and she awoke to action. When her 
 breakfast dishes were done, she ran across the 
 field and asked Tommy Beale to harness up and 
 take her to town ; and there she drew five dollars 
 out of the savings-bank, and at the wondering 
 druggist's stocked up with glycerine and rose- 
 water and the rest. 
 
 For two days Miss Arietta's kitchen smelled 
 divinely to her, as she mixed and measured. 
 She seemed to be living in an enchanted spot, 
 and doing something that was going to turn out 
 very precious and wonderful. She had always 
 made her lotion with a zealous care, but now she 
 wrought with a nicety proportionate to the great- 
 ness of her task. She began to think of precious 
 ointment, and got out the big picture Bible to 
 read the story, as if her own little every-day Tes- 
 tament were not enough. And one morning, 
 when the sun fell on the winter crust and turned 
 
130 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 .it into a dazzle, she started forth, carrying a bag 
 filled with small bottles, all alike and neatly la- 
 beled in her fine old-fashioned hand. Arietta 
 took the Lower Road because the houses there 
 were nearer together, and she was impatient to 
 begin to sell. She could not remember having 
 felt so happy for years, nor so full of youth. She 
 was on a track, she felt, that might lead any- 
 where. 
 
 The first place on the Lower Road was Law- 
 rence Gilson's, a little one-story house, un- 
 painted, but in summer a picture of beauty in 
 the midst of vines and tangles. Now it was a 
 part of the cold rigor of the time, and when Mrs. 
 Gilson came to the door. Miss Arietta was ready 
 to say, with a shiver: 
 
 " My ! ain't this winter weather ? " 
 
 "I guess 't is," said Mrs. Gilson, "an' we 've 
 all been down sick with colds. Come right in. 
 J 'm terrible glad to see ye." 
 
 There was no one in the kitchen but little 
 Anna May, and she sat in a high chair at the 
 table, packing six raisins into a small round box 
 and then taking them out and packing them over 
 again. There was a clove apple before her, and 
 an Infant Samuel in plaster. 
 
 "I let her have 'em out o' the best room," 
 Mrs. Gilson explained, as Miss Arietta paused 
 to admire these trophies. " She 's jest gettin' 
 
ROSY BALM 131 
 
 over her cold, an' much as she can do to find 
 anything to take up her mind." She was tuck- 
 ing a stick of wood into the stove, and now she 
 turned to Miss Arietta with a newly welcoming 
 smile. "Take your things right off," she bade 
 her. "Now, don't you say you ain't come to 
 pass the day." 
 
 " I '11 unpin my shawl," said Arietta. " No, I 
 can't stop more 'n a minute. I was only goin' 
 by, an' I thought I 'd drop in. She 's be'n real 
 sick, ain't she?" 
 
 They exchanged a sympathetic glance over 
 Anna May. She was a pathetic little picture, 
 with her wan face, her flaxen pigtails, and her 
 painstaking intentness over the raisins. Mrs. 
 Gilson nodded. 
 
 " Her cough 's be'n the worst of any of us," 
 she said proudly. " 'Most tore her to pieces. 
 I thought one time 't was whoopin'-cough, but 
 the doctor says it 's spasmotic." 
 
 They talked on for a time, while the wood 
 blazed and the stove reddened, and finally Miss 
 Arietta pinned her shawl and rose to go. Then 
 she opened her bag. Anna May was looking at 
 her for the first time. Her blue eyes glistened 
 with something like expectation. In spite of 
 herself. Miss Arietta spoke and said the word 
 she had not premeditated. 
 
 "What you s'pose I got in this bag?" she 
 
132 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 asked softly. Her own eyes gleamed as brightly 
 as the child's. 
 
 Anna May shook her head. 
 
 '* Well," said Miss Arietta, " I got a little bottle 
 o' suthin' I fixed up to rub on folks' hands. I 'm 
 goin' to give it to you. Mebbe you '11 let mother 
 have a mite 'fore she goes to bed, an' when you 
 git out slidin', it '11 be nice for you, too. It 
 smells real good." She set the bottle on the 
 table beside the Infant Samuel, and hurried out. 
 
 "Now, ain't you kind!" Mrs. Gilson was call- 
 ing after her, down the path; but Miss Arietta 
 only waved her mittened hand and hurried on. 
 She was muttering to herself: 
 
 " If I ain't a fool ! Poor little creatur', though ! 
 Well, it 's only one bottle anyways. I 've got 
 plenty left." She put up her head again and 
 quickened her steps. 
 
 Old Rhody came next. She lived alone in an- 
 other little house, one that was adorned neither 
 by summer nor winter. There was no answer 
 to Miss Arietta's knock, and she went in. Old 
 Rhody sat by the fire, gaunt and gray. 
 
 She began at once, in her high voice full of 
 wailing circumflexes : 
 
 " I says to myself, there won't be a soul come 
 into the house this day. I dunno' what pos- 
 sessed you to start out this weather, but now 
 you 're here, Arietta Black, you jest set down 
 
ROSY BALM 133 
 
 there in that chair an' tell me what 's goin' on in 
 the world. I dunno' no more 'n if this was the 
 tomb an' I was walled up in it." 
 
 Miss Arietta threw off her shawl at once and 
 put down her bag. 
 
 "You pretty lame, Rhody.^" she inquired 
 warmly. 
 
 " Pretty lame ? I guess I be. I 'm so lame I 
 can't git from kitchen to pantry without hollerin' 
 right out, as if somebody 's jabbin' a knife into 
 me. Took me two hours by the clock this 
 mornin' to git my work done up, an' you can 
 guess how much I have, livin' alone so." 
 
 Miss Arietta was beaming through her glasses. 
 
 "Ain't there suthin' I can do, now I 'm here ? " 
 she inquired. " Stir up some biscuits or a batch 
 o' pies?" 
 
 "No! no! makes me nervous as a witch to 
 have anybody messin' round amongst my things. 
 No, you se' down an' tell me what 's goin' on in 
 the world. I might as well be dead, for all I 
 hear." 
 
 Miss Arietta began with the upper end of the 
 town, and took the houses in turn. She told 
 about Jabez Lane's steer, and Mary Dwight's 
 new melodeon. She had plenty of news, for her 
 own house was a center of social intercourse. 
 Rhody listened greedily. No one came to see 
 her, as she said, and she was too poor to take the 
 
134 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 county paper. At the end of an hour Miss 
 Arietta rose and threw on her shawl. 
 
 "Mebbe I '11 be in again next week," she 
 said. "You heard from Lucy lately?" 
 
 "She writes pretty reg'lar," said Rhody 
 gloomily. "But I dunno' when 't '11 stop. 
 She 's nothin' but a niece by marriage, an' you 
 can't expect folks to act as if they were your 
 own. Last Christmas she sent me a half a 
 dozen handkerchers, as nice as ever you see, 
 with a letter worked in the corner. I don't 
 look for nothin' this year. Don't expect no- 
 thin', I say, an' ye won't be disappointed." 
 
 Miss Arietta opened her bag with a snap. 
 Her mouth curled scornfully, but that was for 
 her own infirmity of purpose. 
 
 "'T ain't quite Christmas," she said rapidly, 
 as if she were ashamed, " but mebbe I should n't 
 git round jest then. So I brought you this little 
 vial, Rhody. Mebbe 't '11 keep your hands 
 kinder nice an' smooth, doin' your housework 
 an' all." 
 
 Rhody took the neat bottle and looked at it 
 with a softened gaze. 
 
 "Well, if that ain't complete!" she said. 
 "You 're real good. Arietta. What made you 
 think on't?" 
 
 Miss Arietta was getting out at the door as 
 fast as possible. 
 
ROSY BALM 135 
 
 "I '11 be over next week," she called. "I '11 
 bring my knittin' an' we '11 have a dish o' dis- 
 course." 
 
 This section of the Lower Road was familiarly 
 known as Lonesome Hill, because each of the 
 four houses had but one inmate. The next was 
 Uncle Blake's, and there Miss Arietta was sure 
 of a response. Uncle Blake came at once to the 
 door, and she hesitated, seeing his white shirt- 
 front and scrupulous silk stock. 
 
 "You got company?" she asked. 
 
 Uncle Blake laughed, a little dry note. He 
 was a tall old man with a noble profile. 
 
 "No, no," he answered. "Walk right in. 
 You see I was dressed up, did n't ye ? Well, so 
 I be. Se' down, an' I '11 tell ye what put it into 
 my head." 
 
 She took the Boston rocker by the hearth, 
 and Uncle Blake sank into his own armchair. 
 The room was beautiful in its cleanliness and 
 order. 
 
 " Ye see," he continued, " passon asked me to 
 come over to dinner to-day ; but that wa'n't why 
 I dressed up. I done it the minute I got my 
 chores done up. I kinder wanted to. Arietta 
 Black," — he rose, and looked down upon her in 
 a proud dignity, — " Arietta Black, I 'm eighty- 
 five year old to-day." 
 
 Miss Arietta also rose. She put out her 
 
136 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 hand, and he shook it solemnly. Then, having 
 pledged the day, they sat gravely down again. 
 
 "Eighty-five!" repeated the old man. His 
 face took on the musing look, reflected from his 
 meditations of the hour before. " I 've seen a 
 good deal. Arietta." 
 
 "I guess you have." Miss Arietta's eyes 
 were wet. She thought of the dead days she 
 had loved, and knew that he also had been a 
 neighborly witness of them. "Well, I hope 
 you '11 have a good spell yet." 
 
 "I dunno' why I shouldn't," said the old 
 man. " I 'm as lively as a cricket. I fried me 
 some cakes this mornin', for my breakfast, an' I 
 eat 'em, too. Mebbe I shall see a good many 
 more winters. Mebbe I shan't. I 'm livin' 
 on borrered time. But I 'm thankful for 't. 
 Arietta. I 'm thankful." 
 
 "You remember grandsir, don't you ?" asked 
 Miss Arietta. " He was older 'n you be, by a 
 good ten year, as I remember him. He 'd kep' 
 everything but his hearin'." 
 
 Uncle Blake's face creased into a reminiscent 
 smile. 
 
 " 'T was he that used to set up 'most all night 
 to see what time I went home from Adelaide 
 True's," he rejoined. " I used to do 'most every 
 which way to outwit him. Well, he need n't ha' 
 troubled himself. I never got her." 
 
ROSY BALM 137 
 
 " She married Elder Hale, did n't she ? " asked 
 Miss Arietta, swaying back and forth, in a plea- 
 sant muse of recollection. " 'T was her grand- 
 son that preached down to Sudleigh, t' other 
 Sunday." 
 
 "Yes," agreed the old man, — "yes. There 
 ain't nobody to carry on my name. But I '11 
 carry it myself," he added presently, looking up 
 with his warm smile. ** I ain't hurt it much yet, 
 an' I don't believe I shall now. It '11 last as 
 long as my headstone does, an' mebbe some- 
 body '11 be glad to hear it in the next world." 
 
 They went hand in hand over the backward 
 track of the town life. Miss Arietta had heard 
 so many stories of the olden time that it seemed 
 to her as if she were of an equal age with him, 
 and that they were walking along a pleasant 
 road among shadowy scenes, unchanging now 
 forever, and so incapable of hurting them any 
 more. For they could reject the ill of those 
 ultimate times and revive only the good. The 
 clock struck, and Miss Arietta rose. 
 
 ** If you 're goin' to passon's," she said, 
 "you '11 have to be gittin' along. So must I, 
 too. See here. Uncle Blake, I dunno 's you 
 care anything about birthday presents. I never 
 had but one in my life. That 's when I was 
 seventeen, an' I set the world by it. Here, you 
 take this. It 's a kind of a lotion for your hands. 
 
138 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 I gi'n Mis' Hardy some jest like it, t' other day. 
 You tell her you 've got some, too." 
 
 "Well," said Uncle Blake, "I never!" He 
 stood there in the middle of the room, the bottle 
 in his hand. Miss Arietta, who had meant only 
 to be kind, was amazed at finding that she had 
 been something more to a degree she could not 
 understand. "I don't know," continued Uncle 
 Blake slowly, " as I 've had such a present sence 
 I was twenty-one. I had one then. Adelaide 
 True was out by the wall that day, when I went 
 by, an' she reached over an' gi'n me a Provence 
 rose. This — I believe to my soul, Arietta, 
 you 've put rose into this, too." 
 
 The tears were in Arietta's eyes. 
 
 " It 's Rosy Balm," she said, with a brisk 
 cheerfulness. "That's what I call it — Rosy 
 Balm. You use it. Uncle Blake. Good-by. 
 Le' 's shake hands once more, for sake of old 
 times. Good-by." 
 
 Hurrying along the road, with her head down, 
 she took up a corner of her shawl and wiped her 
 eyes. 
 
 "Law!" she said, smiling and crying at once. 
 " I should think I wa'n't more 'n two year old. 
 — Why, Jane Dunham, that you.?" 
 
 Jane lived in the next house, but she was 
 speeding along in her best bonnet and shawl, a 
 small neat woman with a round face and young, 
 
ROSY BALM 139 
 
 pathetic eyes. Jane caught Arietta's hand, as 
 it lay under her shawl, and held it. She was all 
 sensibility, and quick tears came into her eyes. 
 Why she did not know, nor did Arietta: but 
 every one was used to Jane Dunham's kindly 
 tears. 
 
 "You comin' to pass the day, 'Letta.^" she 
 asked. " I was goin' on down to the Corners to 
 git me some samples, but I 'd ruther by half 
 turn back home an' set with you." 
 
 "No, no, I 'm full o' business. I 've talked 
 away most o' the mornin' a'ready. Look-a- 
 here, Jane. I got suthin' here in my bag." 
 She made her way out into the snow by the side 
 of the road, and set her bag on a stump, to open 
 it. Jane was instantly by her side, her bright 
 eyes questioning. 
 
 " Rosy Balm ! " she read, taking the bottle and 
 holding it at a comfortable distance. "Land 
 sakes, 'Letta! what's that?" 
 
 Arietta's eyes were shining. Now at last she 
 seemed to have entered on the fruitage of her 
 plan. 
 
 " It 's some trade I mixed up for chapped 
 hands," she explained. "It 's got glycerine in 
 it an' rose-water" — 
 
 " 'T ain't that old receipt Aunt Silvy used to 
 be so private about!" 
 
 " Yes, 't is. I found it in her desk, arter she 
 
140 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 died. Did n't I tell you that ? Well, I found it, 
 an' I used it, an' mine 's jest as good as her'n." 
 
 They looked at each other in a knowing tri- 
 umph. They had both had long experience of 
 Aunt Silvy. It had not seemed that the clever- 
 est could outwit her, even after death. 
 
 "You remember how we used to go there to 
 tea.''" asked Jane. "Little mites we were, an' 
 scared eenamost to death, she was so toppin' 
 with us. There was one arternoon we made 
 poppy dolls an' tea sets in the gardin an' she 
 ketched us — " 
 
 "An' said them were the very poppies she was 
 savin' for seed!" 
 
 Their faces creased into a wrinkled mirth. 
 They were two staid elderly women lingering by 
 a snow-bank, with the mind's eye fixed upon a 
 sunny past. 
 
 "You remember the time when she told you 
 to git me a cooky out o' the parlor cluset " — 
 
 "An' I went in an' sliced us both off a junk o' 
 fruit cake an' hid it under my tyer! I guess I 
 do." 
 
 "If ever there was two tykes, 'Letta," said 
 Jane, with relish, " 't was you an' me. To 
 think you 've got that receipt, too, arter all these 
 years." 
 
 Arietta spoke immediately, and it seemed to 
 her that her voice came forth without her will: 
 
ROSY BALM 141 
 
 "You take it, Jane. You take this vial. 
 'T will kinder bring back old times, an' it '11 
 keep your hands good, too." She shut her bag, 
 and strode out in the road again. 
 
 Jane followed. Her eyes were wet with tears. 
 
 " You did n't come 'way up here to give this 
 to me, 'Letta.P" she asked meltingly. 
 
 "You keep it," Arietta counseled, moving on 
 her way. " It 's got a real good smell. I guess 
 't will bring back some o' them old times." 
 
 "Come down next week," Jane was calling, 
 and Arietta nodded and waved her hand. 
 
 At this point Arietta omitted to scorn herself. 
 She tried to act as if she had meant to do nothing 
 in the world but come out and give away bottles 
 that were made to sell. Arrived at the Veaseys' 
 house, she passed it with a fleeting glance. 
 They were old-maid sisters who would skin a 
 flint or split a shilling. Then there was Miss 
 Susannah Means, who lived alone with her 
 brother and did good works. She was sitting 
 by the window, a faded little woman with an 
 eager glance, and all one sandy color from hair 
 to skin. Arietta opened the side door and 
 walked in upon her, and Susannah glanced up 
 warmly without moving otherwise. 
 
 " Set right down," she said, in her high treble. 
 "Lay off your things. I ain't got a minute to 
 give, or I 'd take 'em for ye." 
 
142 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 "For the land sake, Susannah," said Arietta, 
 advancing upon her, "what you doin'?" 
 
 Scraps of coarse lace lay in Susannah's lap, 
 with knots of bright-red worsted. 
 
 " I 'm runnin' up some candy-bags for the 
 tree," she explained, stabbing her needle in and 
 out. " Do lay off your things. I 'm worried to 
 death, too. They say there 's two families — 
 them miserable Hendersons landed at the poor- 
 farm this week, an' six child'en between 'em, an' 
 if they go to the tree like 's not there won't be a 
 present for 'em, less'n we can scrape up suthin'." 
 
 Miss Arietta's mittened hand was at her bag. 
 Her eyes gleamed defiantly behind their glasses. 
 
 "Law, Susannah, don't you be concerned," 
 she said. " Here 's suthin'. You look-a-here." 
 One after another she took out six bottles, and 
 pushing back the worsted on the table, ranged 
 them there in a soldierly row. Susannah looked 
 up over her glasses, and then took one of them 
 in her hand. 
 
 "Rosy Balm," she read. "What kind o' 
 trade is that. Arietta.^" 
 
 " It 's a nice scented wash to put on your 
 hands," returned Arietta proudly. "You can 
 tie some slips o' paper on 'em an' mark 'em for 
 them poor little creatur's that ain't got nothin' 
 else. Mebbe they 'd like a jumpin'-jack or a 
 doll ; but ye have to give what ye can, an' I made 
 
ROSY BALM 143 
 
 this, an' I can 't make nothin' else. Good day, 
 Susannah." 
 
 But Susannah was sitting in a pleasant dream, 
 holding the bottle in her hand and saying to 
 herself: 
 
 "Rosy Balm! Forever! Rosy Balm!" 
 
 Arietta saw that there were visions before her 
 of little paupers in winter quarters, soothing 
 rough hands and smelling at the bottles. She 
 had done well. Yet again she tried not to jeer 
 at herself, though her bag was very light. Ar- 
 ietta stopped at the fence on the way out, and 
 rested the bag there while she sought within it. 
 
 " One bottle ! " she ejaculated. " Well, if I 'd 
 ha' known" — but if she had known, would it 
 have been different ? Her mouth widened in a 
 whimsical smile, and again she spoke: '*I might 
 as well give this away, quick 's ever I can, so 's 
 not to break my record. No, I won't, either. 
 I '11 be whipped if I will. I '11 seU it, or I 'U 
 die for 't." 
 
 "Ride?" called Cap'n Tom. 
 
 He pulled up at the gate, in his shabby old 
 wagon, and waited for her. The cap'n was a 
 thin man with a lean face, a satirical mouth, and 
 about his eyes certain lines that nobody Hked. 
 Yet they liked the cap'n. He had a great fund 
 of dry humor; but he was a stingy man. He 
 owned it frankly. 
 
144 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 "I set the world by money," he often said. 
 "I like to see it roll up same 's a boy loves to 
 roll a snowball. 'T ain't much importance, 
 snow nor money neither, but it 's terrible ex- 
 citin' to see 'em grow." His title came from 
 that, and clung to him. He was a captain of 
 swift enterprise. 
 
 "I 'm goin' along home," said Arietta, paus- 
 ing with her foot on the step. 
 
 " So 'm I. Git in. How are ye, 'Letta ? " he 
 asked, when they were jogging along. 
 
 "I dunno'," returned Arietta recklessly. 
 " I 'm pretty well in health, but I 've got reason 
 to think my mind 's affected. I guess I 'm a 
 born fool." 
 
 The cap'n flicked his horse and chuckled. 
 
 "Common complaint," said he. 
 
 " Cap'n," began Arietta, out of the fullness of 
 experience, " I 'm goin' to tell you suthin', an' if 
 you ever pass it on to anybody else, I '11 set your 
 barn afire. My brother Tom used to say you 
 was the closest-mouthed feller in the county." 
 
 "I guess that's right," said the cap'n, 
 with pride. "Close-fisted an' close-mouthed. 
 That 's right." 
 
 Then Miss Arietta began and told him the 
 story of her day. He did not speak, and she 
 turned and looked at him. The cap'n was 
 shaking silently. 
 
ROSY BALM 145 
 
 "I s'pose you think it 's funny," said Arietta, 
 smiling herself unwillingly. " Well, mebbe 't is ; 
 but if you was the one to do it, you 'd laugh out 
 o' t' other side o' your mouth." 
 
 "Took 'em out to sell, did ye?" asked the 
 cap'n. 
 
 "Yes, I took 'em out to sell." 
 
 "An' gi'n 'em all away?" 
 
 " All but one bottle. You need n't ask for 't, 
 cap'n. I would n't give it away for love nor 
 money." 
 
 The cap'n was silent for a moment. Then he 
 said : " You take the reins. Arietta." He unbut- 
 toned his coat, thrust a hand deep into his 
 pocket, and brought out a roll of bills. "Ar- 
 ietta," said the cap'n slowly, " last week I sold a 
 yoke of oxen. To-day I driv' over to git my 
 pay. You pass me out that trade." 
 
 He took the reins, and Arietta sought within 
 her bag and gave him her last vial. The cap'n 
 took it gravely, held it far off and read the title, 
 "Rosy Balm." Then he put it in his pocket, 
 pulled a bank-note from his roll, and passed it to 
 her. After that he tucked the money into his 
 pocket and buttoned it up again. "I dunno', 
 Arietta," said he, " as I ever give any money to 
 foreign missions ; but if you want to turn that in, 
 you can. I dunno 's ever I heerd anything that 
 pleased me more 'n your goin' out peddlin' ; 
 
146 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 I 'm a close man, but it 's wuth that amount o' 
 money to me." 
 
 Arietta sat looking at the bill, in bright amaze. 
 
 "My land, cap'n," she said at length, "you 
 know what you 've gi'n me ? It 's a five-dollar 
 bill." 
 
 Instinctively he turned to look at it, and Ar- 
 ietta laid her hand upon the reins. 
 
 "Here," she called, in high excitement, "you 
 le' me git right out an' go in an' hand it over to 
 passon." She was out over the wheel before the 
 horse had stopped. There she faced the cap'n, 
 flushed and smiling. "I dunno 's I could ha' 
 trusted ye through that strip o' woods, cap'n," 
 she called. " You might ha' repented an' 
 ketched it away from me. Much obleeged to 
 ye. Good-by." 
 
 She sped up the path to the minister's door, 
 and the cap'n drove on chuckling. He was the 
 poorer by five dollars, and there was a small sore 
 spot in his heart. But he reflected on the story, 
 and laughed again. 
 
 "Rosy Balm!" he wheezed, and pondered. 
 "Rosy Balm!" 
 
A SEA CHANGE 
 
' OP THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF 
 
 CALirCB^ 
 
 A SEA CHANGE 
 
 The day was an April one, full of light from the 
 nearer leaves and the green mist of their assem- 
 bling where woods are deep. All the atoms 
 were in motion, and a harmony of swelling buds 
 lay, ready to be guessed, under the rhythm of 
 running water. A thousand little streams broke 
 from the mountain, and played the game of 
 foUow-my-fancy down the valleys and into the 
 arms of the big water courses which knew all 
 about it. Birds, in an ecstasy for nesting, 
 juggled wildly with melodic phrases, and tried 
 the trick of keeping three notes in the air at 
 once ; sound grew into substance and dripped 
 delight. The whole bare page of early spring lay 
 illumined, like a delicate green window with the 
 sun upon it. Even Elephantis, the mountain^ 
 turned into a purple majesty cut out of air and 
 fervent for the day. 
 
 In the little dark house under the very shadow 
 of the mountain, on the side where firs grow 
 close, there had been all the morning a clatter 
 of brisk workmanship, the noise of mop and 
 broom. Cynthia Miller was cleaning, with the 
 passionate ardor of one who either loves her task 
 
150 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 or strides through it to some desired goal. Now 
 she threw braided rugs out of the window upon 
 the bank, pierced only lately by needles of new 
 grass, and, pulling out a drawer from her bed- 
 room bureau, carried it into the parlor to pick 
 over. Such haste impelled her that she tried to 
 do everything at once, and tripped herself up in 
 the snare of her own eagerness. This was the 
 last room to be set in order; to-morrow the house 
 would be clean. Thinking that, she passed an 
 unsteady hand over her forehead, smoothed out 
 the rough hair above it, and sighed in extremity 
 of desire. Standing there over the drawer, she 
 abandoned herself to work again, with a speed 
 so quickened that it seemed as if her hands 
 darted and pounced in their assorting. Some- 
 times she held up an article to the light to note 
 whether it needed darn or patch. Her frowning 
 scrutiny looked like the hysteria of labor, neither 
 supported by physical strength, nor clad in the 
 armor of an enforced control. She had been 
 pretty once, of a brown type with a flush under 
 the skin and smooth, plump outlines. Now she 
 looked a haggard sprite, old too soon: her eyes 
 seeking some remedy for perplexing ills, and the 
 intention of the piquant nose quite spoiled by 
 two transverse wrinkles at the base. A lumber- 
 ing step sounded in the kitchen, and she stood 
 arrested, listening. The lines in her forehead 
 
A SEA CHANGE 151 
 
 multiplied; anxious care was enhanced by an 
 added inscription of annoyance, anger even. 
 
 "Ain't you gone yet?" she muttered, and 
 then, as if some tormented spirit cried for its 
 own relief and urged her on, "My soul! can't I 
 have a minute's peace in this house?" 
 
 "Cynthy!" called her husband from the 
 kitchen. The voice was dulled, not by inten- 
 tion, but the lack of it. " Cynthy, where be you ? " 
 
 She stood as still as one of those little brown 
 creatures on the trees, when they straighten 
 themselves into twigs at the approach of other 
 life. Her eyes narrowed. She looked not so 
 much frightened as immovably perverse. If he 
 wanted her, he should not have her, only be- 
 cause he wanted. Then he called again, and 
 she heard his step coming her way. It sounded 
 blundering, as it always did in the house: an 
 inexact step not quite conscious whither it was 
 bound, in these strange latitudes of wall and 
 window, and better adapted to wide barns or 
 the uncertainties of ploughed fields. 
 
 " Well," called Cynthia sharply from her trap, 
 "what's wanted?" 
 
 At that instant he appeared in the doorway, 
 and filled it with the effect of brawn and vigor. 
 He was a son of the soil, made out of earth, and 
 not many generations removed from that mater- 
 nity. His thick hair and bristling brown beard 
 
152 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 gave his head a fictitious size, and his calm 
 brown eyes showed only an honest and quite 
 unconscious acquiescence in the lot of man. 
 Even here, within four walls, the outdoor world 
 claimed him for its own with crude assertiveness. 
 Straws clung to him. Dark loam caked his fur- 
 rowed boots, and the smell of animal life flew 
 before him like a proclaiming aura. Cynthia 
 could not look at him. She bent over the 
 drawer and assorted swiftly, turning the clothes 
 as if she sought a corner for hiding. 
 
 "Well," she repeated, with the same chal- 
 lenging sharpness, "what's wanted.?" 
 
 But if her voice bore any new meaning that 
 day, Timothy was deaf to it. 
 
 " I 've greased my t' other pair o' boots," he 
 announced, in that throaty rumble calculated to 
 leave the tongue an idle life. " I shall want 'em 
 this arternoon, when I go down along, fencin'. 
 I set 'em by the oven door. I thought I 'd 
 tell ye." 
 
 "Well." 
 
 " We might as well have dinner by 'leven. I 
 want to make a long arternoon on 't." 
 
 "I '11 see to it." 
 
 Amply satisfied, he turned about and went 
 plodding out of doors. She drew her breath 
 sharply, and listened. Those steps had two 
 meanings for her nowadays. W^hen they ap- 
 
A SEA CHANGE 153 
 
 preached, she shuddered, and her flesh crawled. 
 At their withdrawal, she found it possible to 
 keep half alive. But when she heard his guid- 
 ing remarks addressed to the oxen, while the old 
 cart went creaking out of the yard, at a mea- 
 sured pace, she gave way to an impulse likely to 
 afford her infinite relief for the moment, even if 
 it had to be repented. She flashed into the 
 kitchen with the unerring step of the housewife 
 made to carry domestic business through tri- 
 umphant crises, and swooped down upon the 
 heavy boots standing, redolent of grease, by the 
 oven door. Her nervous hands fell upon them 
 murderously, as if they represented a misery 
 borne to the last gasp, and, taking them out into 
 the yard, she threw them as far as her strength 
 would serve. 
 
 "There!" said she, with a flash of obstinate 
 malice, nodding at the mountain, " I 've done so 
 much. I wish I could throw 'em over you. I 
 wonder what you 'd say to that!" Then she 
 went back again, and with some temporary com- 
 posure addressed herself to work. A victory 
 over the boots showed some tangible advance- 
 ment; it promised more. 
 
 The mountain had made an intimate part of 
 all Cynthia's married life. When she came up 
 here from the plains to settle, it seemed to her, 
 without much diflficult thought on the matter. 
 
154 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 as if there were something unlike other wed- 
 dings in this pilgrimage uphill to live under the 
 shadow of Elephantis. From her old home, sold 
 now into the hands of strangers, it uplifted a 
 mystical outline, to be grasped only in the clear- 
 est weather. Here it seemed to be a part of her 
 freeholding. Then the attitude of the world 
 unconsciously swayed her mind and roused in 
 her the pride of place. Year after year, with 
 the quickening of summer, crowds of people 
 sought out Elephantis and grew voluble in 
 wonder before its purple glories. In the winter, 
 there were sometimes paragraphs in the local 
 paper relative to daring ones who had "gone 
 up " the season before, and the county was never 
 tired of talking about the party which had got 
 lost there and, straying into Dutchman's Gulf, 
 suffered two nights of hunger and fear. All 
 these dramas, inspired by an adventurous world, 
 were played on the other side of the mountain : 
 yet Cynthia felt them to be hers alone. It was 
 her mountain; and for many years she studied 
 its varying aspects under sun and snow, and 
 even, one spring when her husband was logging, 
 cut herself a little path through the bushes, fan- 
 tastically hoping to reach the top, as we plan for 
 what can never happen. But all this had be- 
 longed to her youth. She was forty years old 
 now, and the mountain seemed too near. Yet 
 
A SEA CHANGE 155 
 
 still it remained the unmoved witness of her 
 actions, a hateful censor as unyielding as if it 
 had been appointed by God himself. She was 
 bitterly angry with it, as she was with her hus- 
 band; but in her anger against the mountain 
 was mingled the alloy of fear. 
 
 When Timothy came home to dinner at 
 eleven, there were no outer signs of homely 
 tragedy. The house wore a beautiful order, 
 and his boots stood by the oven door as he had 
 left them, their toes pointing rigorously. A 
 whirlwind of passion had swept them forth, and 
 expediency, not in the least tempered by repent- 
 ance, had brought them in again. Cynthia's 
 dinner table shone with care. The white cloth 
 was ironed so smooth and glossy, the glasses 
 gleamed so bright, that one looked about for the 
 story of such serving, — to find it either in love 
 or in that dull habit made to break the spirit and 
 drive women early to old age. Timothy was 
 conscious of having a good dinner, but not so 
 keenly as if he did not have one every day. Yet 
 even to him the house wore an odd aspect of 
 Sabbath calm. 
 
 "Got your spring cleanin' done?" he asked 
 Cynthia, upon a mouthful of potato and fried 
 apple. She nodded, sitting opposite him and 
 not looking up, even when she passed him food 
 and drink. Her own plate was bare, and she 
 
156 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 swallowed her strong tea thirstily and with a 
 greedy purpose. 
 
 "I finished this forenoon," she said, and, 
 without her wish, some exultation cried out in 
 her voice. It had not seemed possible that 
 desire could ripen so. 
 
 Timothy glanced at her from time to time. 
 Usually he only looked at her as he did at the 
 clock, when he wanted to know something; but 
 now the restlessness in her atmosphere chal- 
 lenged and piqued him. So he became aware 
 of her empty plate. 
 
 " You ain't eat a mouthful," he announced, in 
 more wonder than concern, and Cynthia's fore- 
 head contracted a little closer. 
 
 "I 'm more dry than hungry," she answered 
 evasively ; and he pushed the sausage nearer her, 
 saying, with a neutral kindliness which she had 
 once known to be his equivalent for affection, 
 "Help yourself!" 
 
 But she only shook her head and poured more 
 tea. Presently he rose, took down his pipe from 
 the mantel, lighted it luxuriously, and drew on 
 his waiting boots, — the boots which could have 
 told a story. When he held them up for scru- 
 tiny, Cynthia had a tempting toward hysterical 
 laughter. She wondered what he would say if 
 he knew they had spent most of their morning 
 lying out in the old cabbage bed. Then he 
 
A SEA CHANGE 157 
 
 poked his way out of the house, and presently 
 she saw him striding off to the pasture whither 
 he had drawn his fencing stuff that morning. 
 She did not stay to do her dishes; other things 
 were betiding. From the best bedroom she 
 dragged out the hair trunk which had held her 
 wedding things when she came up to live with 
 the mountain, and tugged it through the shed to 
 the barn, where she managed to lift it into the 
 back of the wagon. She propped up the lid, 
 and ran back into the house for the bundles of 
 clothing which had lain ready for many days. 
 So the trunk was packed, and the key trium- 
 phantly turned. Then Cynthia, breathless, but, 
 she was sure, possessed of strength equivalent to 
 all demands, led out old John, the horse of many 
 summers, and harnessed him, praying Heaven 
 the breeching might not have been shortened for 
 Doll. John showed no wonderment while she 
 threw a shawl over her calico dress and tied on 
 her bonnet and veil. When she climbed into the 
 wagon, he pricked his ears a little, but it was 
 only as the whip fell upon him, going down the 
 rough mountain road, that he betrayed any per- 
 sonal responsibility in the affair. A winter of 
 oats and idleness had left him well equipped for 
 one so far within the vale of years, and a remnant 
 of his old spirit served him. So he put his feet 
 down creditably, and Cynthia drove, looking 
 
nriiii 
 
 158 THE COUNTY ROAD ^T; » 
 
 neither upon field nor sky, and mindful oi n6r 
 road. The April day was dulling under a hue 
 of gray, not rain, nor even mist. It was only a 
 color come with the waxing hour, and full of 
 sadness. It fitted her mood more closely than 
 the bold radiance of morning; all the tender 
 shades of loam and springing lelaf seemed to fall 
 in with her expectations, and^bow her how soon 
 youth may be over. We do not need to formu- 
 late these things, and chant antiphonal responses ^ 
 of nature to the human mind. The heart per- 
 ceives them, and as we live, w^ know;. * f 
 
 All winter Jong she had not driven these* eSg 
 miles down to the village where her errand lay. 
 Once it had seemed a festival like the breaking 
 of icy bonds; but now, with all her thoughts 
 turned inward upon one numbing point, she got S| 
 what she could, out of the horse, and thought ;lj 
 only of time. The village stores were not for her' , J| 
 that afternoon. She drove straight to the little \i 
 station, and called the lank and introspective' ! 
 station master, loitering in idleness between his H \\ 
 two trains a day. ^ ^ ' • li 
 
 " Here, you ! " cried Cynthia, " should ybu jest * 
 as soon lift out this trunk ? " i; 
 
 No men folks being with her, of whom ta ex- 
 act the toll of a helping hand, he l^t down the 
 tailpiece of the wagon and dragged her treasure 
 forth j impersonally and with no concern. ' * \ 
 
hi 
 
 . f| ^ 5> A SEA CHANGE 159 
 
 Cynthia wrinkled her brows. 
 
 "He need n't ha' slat it so," she murmured to 
 
 herself, and then remembering that he must 
 
 ' h^lp her further, she snioothed her feelings and 
 
 continued, "I ain't goin' to-day. Can't you 
 
 keep it som'er's till to-morxer — till I come ?" 
 
 He shouldered it, still dumbly, and watching 
 
 * hiiia to the door of the baggage room, she won- 
 ^red whether it was well to trust an unknown 
 A|an s6 far. 
 
 "You keep an eye on it," she besought him. 
 "I '11 be here to-morrer — not a day later." 
 
 J3ut his heights of contemplation included no- 
 thing /lear, and she turned about under her first 
 actual sense of the lions in an unfamiliar way. 
 .u , Their homeward progress had to be longer, 
 . I because it was over rising ground, and John 
 fcoul4..not be urged. Still, though it was late 
 
 * afternoon before they reached the little house, 
 i they were in time. The barn door was closed. 
 
 • Timothy had not appeared. When he did come, 
 more of the toiling earth than ever after his hours 
 
 I 'of work, John was in the stall, and Cynthia stood 
 a^^the sink washing dishes. The unique nature 
 / of Jier occupation at that hour in the day struck 
 upjoti Timothy, as he came through for the milk 
 
 • pail. Sa methodical was their life that even so 
 
 • slight a deviation was like a heartbeat dropped, 
 . to be accounted for. 
 
160 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 "Ain't you done your dinner dishes?" he 
 asked, in self-evident statement. 
 
 "I 'm doin' 'em now," said Cynthia briefly. 
 
 "What d'ye wait for.?" 
 
 "I got hendered." He inquired no further, 
 and when he came in again supper was ready, a 
 delicate supper with hot biscuits and quince pre- 
 serve. Cynthia was doing her duty artistically 
 to the last. 
 
 That night she lay awake, and tried to keep 
 her eyes from the window, where the mountain 
 hung like a pall. Timothy was sleeping vocally, 
 but even through that droning note she heard 
 the beating of her heart. It seemed to shake the 
 bed and her with it, like some terrible agent out- 
 side herself. She held her hand upon her breast 
 and tried to breathe serenely. But that grim 
 quickstep gave her comfort, after all. She felt 
 no need of forgiveness ; she told herself that when 
 Timothy heard she had died of heart disease, he 
 could not blame her for whatever she had done. 
 
 Next morning breakfast was early, and Cyn- 
 thia, clearing it away, spoke but once, — to the 
 mountain. She had kept her back to it as much 
 as possible of late, but somehow it filled her 
 vision all the more ; and now, when she went out 
 to spread her dish towels on the brush, it grew 
 and grew, as if it would engulf her. 
 
 " Why don't you get into the winder, if you 
 
A SEA CHANGE 161 
 
 want to ? " she inquired, scorning it at last. " I 
 would, if I 's you." 
 
 Very soon the kitchen, like the whole house, 
 was beautifully in order, and Cynthia, her hair 
 smooth and her pathetic little hands very red, 
 had put on her best dress — an alpaca of great 
 age and worth — and laid her bonnet and shawl 
 on the table. Then she stepped to the door and 
 called to Timothy, chopping limbs at the pile : 
 
 " You come in here. I want to speak to you." 
 
 He dropped his axe, and came, stepping a 
 little more hastily than usual. But he was not 
 used to being summoned. 
 
 " You cut you ? " he asked. " You fell ? " 
 
 She was standing near the kitchen table, one 
 stark hand upon it. That and the rigid arm up- 
 held her. 
 
 "There 's bread in the stone jar," said she. 
 " I made three loaves, all I da'st, for fear 't would 
 spile. I b'iled a leg o' bacon, an' the blue chist 's 
 full o' mince pies. The 'taters are sprouted, all 
 but what you set by to plant." 
 
 He stared at her in a wondering concern. She 
 looked unfamiliar to him ; and then he felt a little 
 relief, knowing why. 
 
 " You got on your best dress," said he. 
 
 Cynthia went on with the inventory of her 
 preparations. 
 
 "The house's as clean as a ribbin. I've 
 
162 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 swop the cellar, too. I dunno' what more I 
 could ha' done." 
 
 "Why, no," agreed Timothy from his bewil- 
 derment. "I dunno' what more ye could." 
 
 "An' now I 'm goin'down to Sister Frances'." 
 
 He looked upon her as though she were de- 
 mented. 
 
 "Not 'way down to Penrith?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "What for.?" 
 
 "To make 'em a visit." That did not seem 
 to her a lie. He would know the rest later. 
 
 "How long you goin' to stay?" 
 
 She hesitated. " I '11 let ye know," said she. 
 
 "When ye goin'?" His eyes traveled from 
 her black gown to the shabby little bonnet on the 
 table, and he read his answer before her voice 
 confirmed it. 
 
 "Now!" 
 
 Timothy turned vaguely toward the door. 
 "Well," said he, "I '11 harness up. You git out 
 my t'other weskit." 
 
 "I'm goin' now, now this instant!" cried 
 Cynthia, step|ling before him »nd reaching the 
 door first. The folded sh^wl was on her arm. 
 She tied her bonnet rapidly in speaking. 
 
 " How ye goin' to ge' down there to the rail- 
 road?" • 
 
 "I'm goin' to walk." ^ 
 
A SEA CHANGE 163 
 
 "You wait a minute." 
 
 He went back into the sitting-room, and Cyn- 
 thia halted just outside the door, because she did 
 not mean to leave her duty at loose ends. Obe- 
 dience was owing him until she turned her back 
 on him and on the mountain. Timothy had 
 gone to find the broken-nosed teapot where their 
 little store of money lay; but at the cupboard his 
 wits deserted him, and he took one of the 
 sprigged china cups from its place, went to the 
 kitchen sink and filled it from the pail. When 
 he appeared at the door again, he was drinking 
 the water, and Cynthia opened her lips to chal- 
 lenge the use of that china. But she shut them 
 firmly. It was his china. He could do what he 
 chose with it. 
 
 "That all?" she asked. 
 
 Timothy came forward and mechanically put- 
 ting out his hand, took up a dish towel from the 
 brush. He wiped the cup with it, hard and fast. 
 In both their minds rose a hasty simile that this 
 stood for the housewifery he was thenceforth to 
 do. She almost gave a little cry, for he had 
 wiped off the deMcate hanqj|^, ani it fell at his 
 feet. But Timothy w^s unconscious of it. Cups 
 might easily fall when worlds were falling too. 
 
 "Well," said Cynthia, "I'm goin'." She 
 turned abo^t and walked away, her meagre back 
 instinckwith purpose. It was some seconds be- 
 
164 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 fore her husband recovered his wits and voice; 
 but he did recover them. 
 
 "Here, you!" he called. "You got any 
 change.?" 
 
 She nodded, without turning. " I got my but- 
 ter money!" she cried into the distance; and 
 Timothy heard. Then she stepped the faster, 
 and when the road dipped into shadow, took the 
 side that would hide her soonest from his eyes. 
 
 The morning was still young and very full of 
 grace. Flocks of blackbirds were flying over, 
 grinding out their dissonant melody, more 
 piquing to the lover of New England springs 
 than any nightingale beside his rose. The world 
 had burgeoned since yesterday. There was a mi- 
 raculous gloss upon the leaves, a thought larger 
 than they had been twenty-four hours before. 
 The roadsides were lined with beauties Cynthia 
 had known well in the first years of her married 
 life, when wandering was not a burden : hardy 
 lady's slipper in great patches, soon to be pink 
 with puffy bloom, clintonia springing in polished 
 green, and the clustering leaf of fringed poly- 
 gala. All these things she knew by sight, though 
 not by name, as she knew their happy haunts; 
 yet she went along in haste, seeing the world, 
 yet not seeing it, and wondering how she could 
 ever have found the summer time so bright. 
 • Her eyes threw her the sheen and glory of things, 
 
A SEA CHANGE 165 
 
 but her dull brain made no record. Yet not be- 
 cause it failed to act, for thought was racing 
 hotly, and she planned how she should meet her 
 sister and tell why she had come. All winter 
 long she had brooded upon that opening speech, 
 but now the long catalogue had resolved itself 
 into one last irritation, and she could go only 
 thus far: 
 
 " I can't live with him no longer. I 'm goin' 
 to support myself." Then Frances would ask 
 why, and she would say, " He greases his boots 
 so much. He leaves 'em by the oven door." 
 That seemed to be all she could remember, and 
 quite enough. Any woman would know. 
 
 Now, as her impatient feet went beating along 
 the road, it grew to be incredible that she had 
 not seen Frances in all these years. Yet there 
 had been reasons. She and Timothy never 
 went from home, and Frances had her one child, 
 deformed or sickly, Cynthia vaguely knew. But 
 whatever the affliction was, it made a reason why 
 the father and mother could not "go abroad," 
 even to so near a port. Now, within two years, 
 the child had died and they were free. Through 
 her hours of walking, at the moment when she 
 inquired for her friendly little trunk and found 
 it safe, through the terrible railway journey with 
 adventurers and worldly folk who would as soon 
 pick your pocket as not, Cynthia was conscious 
 
166 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 of two things : that her heart was beating its way 
 out of her body, and that she must tell Frances 
 at once about Timothy's boots. Not a moment 
 must be lost. She sat with her eyes closed, fly- 
 ing and jolting through an alien world. And 
 when the train stopped at Penrith, in the warm 
 dusk of evening, she was first upon the platform. 
 The air tasted salt in her nostrils, and she noted 
 through her desolation the tangible signs of an 
 unfamiliar spot ; it meant distance, freedom, and 
 relief from fear. Fresh from her mountain soli- 
 tude, the platform with its scattering loungers 
 seemed to her tumultuous; all the men were 
 tanned, and they talked in uncouth fashion quite 
 unlike her own, and so amazing. She fastened 
 upon one, because his beard was gray, and asked 
 him chokingly: 
 
 "Can you tell me where Cap'n Pritchard 
 lives.?" 
 
 "Goin' over?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Better take the 'commodation. Set ye right 
 down at the door." 
 
 "How much do you charge?" 
 
 "Ten cents." 
 
 She nodded, and stood guard over her little 
 trunk until he was ready to take it; then she fol- 
 lowed it to the covered wagon. They jolted 
 away into the darkness, and again she counted 
 
A SEA CHANGE 167 
 
 her pulse and thought about Timothy's boots 
 until they drew up at a house on what seemed a 
 lonely road. 
 
 "Hullo the house!" whooped the graybeard. 
 He shouldered the trunk, and Cynthia, before 
 him at the door, found the knocker and beat a 
 summons. 
 
 There was a gleam of coming light, and the 
 door was opened by a tall woman with peaceful 
 eyes and smooth white hair. 
 
 "I 'm all beat out," gasped Cynthia; and as 
 she would have fallen, Frances set the lamp 
 down with one motion, and caught her on the 
 other arm. The boots were not mentioned. 
 
 Next morning, when Cynthia waked, she was 
 lying in a soft bed, and the eastern light lay 
 warm upon the coverlet. The chamber was not 
 very large, and the roof sloped a little on one 
 side. She lay looking idly at the paper, thinking 
 that it was "sweet pretty," all over roses and 
 buds. Presently there was a stir from a neigh- 
 boring room, and Frances stood in the doorway, 
 as welcoming and tall as she had stood in the 
 outer one the night before. Cynthia gazed at 
 her hungrily. 
 
 "Why," she said, at last, "you ain't got a line, 
 in your face!" 
 
 Frances smiled and made some. She disap- 
 peared and came back with a tray of breakfast. 
 
168 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 "Be I goin' to eat in bed?" asked Cynthia 
 wonderingly. "I ain't so sick as that." 
 
 Frances smiled again, and patted her hand. 
 Then she sugared the coffee in a motherly way, 
 and coaxed her to drink. Cynthia believed she 
 was not hungry, but she managed to eat a little ; 
 and after a while, Frances still sitting by her, she 
 thought she would tell why she had come. But 
 when she would have done it, her heart began 
 beating, and beat so fast that it turned her sick. 
 So she only said again, like a child, " I don't mean 
 to make you trouble. You must n't do for me." 
 
 "You 're all beat out," said Mrs. Pritchard, 
 recurring to Cynthia's own pathetic phrasing. 
 
 There was a long silence, Cynthia studying 
 her own face meanwhile in the little glass over 
 the mantel, and then coming back to her sister's. 
 
 "You 're ten years older 'n I be," she said at 
 last, in that same wondering voice. "You ain't 
 got hardly a line in your face, an' only look at 
 mine! How 'd you know me.^" 
 
 Quick tears sprang into the other woman's 
 eyes. Her voice choked upon the words: "I 
 knew mother's cameo pin." 
 
 Then Cynthia bethought her that, although 
 there seemed to be a stir of passing in the road, 
 the house was quiet. "Where's he?'' she 
 asked. " Cap'n Pritchard ? " ^ 
 
 " Gone clammin'. They have to go when the 
 tide serves." 
 
A SEA CHANGE 169 
 
 " If I tell you suthin', do you feel obleeged to 
 tell him?" 
 
 "Not if it don't anyways concern him." 
 
 " Then — no, no, I can't tell it. You jest 
 feel how my heart beats!" 
 
 Frances put her hand over the fluttering thing, 
 and her eyes were troubled. 
 
 "I sent over for doctor," she said. "I guess 
 that 's his tread now. Doctor, that you ?" 
 
 He came through the sitting-room and up the 
 narrow stairs. A head covered with thick white 
 hair appeared in the doorway. The face be- 
 fitted a jolly clergyman of many years ago, a 
 hunting parson. Cynthia drew the sheet to her 
 chin, and shook. Suddenly she was afraid, not 
 so much of him, as of returning life. It had 
 been easy enough, a moment ago, to die here in 
 peace, at the heels of that runaway heart; but 
 they were going to drag her to her feet again, 
 and she felt tired. The doctor sat down beside 
 the bed, and took her hand. He looked at it, 
 the little red palm, seamed and wrinkled, and 
 the crooked fingers beckoning for some obstinate 
 good. Then he looked at her. 
 
 "How long have you lived up there by the 
 mountain.?^" he a^ked. 
 
 Cynthia choked. She could not remember. 
 It seemed far away, yet the later terror of it was 
 flaming still in sight. "Some years," she said. 
 "Years an' years." 
 
170 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 "Been there all winter?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Had any company? Been away any- 
 where?" 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "Busy all day?" 
 
 "'Most all." 
 
 "What at?" 
 
 "Doin' up the work. Sewin'." 
 
 The doctor nodded. Then he listened at 
 her heart and her lungs, and nodded again. 
 "There 's nothing the matter with you," he 
 said, " except you 're tired out. Don't you get 
 up out of that bed till I tell you to." 
 
 He went downstairs, Mrs. Pritchard follow- 
 ing. Cynthia smiled bitterly to herself, and 
 thought they would both find out some day. 
 He was either a very poor doctor, or else he was 
 deceiving her for a childish good. So she did 
 get out of bed, and dropped on the floor in a 
 little miserable heap; and there Frances found 
 her, shaking and crying pitifully. 
 
 " I 've got spinal trouble, too," sobbed Cyn- 
 thia, " besides my heart. I dunno' what under 
 the heavens you '11 do with me. I 've got to be 
 a burden on somebody, now, as long as I live. 
 Oh, I wisht I 'd died on the way down!" 
 
 "O you dear creatur'!" cried Frances, and 
 she lifted her into bed, and then sat there mo- 
 
A SEA CHANGE 171 
 
 thering her. Cynthia clung passionately to those 
 enfolding arms ; she cried harsh sobs which gave 
 her bitter solace. Exhaustion came, and then 
 she began to wonder a little over this human 
 shelter where she felt so safe. Nobody had put 
 warmly affectionate arms about her for a long 
 time. Even her mother had not been used to 
 wasteful caresses. They came of a stock which 
 lived and died quite properly. But this was all 
 she could say: "Should you jest as soon keep 
 hold o' me a minute more.^" 
 
 "Dear creatur'!" said Frances again, and 
 then she shook her head in a whimsical way, 
 knowing how "shaller" she might seem in rea- 
 soning eyes. She too had a bed rock of reserve, 
 a rock which had been smitten long ago. 
 
 "I dunno' but I act kind o' silly," she said, 
 "a woman o' my age; but I 've got so used to 
 babyin' little Cynthy — we both did, cap'n an' 
 me — that I can't feel as if I was doin' enough 
 unless I ketch hold o' people somehow." 
 
 "Cynthy wa'n't well, was she.^" ventured 
 the other Cynthia. 
 
 " She wa'n't quite right, dear," said Frances 
 tenderly. "There! I'll tell ye all about it 
 some time. Now you take these drops. Doc- 
 tor left 'em for ye." 
 
 All that day Cynthia slept, and was quite con- 
 tent; for in her brief wakings she always saw 
 
172 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 Frances, and remembered that the doctor said 
 she was not to move. So there was no need of 
 mentioning the boots, and making her heart 
 beat again ; because nothing could be done about 
 them unless she were on her feet and able to talk 
 to lawyers. And she should never be on her 
 feet again. That night she looked up pitifully 
 while Frances smoothed her down for the last 
 time, and whispered: 
 
 "Do you think I shall pass away before 
 mornm ? 
 
 " O you lamb of love ! " murmured Frances, in 
 the drone of a splendid bee over honey. " You 
 ain't goin' to pass away at all, not from anything 
 you 've got now. Doctor says so." 
 
 "He thinks I 'm spleeny; but I ain't," said 
 Cynthia, with acquiescent gravity. " I 'm goin', 
 an' I 'm willin' to go; but he ain't no kind of a 
 doctor, or he 'd be the first to see it." 
 
 " Want I should stay right here in this room ? " 
 
 Cynthia shook her head. Nevertheless she 
 knew, all through that strange and dreamless 
 night, that Frances was at hand. 
 
 For a week or more Cynthia lay between 
 sleeping and waking, expectant of the end, and 
 only mildly curious about the manner of its com- 
 ing. When her heart beat hard, she felt a tem- 
 porary fright because those wings of terror shook 
 her so. The doctor came, and seeing, after the 
 
A SEA CHANGE 173 
 
 first time, how she shrank from him, would not 
 have her told. Sometimes he stood behind the 
 headboard, and looked down upon her. Often 
 he placed a gentle hand upon her wrist; and 
 always he had long talks with Frances, on his 
 way out, and gave her counsel. 
 
 The Pritchards lived in a yellow, gambrel- 
 roofed house on the great highway between Pen- 
 rith and Brighton Sands. Penrith used to be a 
 whaling port, and lies now in deserted honor, 
 hands folded upon the majestic past. At Brigh- 
 ton Sands, visitors fill the air with laughter two 
 months in the year, and go driving along the 
 county road to explore dull Penrith, so quaint, 
 so picturesque, and yet so to be eschewed in 
 favor of boxlike cottages and bare hotels. Pen- 
 rith knows but two centres of action, itself and 
 the Banks ; and who would spend a browsing day 
 there, making the tour of crooked streets, may 
 chance to learn more than he likes to remember 
 of widows keeping lookout still, and fishermen's 
 children orphaned by the snatching sea. But 
 the wide white highway to the Sands lies in the 
 light of a later founding, and holds a brighter 
 prospect than that upon the harbor and the 
 outer blue. It has but one row of houses, facing 
 toward the east ; for on the other side runs by the 
 river to its outlet at the Sands. The river has its 
 tide, and it is a chance whether you would find it 
 
174 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 more companionable lapping the stone sea wall 
 and pricked by tops of sedge, or withdrawn, 
 leaving the sedges plentiful, green in summer, 
 and, through the autumn, chestnut brown. All 
 the houses are held by seafaring folk devoted 
 now to 'longshore industry, clamming, eeling, 
 and setting lobster pots ; so when the tide serves, 
 you see giants in sou'wester and oilskin, pushing 
 out their boats, hoisting an ancient sail mellowed 
 by weather, and gliding away into the east. Or 
 they come creeping home again, and a fishy odor 
 rises pleasantly. That same sea smell troubled 
 Cynthia, used to the clear mountain air. 
 
 " Seems to me I smell suthin'," she remarked 
 doubtfully, in her first moment of sane waking. 
 "'T ain't nothin' b'ilin' over, is it?" 
 
 Mrs. Pritchard laughed till the tears came. 
 
 " It 's all that gurry over by the clamhouses," 
 she said, wiping her eyes. "I admire to smell 
 it, but I 'm so used to it 't ain't once in a dog's 
 age I can. If ever I git a real good whiff, I feel 
 as if I was made." Then she brought in a cup 
 of clam broth, and Cynthia, privately thinking 
 it "real poor stuff," sacrificed to hospitality and 
 drank. 
 
 She lay there that afternoon high on her pil- 
 lows, and surveyed the little room with some new 
 interest. 
 
 " Frances," she said suddenly, " I don't know 
 
A SEA CHANGE 175 
 
 no more 'n the dead what 's outside the house ; I 
 wisht I could jest glimpse out o' that winder." 
 
 "Cap'n!" called Mrs. Pritchard, at the door, 
 "cap'n, you come up here!" 
 
 "O land!" breathed Cynthia, for in all these 
 days she had not seen him, and it remained evi- 
 dent to her that, when they met, she must tell 
 him things. He must be made to realize that 
 although she had spinal trouble and heart dis- 
 ease, she did not mean to stay and be a burden 
 on him. What she could do was not yet appar- 
 ent; but there must be ways. So when a step 
 came stealing up the stairs, she lay with brighter 
 cheeks and waited for him, feverishly. The cap- 
 tain came in like a conciliatory cat. He was 
 very big, and tall enough to stoop under the 
 slanting roof. He had a good deal of yellow- 
 gray beard and a proud aquiline nose; his eyes 
 were very calm and steady, in the way of eyes 
 used to looking on blue water. Instead of 
 speaking to Cynthia, he gave her a queer little 
 oblique nod, and then turned to his wife for 
 orders. 
 
 "I want to kind o' pull this bed 'round," said 
 Frances, "so 't she can look out a spell." 
 
 The cap'n laid hold. He spoke but once, and 
 then Cynthia marveled at his voice, soft and Un- 
 gering like an unusual kind of purr. 
 
 '* Aleetle mite more to the no'theast," he coun- 
 
176 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 seled, pulling as Frances pushed. And the bed 
 being turned, he disappeared with the same con- 
 sidered silence, as if it were a velvet habit worn 
 to meet the world. 
 
 The window framed an exquisite picture, and 
 beguiled the eye into far-reaching glimpses more 
 bewildering still. There was the river; Cynthia 
 thought it was the sea. Beyond ran a shadowy 
 line of land, with one white tower, and over 
 the curdling water between, little sailboats were 
 winging, and dories went back and forth un- 
 hurried. 
 
 "My, ain't it complete!" she breathed. 
 "Well, I don't wonder folks carry on so over 
 the beach." 
 
 " We think it 's pretty nice," said Mrs. Pritch- 
 ard sedately, yet with pride. " There 's Fastnet 
 Island, an' that 's the light — revolvin'. I 
 should n't wonder if you 'd kind o' like to lay an' 
 watch it a spell arter dark. Cynthy used to; 
 sometimes I 'd hold her by the winder till she 
 dropped off to sleep." An old sadness tinged 
 her voice, or, perhaps, not so much sadness as 
 the sense of serious things. 
 
 Cynthia turned impulsively from her lookout. 
 
 " Yes, dear, yes," said Frances. " I 've meant 
 to tell you about her for quite a spell. It 's real 
 providential for me you took it into your head to 
 come down here, for I dunno' how I could ha' 
 
A SEA CHANGE 177 
 
 wrote it, an' mebbe cap'n an' me never 'd ha' 
 got started for such a jaunt. Well, you see, dear, 
 Cynthy wa'n't quite like other child 'en from the 
 minute she was born. She did have suthin' the 
 matter with her back, an' we thought that was 
 all; but doctor, he knew better. One day he 
 told me. ' She ain't goin' to be like other chil- 
 d'en, Mis' Pritchard,' says he. ' She don't take 
 notice. I don't presume she ever will.' " 
 
 Cynthia nodded. She kept her eyes on the 
 river now, and either that outer paradise or the 
 sorrow of life began to invade her eyes, and urge 
 forth willing tears. 
 
 "She was a handsome little creatur'," said 
 Frances proudly. " Hair like corn silk, an' skin 
 as white an' pink as ever you see. She favored 
 cap'n's family. The Pritchards are all light. 
 Sometimes it did n't seem as if we 'd be able to 
 bring her up, she used to get so hurt. 'T wa'n't 
 so much that she was ailin', but she seemed too 
 kind o' delicate to stan' this kind of a world. 
 Noises put her out, an' a cross look 'd make her 
 cry. Cap'n an' I 'd been through a good deal 
 'fore we met one another, married late in life, so. 
 He 'd had a tempestuous kind of a time, an' you 
 know I got 'most beat out with all the sickness 
 we went through, 'fore the home was broke up. 
 We set terribly by one another, but we had our 
 failin's, an' sometimes I 'd flare out an' he 'd 
 
178 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 swear. When Cynthy come, that tried her 'most 
 to death — I dunno' why, when she did n't sense 
 it — an' we sort o' quieted down, an' let every- 
 thing go but her. I could n't begin to tell you 
 the beautiful time we had with that child. I 
 can't explain how it was, but she more 'n filled 
 up our lives, an' yet we prized one another till it 
 seemed as if 't was Beulah Land, an' all the pro- 
 mises come true. We had n't a thing to ask for, 
 an' as soon as ever a shadder passed over her face, 
 we 'd seek about for suthin' to drive it away; 
 an' cap'n's voice would fall lower 'n' lower 
 an' he 'd smile all by himself to git into the 
 habit on 't. We took up singin' a little. That 
 pleased her, an' we conjured up all the old tunes 
 we knew. We ain't gi'n that up, either, an' 
 we ain't a-goin' to. We 've laid it aside till you 
 git your bearin's, but as soon as ever you can 
 stan' it, we '11 take our harps down off the wilier, 
 an' glad enough to do it, too. Perhaps you '11 
 jine in. You used to sing the air." 
 
 Cynthia nodded again. The story gripped 
 her heart ; listening to it, she forgot her own past 
 martyrdom. 
 
 Mrs. Pritchard went on, passing a hand over 
 her eyes when a thought touched her too 
 keenly. 
 
 "She was terrible cunnin', too, about the 
 things she liked. There 's one pinky kind of a 
 
A SEA CHANGE 179 
 
 shade in the water out there, — the west sort o' 
 throws it over when there 's a great sunset, — 
 an' whenever she set eyes on that, she 'd clap her 
 hands an' laugh. An' she al'ays did see it when 
 cap'n was to home, for he 'd come in an' call: 
 ' Quick,' he 'd say, ' there 's Cynthy's red ! ' 
 That 's the reason, too, that cap'n give up goin' 
 to the Banks. We talked it over pretty serious, 
 him an' me, an' we concluded it wa'n't no kind 
 of a resk for a man to take with a little creatur' 
 like that missin' him if he 's out o' the house an 
 hour over time. 'Besides,' says cap'n, ' I should 
 n't see nothin' but them eyes through the fog. 
 It kind of undoes a man to be so called upon.' 
 Well, so 't went on, an' we were proper well con- 
 tented. The only thing that unstiddied us a 
 little was suthin' doctor wanted we should do.'* 
 
 "Do you think he's much of a doctor?" 
 interrupted Cynthia impulsively. 
 
 Mrs. Pritchard smiled. 
 
 "We think he is," she said quietly. "He 's 
 brought us through consid'able, fust an' last. 
 Well, he said there were schools where them 
 kind o' child'en could be helped, an' mebbe 
 we 'd find it our duty to send Cynthy off. It 
 sort o' loomed up before us like a cloud in the 
 west, but it never had to be. Two year ago, 
 doctor says, ' I guess you need n't worry about 
 that no more. She ain't long for this life.' An' 
 
180 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 come a year last December, she passed away. 
 ... I wish you could ha' seen her in her little 
 bed. Never was anything like it on this earth. 
 Cap'n could n't keep out o' the room. He 'd 
 set an' watch her jest like a waitin' dog." 
 
 The quick tears sprang to Cynthia's eyes, but 
 Frances, seeing them, smiled. 
 
 "Now you may know," she said, rousing her- 
 self, " how 't is you 're a kind of a godsend to us. 
 I could n't wish sickness to nobody, especially 
 my own sister; but I can't tell ye how it warms 
 me up to have suthin' helpless to do for. An' 
 cap'n! first minute I told him you 'd gi'n out, 
 he says, ' Better keep pretty quiet, had n't I ? ' 
 'Yes,' says I. I see it pleased him; seemed like 
 old times." 
 
 Then they held a long silence, Cynthia watch- 
 ing the changing wonder of the water, but 
 thinking of other things. 
 
 . " I wrote to Timothy last week," said Frances 
 suddenly. 
 
 It seemed to Cynthia as if an inky cloud de- 
 scended with the name. All her troubles re- 
 turned to her, and she wondered if this might 
 be the time to tell why she had come. 
 
 "Oh, I wish you hadn't!" she moaned. 
 "Did you say anything about my bein' sick?" 
 
 " No ; I said you seemed tol'able tired with the 
 journey, an' so I wrote for ye." 
 
A SEA CHANGE 181 
 
 Cynthia had lost all the pretty color, born in 
 her face only that afternoon. She spoke in 
 gasps : 
 
 " Frances, if I 'd got suthin' to tell you, should 
 you think I 'd ought to do it now ? " 
 
 " I should n't open my head about anything 
 till I was up an' round, an' strong enough to do 
 a week's washin'. Now you jest observe that 
 little Pemberton imp, rowin' over to the bar. 
 Them Pembertons were born web-footed." So 
 they sat and watched the adventurer until Cyn- 
 thia was at ease again under the spell of common 
 things. 
 
 But when Frances rose to go down and get 
 supper, she stood smoothing her apron a mo- 
 ment before she said: 
 
 "I'd be happy to have Timothy make us a 
 visit, too. We both should ; cap'n an' I 've often 
 spoke on 't. He 's had a hard life up there, 
 tryin' to wring a livin' out o' the rocks. Cap'n 
 says 't is an unthankful land ; not like rowin' out 
 overnight an' comin' in with your boat full to 
 the gunnel." 
 
 " It 's real green up there," responded Cyn- 
 thia quickly. " Our land 's richer 'n some." 
 
 " Timothy was a likely young feller when you 
 was married. I s'pose he 's changed, like the 
 rest of us." 
 
 "Yes, I guess he 's some changed." Cynthia 
 
182 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 closed her eyes, not so much in weariness as to 
 shut her thoughts away. 
 
 The bed was never turned again, for she was 
 too fascinated by her window to forego an in- 
 stant of it. There she lay, hour by hour, and 
 watched the drama played by moving water: 
 the ripples under a breeze, the miracle of the 
 tide, with flooded or waving sedge, the sentient 
 boats, the gulls. Then at dusk there was the 
 light, gone and resurrected in a breath. As 
 soon as she got used to cap'n, which really was 
 the moment when he moved the bed, she hun- 
 gered for him, childishly ; so every night he came 
 up and sat on the stairs, because the room was 
 small, and told stories or sang tunes. Frances 
 helped him at both, and the wan little onlooker 
 could see that they had much ado to show, in 
 quiet ways, how much they loved each other. 
 *'I dunno' 's I 've got a thing to wish for, now 
 little Cynthy 's well on 't," said the tranquil 
 wife, " on'y, when our time comes, to have cap'n 
 go fust. It 's a terrible thing to think of a man 
 left all alone." 
 
 The weeks went on, and Cynthia, lying there 
 in bed, grew plump and pretty. Her hair took 
 on a gloss from many brushings, and with that 
 mantling redness of the cheek, she looked the 
 younger sister of her old sad self. Yet still care 
 sat upon her breast, a double weight. There 
 
A SEA CHANGE 183 
 
 was the haunting spectre of her divorce ; but how 
 could she get it now, a helpless invalid ? What 
 was to be done with a woman felled by spinal 
 trouble ? So she lay very still and tried to get 
 well, not because life looked in the least desir- 
 able, but that she might rise up and take herself 
 away from these kind souls. 
 
 One day in July, Frances came up the stairs 
 laughing. Her sides shook, her face was crim- 
 son; it seemed to be from no fictitious mirth. 
 
 " I 'm possessed to do it! " she cried recklessly. 
 "You know doctor said you was to lay abed as 
 long as ever you could ? Well, cap'n 's up town, 
 an' doctor 's rode by to Brighton, an' I 'm goin' 
 to see if I can't git you downstairs to see my jell. 
 It 's all set out on the table, an' a beautiful sight, 
 if I do say it." 
 
 Cynthia stared at her, aghast. "Why, you 
 could n't no more git me down there ! You 'd 
 break your back, an' then where 'd you be .^ " 
 
 Frances seemed simply to put out her great 
 arms, and Cynthia touched the floor. 
 
 "O my soul an' body!" she cried, "you'll 
 kill me! you'll kill yourself! O my soul!" 
 
 Frances, puffing tempestuously, lifted her and 
 bore her to the stairs. Cynthia thought she was 
 carried all the way down, but she remembered 
 afterwards the touch of the carpet on her feet. 
 In some fashion or other, they accomplished the 
 
184 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 passage from sitting-room to kitchen, and there 
 Frances endowed her with stockings and a 
 wrapper miraculously ready. Cynthia stood be- 
 wildered, and Mrs. Pritchard left her standing; 
 as for her, she seemed to have no eyes but for the 
 table, red with jelly tumblers. 
 
 "Ain't that a handsome color .^" she asked 
 hurriedly. ** Seems if it jelled 'most as quick as 
 it touched the glass. I thought that was as 
 pretty a sight as ever I see. O Cynthy ! you jest 
 peek in here. I 've got the parlor cupboard all 
 fixed to set it in, scalloped papers an' all. Yes, 
 I don't wonder you observe the what-not. 
 That 's some coral cap'n's father brought home, 
 from 'the strand,' he used to say. I guess 
 't would tell tales if it could only speak." Mrs. 
 Pritchard had always talked with great sedate- 
 ness; now she chattered like a showman, bound 
 to please. Cynthia stood by, wondering. "I 
 declare," said Frances, at last, "if it ain't five 
 o'clock! Cap'n won't be back 'fore dusk. 
 What if you an' me should have an early bite, 
 right off now ? " 
 
 Cynthia, pushed out of the nest, felt a little 
 hurt resistance rising in her. Yet pride sus- 
 tained her, and she sat stiffly by, while Frances 
 talked. It was more or less pleasant to watch 
 the machinery of life going on once more, if only 
 one were strong enough to bear it ; but, she told 
 
A SEA CHANGE 185 
 
 herself, she was not strong. When the twiUght 
 came, she had grown tired, and, still a little sore 
 within her mind, she crept upstairs alone, won- 
 dering and afraid to wonder. 
 
 Next morning, Mrs. Pritchard's voice came 
 cheerfully from below: 
 
 *' Cynthy, don't you be put out if I ain't round 
 quite so early this mornin'. I 've got a kind of 
 a stitch in my side, an' breakfast '11 be later 'n 
 common." 
 
 "O my soul!" responded Cynthia. On the 
 instant she was at the closet, searching for her 
 clothes. "Don't you come up here with that 
 heavy waiter. It 's tendin' on me that 's wore 
 you out. I 'd ought to be trounced." She 
 dressed herself with eager fingers, and felt her 
 way downstairs. Breakfast was nearly ready, 
 and though Frances complained of her side, she 
 seemed to bear it beautifully. In a couple of 
 hours the stitch was knitted up again. 
 
 But Cynthia did not go back to bed, and no- 
 body seemed to wonder. When cap'n came, he 
 only told her, in the softest possible voice, about 
 the good haul he had ; and the doctor, stopping 
 at the gate on his way home, called to her that 
 he had something for her : bayberry and green 
 beach plums. She 'd better can up some of the 
 plums, when they were ripe, to take home, and 
 show the mountain what 's what. 
 
186 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 One August day Cynthia, in a calico gown and 
 sunbonnet, her arms bare to the elbow, was con- 
 sidering the hollyhocks in the front yard. She 
 thought they needed more foot room ; so she got 
 the spade and began an onslaught on the border- 
 ing turf. As she set her foot upon the spade, life 
 rioted within her, and she sang, in breathless 
 jerks : 
 
 " There was a youth, 
 And a well-beloved youth " — 
 
 Hope and joy were stirring as the sap mantles 
 upward in the spring, and for as plain a reason. 
 She was well now, and the earth was hers again. 
 If battles were to be fought, she could fight them. 
 It need not be long before she left this refuge, 
 and went out to earn her living in the world. 
 
 A man was halting at the open gate. He 
 looked unfamiliar and yet, at sight of him, her 
 flesh awoke under a strange responsive thrill. 
 Her eyes fell upon his boots, furrowed with dust, 
 and she thought of Timothy's. A little laugh 
 broke from her at the shadow of those former 
 fears; she felt a happy scorn of them. 
 
 " Is there anybody 'round here by the name of 
 Pritchard ? " asked the man ; and Cynthia, throw- 
 ing down her spade and tossing away her sun- 
 bonnet, ran out and hung upon him. Frances, 
 at the window, saw the sight and turned away, 
 with an aching throat. Cynthia seemed to her 
 
A SEA CHANGE 187 
 
 now not so much her sister, as a child, miracu- 
 lously bestowed; but she knew which path was 
 best. Timothy put his arms about the clinging 
 figure, knowing it to be his, and yet unaware of 
 ever having owned anything so precious. She 
 was like the angel of her youth ; he was afraid 
 of her, she looked so pretty. She rubbed her 
 face against his coat. 
 
 " Oh, how good it is ! " she was sobbing wildly. 
 "You smell jest like home. Oh, can't you kiss 
 me?" 
 
 Timothy found he could, and liked the taste 
 exceedingly. 
 
 "You've had your hair cut," laughed Cyn- 
 thia, brushing her eyes with the back of a gritty 
 hand. "An' your beard's trimmed. That's 
 why I did n't know you." 
 
 Timothy looked self-conscious. Yet he held 
 himself with some just pride. 
 
 "Well," he said, "I thought I'd have 'em 
 thinned out a little, if I was goin' down among 
 the quality." 
 
 Later that day, when the Pritchards were up- 
 stairs hunting for an old suit for Timothy to 
 wear clamming, Cynthia came and perched upon 
 his knee. She had seen her sister in that posi- 
 tion relative to the cap'n, and found, with great 
 surprise, that Timothy seemed to adapt himself 
 to it quite cleverly. 
 
188 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 " Is the mountain all purple ? " she asked, from 
 the keenness of her new home hunger," an' mists 
 runnin' over the side ? Oh, seems if I could n't 
 wait to see it! I dunno' how I 've lived till now." 
 
 "We could go straight back to-morrer," said 
 Timothy, regarding her with his good brown 
 eyes. She could not understand them. They 
 were his eyes, indeed, yet they had never been so 
 soft and shining. She shook her head. 
 
 "No, you've got to stay them two weeks. 
 I 've had my change; I 'm goin' to see to 't you 
 have yours. An' company ! I want Frances an' 
 the cap'n should come up an' make us a nice 
 long visit, an' find out we 've got suthin' to 
 show off on, too." 
 
 "Well," said Timothy slowly, "I told the 
 Taylors I might come back right off, or it migjit 
 be a fortnight. They 're nice help to leave as 
 ever you see. I told her to clean up the house 
 as you 'd like to have it, in case you went up 
 along with me. Seemed one time as if you never 
 meant to come home. Say, Cynthy, that wa'n't 
 so when you went away, was it ? " 
 
 Cynthia trembled a little. She glanced at his 
 betraying eyes, and they were wet. He looked 
 like an unreasoning creature which has suffered 
 pain, and gained a lifetime at a bound. 
 
 "I meant to stay till I was good an' strong," 
 she said firmly; and he believed her. 
 
A SEA CHANGE 189 
 
 Announcing garments came flying down the 
 stairs, and steps would follow. Cynthia, rising, 
 paused for one hasty question: 
 
 "Timothy, what 'd you do with that little cup 
 you broke, the mornin' I went away ? " 
 
 He opened his mouth wide, in the horror of 
 the careless steward. 
 
 " Hove it under the barn," he owned guiltily. 
 "Had I ought to ha' kep' it?" 
 
 Cynthia laughed, with the tears coming. " No, 
 no!" she cried. "I could n't ever bear to see it 
 ag'in. There they are — dear!" 
 
THE TREE OF A THOUSAND LEAVES 
 
THE TREE OF A THOUSAND LEAVES 
 
 "You give me that serpentine braid," said Aunt 
 Ellen Temple to her niece, Myra. "My! ain't 
 there a lot of it ! You must ha' be'n crochetin' 
 nigh about all winter. It 's real tight an' firm, 
 too." 
 
 They were sitting in the west chamber, each 
 at a window, rocking and sewing as they talked. 
 Myra was a thin, straight girl, with reproving 
 eyes and an axiomatic mouth. She was ex- 
 tremely pretty, in an irreproachable way. Her 
 complexion was faultless ; the pink of her cheeks 
 looked as if it had been tinted there by some 
 designer of beauty for the world's great fashion- 
 plate. All her features would pass muster: yet 
 they left the onlooker cold. Aunt Ellen, who 
 had come on from the West to mother the girl 
 in her wedding preparations, took the liberty of 
 wondering why the young minister should have 
 been drawn to Myra. Aunt Ellen, in her secret 
 mind, decided that she would sooner wed with 
 the poker. She herself was of another stamp 
 even from her dead sister, Myra's mother, whom 
 Myra so much resembled. She was a generous 
 type of woman, with brown eyes and a mobile 
 
194 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 mouth. Though she was long over forty, she 
 knew her small beauties, and smiled at them in 
 the glass. Her elbows had dimples in them; 
 and when her sleeves were stripped up for bread- 
 making, the casual eye was welcome to linger on 
 those decorative indentations. Myra's mother 
 had used to say that Ellen was bewitched over 
 men folks. That was not true. Ellen knew 
 what bewitched them, and she liked to answer 
 in key. 
 
 "I was terrible pleased when I got your let- 
 ter," she said incidentally, as she set her quick, 
 careful stitches. She always used a short thread, 
 and drew it back and forth with a capable 
 speed. " I 'd be'n sort o' makin' up my mind 
 to come on East, an' the minute you wrote 
 *weddin',' I says to myself, 'Now 's my time.'" 
 
 " I knew you had n't any ties to prevent you," 
 said Myra, with the air of keeping funeral 
 state over cold memories, " since Uncle Hiram 
 died." 
 
 Aunt Ellen laughed, a rich little gurgle. 
 
 " Law, yes, I have," she said. " I 've got ties 
 everywhere I 've ever be'n. I know every man, 
 woman, and child in town out there, an' when 
 I come away they were all grabbin' at my pet- 
 ticoats an' holdin' me back. Ties! I guess 
 I have. But I thought there would n't be no 
 harm in makin' a few new ones." 
 
TREE OF A THOUSAND LEAVES 195 
 
 Myra was frowning over her work. 
 
 "I had a kind of a plan," she said. "I 
 thought may be you 'd fall in with it. I don't 
 know as you 've noticed it — but father 's a 
 great trial to us. " She looked up challengingly, 
 and her blue eyes were honest, though cold. 
 
 Aunt Ellen did not trouble herself to meet 
 them. She had "sized up" her niece in child- 
 hood, and that record was lasting very well. 
 
 "What 's the matter of him.^" she inquired 
 easily. 
 
 Myra launched into a confidence likely, she 
 fancied, to be understood. 
 
 " Father 's terrible queer. He always was, 
 but he 's queerer 'n ever. He 's been a dread- 
 ful trial all winter. Elbert sees it. He recog- 
 nized it, he said, when he asked me to marry 
 him. He recognized the fact that father would 
 be a great responsibility to us." Her voice had 
 taken on the tone of her lover's speech. It had 
 a pulpit flavor, adapted to the household. 
 
 Aunt Ellen rocked and sewed. 
 
 "Ain't your father well in health .^" she asked 
 casually. "Seems so to me." 
 
 " Yes, oh, yes ! " returned Myra, with a neutral 
 emphasis extreme in her; it made her top-note of 
 passion. "Father's young for his age. It's 
 his mind. I 'm going to tell you the whole : all 
 last winter from Thanksgiving on, he spent the 
 
196 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 greater part of the day doing sums. He 'd make 
 'em up out of his head, and then he 'd try to 
 prove 'em." 
 
 "Well," said Aunt Ellen, "I don't see 's that 
 troubled anybody." 
 
 "Why, he was set on it!" cried Myra. "That 
 cold storm, he stayed out in the shed and ci- 
 phered, on the boards with a piece o' chalk. And 
 Elbert lent him books, and he would n't read 
 'em. And he 'd pray with him, and father 'd sit 
 and keep his pencil down hard on the place 
 where he was in his figuring, and when Elbert 
 stopped, he 'd go right on adding up." 
 
 Aunt Ellen laid down her work. She spoke 
 slowly, with an emphasis unusual in her. 
 
 " I don't know 's anybody 's ever told you, 
 Myra, that your father 's always had that bent ? 
 When he was quite a young man — I was a little 
 girl then — he run through all the cipherin' 
 books he could git, an' the old minister that was 
 — Parson True — he bought him some more, 
 an' he run through them." 
 
 "Oh, I know that!" said Myra. "Mother 
 told me. It always worried mother. It tried 
 her 'most to death." 
 
 " What made it ? " asked Aunt Ellen. " Now 
 what do you s'pose made it.^" 
 
 Myra opened her mouth to speak, and then 
 closed it again. Her neat intelligence felt itself 
 
TREE OF A THOUSAND LEAVES 197 
 
 rebuffed. "Why," she said, "why, it did! 
 'T would worry anybody." 
 
 " You see," said Aunt Ellen, ignoring the con- 
 clusion, "your mother knew all about that be- 
 forehand. When she married him, she married 
 his cipherin' too. That 's the long an' short 
 on t. 
 
 "You don't mean to say you stand up for 
 him.?" asked Myra, her blue eyes widening. 
 
 Aunt Ellen laughed. She had gone back to 
 her air of irresponsible good-humor. 
 
 " I Stan' up for 'most everybody, Myra," said 
 she. "Law! the minute you git inside their 
 skins you can't help it. Now you look here ! ain't 
 your father contented when he 's cipherin' ?" 
 
 "Yes, he 's contented enough." 
 
 "Ain't he real pleasant company when he 
 ain't interfered with.?" 
 
 "Why, yes. Aunt Ellen! It takes up his 
 mind. He ain't got eyes nor ears for anybody." 
 
 "Well, then, let him cipher, an' you do your 
 serpentine, an' Elbert can do his preachin'. 
 That 's all there is to it." 
 
 Myra set her mouth in the lines bequeathed 
 her by her mother. 
 
 " Father 's my responsibility," said she. " Be- 
 sides — Aunt Ellen, you just cast your eye out 
 there ! " She rose and pointed from the window. 
 The orchard lay in that direction, and the May 
 
198 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 sun was warm on petals flushed with pink. Aunt 
 Ellen also rose, obeying with a mild regard. 
 Nothing that Myra had to offer need, she 
 judged, stir her to keen emotion. 
 
 "Where.?" she asked. 
 
 " In the gillyflower tree. Don't you see him ? " 
 
 "Who.?" 
 
 "Father. There 's his legs." 
 
 A blue overalled leg was depending from a 
 bough. 
 
 " Where 's t'other one ? " asked Aunt Ellen, as 
 if it were a question of legs. 
 
 "T' other one.?" repeated Myra impatiently. 
 "T' other leg ? why, he 's sitting on it. See the 
 leaves!" A green shower fell from the tree. 
 " He 's picking off leaves. He 's be'n doing that 
 for a week. Now if you don't call that being 
 out of anybody's head, what do you call it .? " 
 
 A slight shade passed over Aunt Ellen's face. 
 
 " Have you spoke to him about it .? " she asked. 
 
 " Of course I have. So 's Elbert. Elbert told 
 him he should make it a subject of prayer." 
 
 "What 'd your father say?" 
 
 "Why, he was up in the Hubbardston when 
 we found it out, and he just got down out of it 
 and walked away. 'T was only this morning I 
 see he 'd took to the gillyflower." 
 
 Aunt Ellen rolled up her work, in her quick 
 way, and caught the scissors from the table. 
 
TREE OF A THOUSAND LEAVES 199 
 
 "Where you going?" asked Myra. 
 
 " I thought I 'd take my sewin' out an' set 
 with your father a spell. I '11 borry that little 
 rocker out o' the kitchen." She was walking 
 toward the door, but Myra stepped hastily after. 
 
 "You wait a minute, Aunt Ellen," said she. 
 " Let me finish up. I told you I 'd got a plan. 
 Elbert and I think it 's best for father to live 
 with us, and he won't. Father just won't." 
 
 "No," said Aunt Ellen smoothly; "I think 's 
 likely 's not." 
 
 "But it 's best for father. Father 's our re- 
 sponsibility. Elbert says we must n't shirk it. 
 Now father never seems to think you own half 
 of this place, and always have, ever since 't was 
 left to you and mother together. But if you 
 should say you 'd made up your mind to come 
 East to live, it would drive him right out of here, 
 and there 'd be nothing for it but to have him go 
 with us. And it 's a real mercy we 're going to 
 live in a town. He could n't go climbing trees 
 and sitting there picking off leaves. I 'm wor- 
 ried to death about father. If he ain't crazy, 
 nobody ever was ; and unless something 's done 
 where 's it all going to end ? " 
 
 "Well," said Aunt Ellen thoughtfully, "I 
 guess I '11 go out an' set a spell." 
 
 Ellen walked slowly through the orchard, her 
 sewing in one hand and the rocking-chair, held 
 
200 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 by the top, bumping along behind. It was high 
 summer-time in the midst of spring. The birds 
 were loud in a wild and never dissonant chorus 
 sung to different keys, and the green was brilliant 
 under a fervid sky. Ellen smelled the apple 
 blossoms, sweet with their tang of bitter, before 
 she came under the trees, and reflected that if it 
 were not for that blossomy index of time, she 
 might almost have thought it the last of June. 
 She put her chair down under the gillyflower, 
 and seated herself. She spread out her apron 
 and took her work in hand. Only then did she 
 lift a glance to the overalled leg. 
 
 " You up there, William ? " called she. " Ain't 
 this day the crowner.^" 
 
 William swung himself into range. He was 
 gazing down upon her. He was a lightly built 
 man who looked something less than his age. 
 His brown hair was still thick. His blue eyes 
 were gentle, and the great forehead overtopped 
 his face. But there was something childlike and 
 sweet about his mouth and chin. Even at sixty, 
 he looked as if the world might fret him into a 
 perplexed discomfort from which he could see no 
 escape. 
 
 "That you, Ellen.?" he responded shyly. 
 
 " Yes, it 's me. I thought I 'd bring my sew- 
 in' out a spell, an' we 'd have a dish o' discourse. 
 It 's an elegant day to set up there amongst the 
 
TREE OF A THOUSAND LEAVES 201 
 
 branches. I wisht I could. But my! I ain't 
 clipper-built like some." 
 
 William was silent for a moment, and then he 
 opened his hand and let loose a fluttering of 
 leaves. Some of them fell in Ellen's lap, but she 
 did not seem to notice them. Finally he spoke, 
 with a diflficult candor. 
 
 "Myra thinks I'm crazed, settin' up here." 
 
 Ellen laughed richly. 
 
 "Law!" said she, "fur's I can make out 
 everybody thinks everybody's crazed, all ex- 
 ceptin' themselves. I dunno' what difference it 
 makes what we do, so 's we don't interfere with 
 other folks." 
 
 " Nor I neither ! " replied William explosively. 
 "Nor I neither. Ellen, what should you say if 
 I told you I was numberin' off the leaves o' this 
 tree ?" He spoke with a keen anxiety, as if the 
 words held more than common value. Ellen 
 dropped her spool, and there was silence while 
 she stooped for it. Then she answered : 
 
 "Why, I dunno' exactly what I should say! 
 Yes, I do, too. I guess I should ask ye how fur 
 you 'd got. How fur have you got, William ? " 
 
 William kicked his legs forward with a haste 
 that looked like jubilation. They dangled from 
 the limb, and in a moment his feet were on the 
 ground. His face had flushed with something 
 more than the exertion. It looked like pleasure 
 
202 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 or some tremulous expectancy. Ellen glanced 
 up with a frank smile. 
 
 "My!" said she composedly. "You come 
 down like a cat." 
 
 There was an old milking-stool under the 
 apple-tree. He had put it there to reach the 
 branches, not being able to " shinny" as in early 
 youth. Now he took the stool and set it in front 
 of Ellen, and there he placed himself. He was a 
 well-made man, with firm, strong hands. He 
 was noticeably clean in his workaday clothes, 
 and his face looked very honest. 
 
 "Ellen," said he, "seems if you had more 
 sense 'n the common run o' women. Now you 
 look here. Don't you think 't would be sort of 
 interestin' to know how many leaves there was 
 on a tree.^^" 
 
 Ellen's gaze met his in an untroubled candor. 
 
 " I think 't would be terrible interestin'," she 
 said. " I don't believe anybody ever did afore." 
 
 "I don't believe they ever did," said William, 
 in a painful earnestness. " It come over me last 
 winter when that poor tool of a minister was 
 readin' a chapter, an' I was cipherin', how kind 
 of interestin' it was for the Lord to keep num- 
 berin' things. The hairs of our head, they 're all 
 numbered, so we 're told. Then there 's the 
 fishes in the sea an' the birds o' the air. They 're 
 numbered, too. An' it come over me when the 
 
TREE OF A THOUSAND LEAVES 203 
 
 leaves was out an' before the canker worms 
 come, I 'd number me jest one tree an' know 
 how many leaves there was. So I began on the 
 old Hubbardston " — A sinister recollection 
 darkened his brow. 
 
 "Well, what made ye stop?" 
 
 "Myra 'n' that young Nimshi made me so 
 tamal mad I lost count. Dum fools!" But as 
 Ellen laughed, a slow gleam overspread his face, 
 and he, too, laughed. 
 
 "How fur ye got on the gillyflower?" she 
 asked, as if it were a desirable secret. 
 
 William looked whimsically disconcerted. 
 
 " I got up to three hunderd an' nine," said he; 
 "but when you come out, I picked off three or 
 four together, an' that way I kinder lost count." 
 
 "You don't say!" commented Ellen, in a 
 warm excess of sympathy. " William, I tell you 
 what: you move up into that sweet-bough an' 
 begin over, an' I tell you what you do. You 
 pick the leaves into a basl«;et, an' when you've 
 got as much done as you feel like doin', I '11 
 number 'em over after ye, an' see 'f we agree." 
 
 Tears stood in William's eyes. 
 
 "Ellen," he said, "Ellen"— Then he 
 stopped. 
 
 " Not but what I think your account '11 come 
 out right," said Ellen hastily. " I guess 't will, 
 an' you with your head full o' figgers. Parson 
 
204 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 True used to say you was a very gifted man, 
 doin' sums an' all." 
 
 "Did he?" asked William, in a hushed voice. 
 His face had the unbelieving joy of one arrived 
 at last. " Did Parson True say that ? " 
 
 "Yes, he did. I heard it with my own ears. 
 I wa'n't nothin' but a little tot, but 't was the 
 year you an' Myra was married. Myra was 
 there, too. Did n't she never tell ye.^" 
 
 His face darkened. "No," he said, "no. 
 She 'd ha' be'n afraid 't would encourage me. 
 She thought 't was all foolishness, my cipherin'." 
 
 "You an' Myra was a handsome couple," said 
 Ellen irrelevantly. 
 
 "She was a pretty girl," returned William 
 with indifference, as if he made his dead mate a 
 just concession. 
 
 "Aterrible handsome couple," repeated Ellen. 
 Then she laughed. "Law, William," said she, 
 " there wa'n't a girl in town but what would ha* 
 jumped mast-high to git ye. I was nothin' but 
 a mite then. I did n't grow up till later. But I 
 remember, as if 't was yesterday, jest how you 
 looked." 
 
 The dinner horn, in meagre volume, broke 
 upon the air. Ellen gathered up her work. 
 
 " Seems to me she 's be'n terrible spry with 
 her dinner," was her smiling comment. "But 
 there! time flies swift in pleasant company." 
 
TREE OF A THOUSAND LEAVES 205 
 
 William straightened his broad shoulders. 
 
 "Don't you go to tuggin' along that rocker," 
 said he, with a conscious gallantry. "That's 
 my job." 
 
 The next morning, after breakfast, William 
 looked remindingly at Ellen, and she answered 
 by a confirming nod. Myra was there, clearing 
 the table, and William, after one glance at her, 
 as if to assure himself of her topography, went 
 out into the shed. Ellen followed him. He 
 jerked his thumb toward the kitchen. 
 
 "Don't say one word," he began, in a be- 
 seeching undertone, " or she '11 git up on her 
 high hoss. You ain't forgot that numberin' ?" 
 
 " Law, no ! " said Ellen cheerfully. " I should 
 admire to do it. I 'm ready when you be. I 've 
 got a pencil an' paper in my pocket, an' my 
 head 's as clear as a bell." 
 
 "That's jest the question." His tone was 
 one of deep dejection. "The mornin' 's the 
 best time o' day; but I 've got to do my hoein' 
 fust, whether or no. That 's one rule I made, 
 Ellen. I made it when she was alive. I says, 
 I won't let my figgerin' prevent me from doin' 
 what other folks do. I said that, Ellen, an' I '11 
 hold to it. This farm 's as good a farm as there 
 is east o' the Connecticut River." 
 
 He was regarding her with a wistful anxiety. 
 Ellen knew he longed to please. 
 
206 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 "Don't you worry, William," said she, from 
 her all-embracing kindliness. "You 've done 
 well by the farm. Nobody 's ever denied that. 
 Now I '11 tell you what : long about three o'clock 
 Myra 's goin' to ride with that infant Samwel 
 o' hers, an' soon as they 're fairly down the road 
 you an' I '11 slip out an' begin our numberin'." 
 
 "Father!" called Myra, from the kitchen. 
 "Father, you there?" 
 
 William turned with the speed of one accus- 
 tomed to count that summons a dismissal, and 
 loped away in tiptoeing strides, as if he trod un- 
 certain ground. 
 
 In a moment Ellen was back in the kitchen, 
 humming a cheerful stave. 
 
 "You seen father.?" inquired Myra, with the 
 sharpness of the true home ruler. 
 
 "Your father.?" inquired Aunt Ellen plea- 
 santly. " Le' me see. Oh, yes ! there he is now, 
 goin' out towards the corn-house." 
 
 Myra took a brief glance from the window and 
 returned to her dishes, mollified. 
 
 " Yes," said she, " he 's got his hoe. He 's ofiF 
 my mind till dinner-time. Well," she went on 
 presently, as she put the hot tumblers in their 
 draining pan, " what did father have to say for 
 himself?" 
 
 "Say for himself?" repeated Aunt Ellen 
 vaguely. "When?" 
 
TREE OF A THOUSAND LEAVES 207 
 
 " Yesterday, out under the gillyflower tree. I 
 have n't had a minute to ask." 
 
 "Oh, not much of anything!" 
 
 "Did n't he speak about the numbering?" 
 
 " Well, he kind o' beat 'round it. I should n't 
 worry about that, if I 's you. He don't mean 
 any harm." 
 
 " There 's a good many folks that don't mean 
 any harm," said Myra, with a judicial com- 
 prehensiveness. 
 
 That afternoon, when the young preacher 
 stopped at the gate. Aunt Ellen was taking a 
 nap, and she continued it until he and Myra 
 drove away. Then, peering at them through 
 the blinds, she laughed, and presently sped 
 down the stairs as lightly as a girl to some tryst, 
 half humorous, half loving. Under the sweet- 
 bough tree she halted and looked up. There 
 was a shape in the branches, and a sound. 
 William was laughing. Immediately she was 
 aware that he cared more about their conclave 
 than for the number of the leaves. 
 
 "You ain't brought your chair," said he, 
 with chivalrous concern. 
 
 " No. I '11 take this stool. I may want to 
 clip it into the house, if they should turn 'round 
 an' come back. Now you go ahead, William. 
 How you goin' to manage ? You got anything 
 up there to pick into ? " 
 
208 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 "Yes," said William absorbedly. "When I 
 git a certain number, I '11 pass it down to you." 
 
 Ellen sat there in the sweet spring weather, 
 and looked away beyond the orchard reaches. 
 She was delightfully content. For the last 
 twenty years she had lived a life of experience 
 and action such as these men and women could 
 scarcely understand; yet here her being had its 
 root, and it had never really been uptorn. The 
 fibres had spread over a wide surface, but from 
 this New England soil she drew true nourish- 
 ment. 
 
 "There!" said William. "You put up your 
 hand, an' I '11 pass ye down the basket." 
 
 "Yes," said Ellen. "Now I '11 count." 
 
 She went back to the stool and sat there buried 
 in her task. William, for the moment, was not 
 counting. He was dangling idly in the branches, 
 pondering over a ray of sunlight on the bright 
 thickness of her hair. 
 
 "Ellen," said he irrepressibly, "I don't be- 
 lieve you 've got a gray hair in your head!" 
 
 " Seventy-three — seventy-four," said Ellen. 
 There was a bubble of fun in her voice. " Don't 
 you interrupt my countin'." 
 
 William kicked his heels against a bough. 
 For the first time in his life he felt the stimulus 
 of a nature to which counting seemed, for some 
 reason, as important as it did to him. 
 
TREE OF A THOUSAND LEAVES 209 
 
 "Two hunderd an' seventy-three!" said 
 Ellen. 
 
 " Correct!" He came to the ground with an 
 elastic speed. "Say," said he, "I guess we 've 
 counted enough for one day." 
 
 "Law, William, we ain't half begun!" 
 
 " No, but there 's other days comin'. I was 
 thinkin' last night, when you an' Myra was 
 settin' out on the front steps, that I ain't asked 
 sca'cely anything to speak of about your livin' 
 out West." 
 
 " 'T was proper hard, the fust years of it," 
 said Ellen, falling at once into a sweet-toned 
 confidingness. " We lived pretty nigh the wind. 
 The worst days we had was in Montana." 
 
 " 'T was there Hiram was taken away, as I 
 remember." 
 
 "Yes. You let me put down this number. 
 Two hunderd an' seventy-three! That 's what 
 we both made it. Now I '11 keep that paper 
 right in my pocketbook, an' whenever you say 
 to go on, it '11 be all ready to add to." She 
 folded her plump hands in her lap, and looked 
 up smilingly at William, where he stood leaning 
 against the tree. 
 
 "Well, all I can say is, you don't look as if 
 you 'd passed through any hardships," said he, 
 with the honesty of one unused to compliment. 
 
 Ellen smiled at him and shook her head. 
 
210 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 "I don't dwell on things," said she. "What 's 
 the use when they 're over an' done ? Yes, we 
 had a pretty tough time; but Hiram left me 
 some real estate, an' I sold out, an' there I was." 
 
 " 'T was said Hiram was a real driver, as a 
 young man." 
 
 " Yes, Hiram would ha' made money if he 'd 
 be'n spared. He set a good deal by money : too 
 much, I thought sometimes. He never knew 
 what 't was to live." 
 
 "So!" said William musingly. "Well, he 
 was a good deal of a man an' a good deal of a 
 loss." 
 
 " He was a good deal of a man," owned Ellen 
 seriously. " Yes, that 's so. But, I don't know 
 how 't was, William, I felt as if I knew him 
 better when we met fust than I did after we 'd 
 lived together." 
 
 William gave a confirming nod. 
 
 "Yes," said he, "you need n't tell me I " 
 
 "You see, Hiram was terrible busy. His 
 mind was on the future, an' I always liked to 
 live from day to day. There ! le' 's not dwell 
 on them things. William, when I stopped in 
 Chicago, on my way through, they showed me a 
 kind of a machine for addin' up figgers, an' I 
 thought of you, an' how you 'd admire to see it 
 work." 
 
 "Do tell!" said William. 
 
 \ 
 
TREE OF A THOUSAND LEAVES 211 
 
 "Yes, it adds up figgers faster 'n the mind o' 
 man. I dunno' how it 's done, an' the clerk said 
 he did n't either; but this was the way it acted." 
 She began the fairy tale of her hour at the bank, 
 and William sat entranced. 
 
 "The land!" she cried in the midst, when the 
 five o'clock stillness had fallen and shadows 
 were long upon the grass. "Don't you hear 
 wheels ? You clip it one way, an' I will t' other." 
 
 The two elderly playmates sped in different 
 directions, and when Myra entered the kitchen 
 she found Aunt Ellen "blazing a fire" for tea. 
 
 "You seen father?" asked Myra, taking off 
 her hat, and smoothing her careful braids. 
 "He said anything about what he means to 
 do.?" 
 
 "Not a word," Ellen assured her pleasantly. 
 "Your young man 's goin' to stay to supper, 
 ain't he? Don't you want I should stir up 
 cream-o'-tartar biscuits?" 
 
 For the next week, Myra seemed to be per- 
 petually on the spot, and there was little num- 
 bering. Yet there were stolen moments in the 
 shed or the barn, and, even once, driving the 
 cows together through the dewy lane. William 
 felt that he was getting extraordinarily well 
 acquainted with Ellen. No one in his life, save 
 his own mother, had ever seemed so familiar to 
 him. And he had no experience of any one 
 
2U THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 who was such excellent company. She had 
 tales innumerable to tell of wild adventure, most 
 of it hearsay, or, where it touched herself, keen 
 human happenings. But, whenever she ap- 
 proached the sadder side of life, she would say, 
 in that sweet voice of hers, enriched by tolerant 
 memories : 
 
 "But le' 's not dwell on them things!" So she 
 would turn aside like a river bent on flowing 
 through flower-bordered banks. Life began to 
 seem to him not like a task to be endured, 
 snatching some willful pleasure by the way, but 
 as something to be cherished. He thought of 
 her more than of his ciphering. She had the 
 appearance of making herself an adjunct only to 
 his native tendency; but that, in turn, had be- 
 come tributary to her, a ministrant and meeting- 
 ground to both of them. 
 
 One afternoon, when the air had the still fore- 
 knowledge of later summer, Ellen saw him from 
 her window, walking up and down the orchard 
 from the sweet-bough to the Hubbardston. He 
 moved with the desperate stride of a man stung 
 by harsh discovery, and turned upon his track 
 like an unhappy prisoner. Myra was in the 
 dairy straining milk, and Ellen, as she passed the 
 door, wondered how long the task would keep 
 her. The cat was lapping from a foamy saucer. 
 Ellen caught her up and dropping her in the 
 
TREE OF A THOUSAND LEAVES 213 
 
 sitting-room with a thud of four stiff feet, shut 
 the door upon her. Then she overturned the 
 milk. Myra, if she appeared untimely, would 
 find provision for another five minutes in clear- 
 ing up that havoc. 
 
 Ellen sped to the orchard. 
 
 "William," she called, before she reached 
 him, " William, what 's the matter ? " 
 
 He turned upon her a face all flushed and 
 seamy with its grief. 
 
 " She 's be'n layin' down the law. She says 
 I 've got to live with them." 
 
 "Well," said Ellen, "that don't make it so." 
 
 He scarcely heard her. 
 
 "As true as I stand here, Ellen," said he, "I 
 never 've thought a thing about your ownin' half 
 the place. I suppose if I 'd be'n more of a man 
 I should." 
 
 "Well," said Ellen brightly, "if I own one 
 half, you own t' other. Myra's mother left it to 
 you, fair an' square. I never had no great of an 
 opinion of her, if she was my sister, but she done 
 well there. She mistrusted Myra 'd cut up 
 some kind of a dido." 
 
 William stood gazing at her with a new look 
 on his face. It held some bitterness, some 
 reproach of the pilfering years. 
 
 " Ellen," said he, " anybody but you 'd laugh 
 at me. I ain't had a thing as I 've wanted it." 
 
2U THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 "That 's the more reason for havin' it now," 
 said Ellen. 
 
 " I never took any notice of you when you was 
 a girl growin' up," he went on, with the angry 
 passion of middle age. 
 
 "Well," said Ellen, "I took notice of you, 
 William. You were the likeliest man I ever 
 see." A flush was on her cheek. Her eyes were 
 wet. 
 
 " An' here I be, a man along in years " — 
 
 Ellen thought she heard the dairy door. 
 
 " William," said she firmly, as a mother recalls 
 a grieving child, "you hear to me. There 's a 
 good many years gone by, but there 's a good 
 many left — three hunderd an' sixty-five days in 
 every one of 'em. You begin to multiply them 
 days, an' you '11 feel more or less well off. I 
 guess we '11 begin to live by days now, William. 
 We won't reckon by years." 
 
 William was looking at her in a strange pas- 
 sion unknown to him, mingled of hope and 
 wonder. 
 
 " Ellen, should you be willin' to stay here with 
 me?" 
 
 " I should be pleased to, William," said Ellen, 
 as if she accepted an invitation to singing- school. 
 
 William took a step nearer. A shining grati- 
 tude was on his face, and perhaps, too, some 
 wondering sense of life's mobility. 
 
TREE OF A THOUSAND LEAVES 215 
 
 " There 's plenty of better men you might 
 marry now, Ellen," said he, in wholesale tribute 
 to her. " What I 've said this day I wish I 'd 
 said thirty year ago " — 
 
 "Well, you didn't," said Ellen practically. 
 " All you 've got to do is to number on from now. 
 Speakin' o' numberin', William, we did n't get 
 along very fur with our tree." 
 
 They were smiling into each other's eyes. 
 There was trust between them, and happy fel- 
 lowship. 
 
 "I guess I kind o' forgot about it," said he, in 
 frank avowal. " I guess I 've thought more 
 about you lately, Ellen, than I have about the 
 leaves. An' that was a kind of a makeshift, 
 anyway. It give me an interest where I had n't 
 none." 
 
 " Le' 's see, how fur 'd we git ? " said Ellen, 
 a smiling abstraction in her eyes. "I know. 
 'T was nine hunderd an' ninety-eight. I told 
 you to break off another couple, but she ketched 
 us so quick you could n't. Here, William, you 
 pull off a leaf. Now I will. There, that 's it. 
 That 's a thousand! " 
 
THE PILGRIM CHAMBER 
 
THE PILGRIM CHAMBER 
 
 " The Pilgrim they laid in a large upper chamber, whose window 
 opened towards the sim-rising: the name of the chamber was Peace.*' 
 
 The old gray house stood in the midst of lavish 
 greenery. There were great lilac bushes crown- 
 ing the bank wall at the east, and on the west an 
 orchard carried the eye through intimate reaches 
 of gnarled wood and drooping branches. In 
 front was the garden, a survival of ancient 
 bloom, chiefly green now in its budding richness, 
 but smelling of leaf- mould and the May. Zilpha 
 Blake had no time to attend to it; but she did 
 dig a little in a hasty fashion when her household 
 would allow it, and ran out there for a momen- 
 tary solace if circumstance harried her, to pluck 
 a bit of sweet herb or a sprig of blue. Now, in 
 the flush of the spring morning, she was follow- 
 ing her nephew, her dead brother's son, as he 
 lingered along the road on his homeward way. 
 Her sympathetic hand was on his arm, and she 
 seemed to be detaining him, to coax out the full 
 flood of his exasperated story. Zilpha was a 
 slender, flaxen-haired woman, with eager blue 
 eyes and a childish mouth. She was not pretty, 
 simply capable, and adapted, through an ac- 
 
220 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 quired patience, to much "flying 'round." Dan- 
 iel stopped when he felt that he was taking her 
 too far, and began to lash the roadside bushes 
 with the switch he had cut to drive the cows. 
 His brown face was suffused with color, and in 
 spite of his stature, in spite of his commanding 
 profile, he looked as if he were going to cry. 
 Zilpha suddenly thought that. 
 
 "Don't you feel bad, Dan'el," she said in- 
 dignantly, as if she were reproaching an absent 
 enemy. "Now don't you take on." 
 
 " I ain't takin' on. You see. Aunt Zil, she 's 
 such a little thing." 
 
 " Yes, Dan'el, yes, I know it." Her tone per- 
 suaded, as her hand detained him. He looked 
 down at the wet grass of the pathway, and de- 
 stroyed a cobweb or two with a wandering foot. 
 Then his words came rushingly. 
 
 " Mother treated her well enough till I told her 
 we meant to get married." 
 
 "What she say then.?" 
 
 " She turned right ag'inst her. Never said a 
 word to her, but she says to me, ' You remember, 
 don't you, where we got Annie Rowe.? We 
 took her right off the town farm, straight as she 
 could come.'" 
 
 "Well!" said Zilpha deprecatingly. 
 
 " Yes, that 's what she said. An' I says, 
 ' Mother, she 's been here five years, an' you 
 
THE PILGRIM CHAMBER 221 
 
 know her as well as you do me. You know 
 there ain't a lazy bone in her, nor an ugly 
 thread.' I said that to mother," he added hastily, 
 as if to excuse an economic argument, " because 
 mother 's such a driver. I knew 't would n't cut 
 no ice with her if I told her Annie suited me to a 
 T, an' I was goin' to marry her whether or no." 
 
 "So do, Dan'el, if you feel to, so do!" 
 
 "Well, I reckoned wrong. Nothin' I could 
 say done a mite o' good. Mother she turned 
 right ag'inst her. She 's put the heft o' the 
 work on her now, an' she don't give her a good 
 word from mornin' till night." 
 
 A shrill, high-keyed voice came from the di- 
 rection of the house. It seemed to fly over the 
 orchard trees like an insect, its song piercing as 
 it came. 
 
 "Zilpha! Zilpha! where be you?" 
 
 Zilpha heard, but she only cast a glance in its 
 direction, and stepped nearer a shielding bar- 
 berry bush. 
 
 "That Hetty Ann?" asked Daniel, accom- 
 panying her look with a frown of his own. 
 
 " Yes, it 's Hetty Ann. She expeji^ts me to 
 come up, the minute she 's awake, an' bring her 
 a cup o' hot water." 
 
 " I 'd bring her a cup o' cold p'ison," said 
 Daniel moodily. 
 
 " Law, no ! hot water 's good for her. Keeps 
 
222 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 her still, anyways. Now, Dan'el," again she 
 touched him with a reminding hand, " you must 
 n't forgit your mother 's terrible obstinate." 
 
 " I guess I know that. She won't have anybody 
 do more for folks than she does. If I got set 
 ag'inst Annie, she 'd cocker her up. Mother 's got 
 to be on the wrong side o' the fence anyways." 
 
 " It 's a terrible hard place to be in. " She 
 stood wrinkling her brows in the face of the 
 morning sun, considering, in the midst of that 
 effulgence, the resources of her world. Sud- 
 denly her face cleared, with the brightening of 
 her eyes. She laughed a little, in a shamefaced 
 deprecation. " I dunno' but you '11 think it 's 
 pretty queer, Dan'el," she said, " but I 've a 
 good mind to ask you suthin'." 
 
 "Ask away. Aunt Zil," he said, softening ap- 
 preciably as the talk touched her. "There's 
 nothin' I would n't tell you." 
 
 "Well" — She paused a moment, her gaze 
 traveling over the rolling fields to the far horizon. 
 Then it returned to him. " Well, Dan'el, it 's 
 this: you want Annie terrible bad. Why don't 
 you kinder pray a little, an' see if you can't git 
 her that way ? " 
 
 He laughed outright, and patted her shoulder 
 with a gentle hand. 
 
 "You don't get that bee out o' your bunnit, 
 do you, Aunt Zil ? S'pose I should ask you how 
 
THE PILGRIM CHAMBER 223 
 
 much you 'd ever got yourself by prayin', what 'd 
 you say then?" 
 
 A look of fear flitted into her face, and her 
 eyes grew big. 
 
 "Don't you say one word, Dan'el," she im- 
 plored him. "I don't dast to pray." 
 
 "Why not.?" 
 
 "I dunno' 's I can tell ye, Dan'el. Yes, I 
 guess I can, too. It 's kinder dangerous. If I 
 prayed for what I want, I 'm afraid I 'd git it." 
 
 He looked at her with the frown summoned to 
 men's brows by woman's tortuous logic of the 
 soul. She went swiftly on, not for his enlighten- 
 ment, but concerned, suddenly and for the mo- 
 ment, with a rare interest in herself. 
 
 " Dan'el, there 's suthin' I 've thought out, an* 
 I dunno' 's I should dast to mention it, even to 
 the minister. It ain't in the Bible. Leastways 
 I ain't ever seen it there. But I know it 's true. 
 Dan'el, did it ever come over you God ain't got 
 everything to do with, more 'n we have ? Did it 
 ever come into your head He 's kind o' poor, 
 so 's He 's got to contrive an' plan when He does 
 anything out o' the common, same 's the rest ?" 
 She was looking at him in a bright and eager 
 questioning, and Daniel shook his head. "You 
 see," she put the tips of her small fingers to- 
 gether in unconscious imitation of the minister 
 when he was proving a point in meeting, "He 's 
 
2U THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 terrible indulgent. When we ask for anything. 
 He wants to give it to us. But mebbe He can't! 
 The thing ain't there. There ain't such a thing, 
 mebbe, in the whole world. S'pose Hetty Ann 
 had prayed she might marry that good-for- 
 nothin' that flung her off. Why, God could n't 
 ha' give her that, because there wa'n't no such 
 man as Hetty Ann thought he was, nor ever had 
 be'n. All she could have was a kind of a play 
 housekeepin' here with me. Now, take me. 
 What do you s'pose I want more 'n anythin' else 
 under the sun ? " 
 
 "You tell, Aunt Zil," said the young man 
 warmly. 
 
 " Law, Dan'el, you could n't git it for me. I 
 want a spare room — a spare chamber." 
 
 " Why, you 've got four chambers, now." He 
 read her face, creasing into its pucker of shrewd 
 good-will. "You don't mean to tell me you 
 want one o' them chambers for yourself an' yet 
 you won't turn out some o' them old pirates an' 
 take it .^" 
 
 "Now, Dan'el, you consider. Uncle Tim- 
 mie 's got one chamber, an' he 's bedrid, now 
 ain't he ? An' Hetty Ann 's kinder touched in 
 her head, an' she 's as contented as a kitten if 
 she can play she 's got a parlor an' a bedroom. 
 So she takes two. An' there 's Aunt Joyce in 
 the fourth. An' she 's got to have it, Dan'el, 
 
THE PILGRIM CHAMBER 225 
 
 she 's got to have it. There ain't a soul on earth 
 would board her for two dollars a week, an' let 
 her set by the winder muddlin' over them law 
 papers an' thinkin' she 's goin' to win her case 
 an' git the heft o' the state of Illinois. So that 's 
 the reason I can't pray for a spare room. My 
 chambers are all took up." 
 
 "Zilpha!" came the voice over the tree tops. 
 "Zilpha! where be you?" 
 
 "I'll scooch down here a minute," said Zil- 
 pha, huddling up on a stone by the barberry 
 bush. " Mebbe they '11 think I 've gone to drive 
 the cow." She sat there like an elf, her arms 
 folded, and her bright gaze challenging his. 
 "You see," she went on, reviewing her argu- 
 ment for the first time before another mind, " if 
 I should pray for the spare chamber, I should 
 git it. I make no doubt I 'd git it. But mebbe 
 somebody 'd have to be swep' away to give it to 
 me. Or mebbe the Lord would harden my 
 heart, an' make me put Hetty Ann into one 
 room an' take t' other for myself." 
 
 " What 's she want two rooms for, anyways ?" 
 said Daniel, returning to an irrelevant issue. 
 
 Zilpha's face grew quite eager in its wistful 
 sympathy. 
 
 "Why, don't you know, Dan'el.?" she asked^ 
 in the hushed voice of one who rehearses a 
 solemn story. "You 'd ought to know that. He 
 
226 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 was goin' to marry her, an' everything was all 
 ready, even to her rollin' pin, and then he wrote 
 her he did n't prize her no more, an' he went ofiF 
 out West. So now she kinder plays house up 
 there. She '11 do it by the hour, jest like a 
 child. She ain't a mite o' trouble, Dan'el, not a 
 mite." Her eyes were shining with the look of 
 earnest care evoked by all maimed creatures as 
 she saw them. 
 
 Again the voice came shrilling over the trees. 
 There was a new, insistent note in it, and Zilpha 
 got up quickly. 
 
 " Now I must be goin' back," she said, shak- 
 ing out her dew-wet skirt. ** But if I was you, 
 Dan'el, I should kinder make it a subject o' 
 prayer about Annie. I should say, 'If I can 
 have her without hurtin' anybody;' because you 
 would n't want to do that, now should you, 
 Dan'el?" 
 
 He turned heavily on his way. 
 
 " I guess I '11 leave the prayin' to you. Aunt 
 Zil," he said. "As to hurtin' anybody, I dunno' 
 whether I would or not. Anyway, I know this : 
 if you need a spare chamber, I 'd like mighty 
 well to clear out the whole b'ilin' of 'em in there, 
 an' fix you up the way you want. I will, too, 
 some fine day, 'fore you know it." 
 
 They smiled back at each other with the un- 
 derstanding of mates who have weathered other 
 
THE PILGRIM CHAMBER 227 
 
 gales, and took their different ways. Daniel 
 walked with head bent, still debating the prob- 
 lem of his love; but Zilpha sped on light- 
 heartedly. Inside her own gate, she paused to 
 give the garden a warm look. It was full of 
 buds, and so many summers had she known it 
 in its fullness that it seemed, to her impetuous 
 mind, to be already in flower. It was her un- 
 conscious habit to dwell gratefully upon the in- 
 ventory of the beautiful earth, and in spite of 
 her fifty years and the trials they had brought 
 her, she felt only good fortune as she ran into 
 her kitchen and set back the neglected kettle, 
 boiling on the stove. Then she stepped about 
 the room singing in an underbreath and turning 
 the hymn into a paean, with its rich invitation 
 to the Beloved, "Over the hills where spices 
 grow." 
 
 It was a part of her routine upstairs that she 
 should be the maid and Hetty Ann the mistress. 
 So she placed the cup of hot water on a tray, 
 and ran up to the east chamber where Hetty Ann 
 sat in bed, her yellow hair streaming about her. 
 like sunlight, and served her with the traditional 
 manners of hired help. Great-uncle Timmie 
 was not awake, but Aunt Joyce was already 
 upon the stairs. Zilpha followed that broad 
 back covered by a wrapper with a palm leaf 
 figure, and moderated her own steps in time to 
 
228 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 the ponderous thud of large feet in carpet shp- 
 pers. Aunt Joyce had the blackest of thin hair 
 braided in little braids by her ears and looped 
 back to the knob behind. Her eyes were black 
 and sharp under broad splashes of brow, and her 
 cheeks were of a hard red, veined by a network 
 of darker hue, like an unskilled painting upon 
 wood. At the bottom of the stairs, she spoke 
 without turning: 
 
 "That you, Zilpha ? I guess I '11 have a cup 
 o' tea this mornin'. Coffee kinder goes ag'inst 
 me somehow." 
 
 *' Green tea or black ?" asked Zilpha blithely, 
 at the kitchen door. She was unreasonably 
 pleased. The mere talk of satisfied wishes had 
 given her a lilting sense of something wonderful 
 quite near. Aunt Joyce turned and interro- 
 gated her with a judicial though not an un- 
 kindly eye. 
 
 "You ain't be'n an' bought two kinds?" she 
 asked. 
 
 Zilpha laughed. 
 , "No, I ain't. I had black on hand. T' other's 
 the sample the grocery give out last week." 
 
 Half an hour later, sitting at the kitchen table, 
 drinking tea, and forgetting how Aunt Joyce's 
 girth shut out the lilacs and the sun, she listened 
 with half a mind to the other woman's meander- 
 ings in the old channel of the dragging lawsuit 
 
THE PILGRIM CHAMBER 229 
 
 and the land. With the rest of her intelligence 
 she was running about the earth, picking up 
 pleasures here and there, trifles nobody wanted, 
 and ranging them in order in her spare room. 
 
 "Zilpha, what you thinkin' about.?" inquired 
 Aunt Joyce suddenly. " You ain't heard a word 
 I said." 
 
 Zilpha guessed at random. 
 
 " You said if you could only come on that deed 
 from Uncle Samwel to Aunt Mirandy, your 
 title 'd be complete." 
 
 "Yes, that was what I said," owned Aunt 
 Joyce mollified. " I thought you was dreamin', 
 that way you 've got." 
 
 But Zilpha had heard the lamentation over 
 the deed for many years, and her own mind 
 responded to an echo. 
 
 "That deed wa'n't ever recorded," Aunt 
 Joyce continued, pounding out her words with 
 an irritating beat of emphasis. " The very day 
 he died. Uncle Samwel set out to git it put on 
 record, an' he dropped down right in front o' 
 the courthouse, an' nothin 's ever be'n heard o' 
 that paper from that day to this. An' whether 
 't was stole out o' his pocket, or whether he lost 
 it on the road" — But no one, save new- 
 comers in the town, ever heard Aunt Joyce's 
 stories to the end. 
 
 All that day Zilpha went about her work to 
 
230 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 the rhythm of an invocation made to suit her 
 needs. It was that Daniel should be given his 
 Annie, if it could be managed "without hurtin' 
 anybody." And then, in a guilty whisper, as if 
 other than beneficent powers might hear, she 
 added, with the same qualifying phrase, "I 
 wisht I could have a spare room." The habit 
 of petition became pleasant to her, and at the 
 end of a week the spare room seemed quite near. 
 This was one of her hard weeks. Hetty Ann 
 took down her curtains, with a housewifely im- 
 pulse, and tried to wash them in a bowl. tJncle 
 Timmie, who had the quietude of a gentle an- 
 imal trained to habit, owned that he was " kinder 
 tired o' layin' still," and Aunt Joyce, according 
 to the family phrase dedicated to her since she 
 was a girl, "reigned supreme." In the early 
 morning she was at Zilpha's door, propounding 
 new hypotheses touching the stolen deed; and 
 one afternoon, when Zilpha had betaken herself 
 to the sitting-room lounge to rest her tired feet, 
 she felt a presence through her closed eyelids, 
 and opened them, with a snap, to find Aunt 
 Joyce looming before her like a cloud. She 
 wore her black alpaca and her bonnet trimmed 
 with ancient crape. She had thrown back her 
 bonnet strings, and stood fanning her face with 
 the county paper. 
 
 "I be'n to the post-oflSce," she volunteered. 
 
THE PILGRIM CHAMBER 231 
 
 "I walked all that two mile, hopin' to ketch a 
 ride, an' then I walked back ag'in. Zilpha, I 
 got a letter from the lawyer. What you s'pose 
 he said?" 
 
 "I dunno'," returned Zilpha wearily. 
 
 " He said if I 's to find that deed, it would 
 clinch the whole thing." 
 
 " What deed ? " asked Zilpha, from her dream. 
 
 " My soul an' body ! ain't you heard a word I 
 said ? That deed Uncle Samwel gi'n Aunt Mi- 
 randy. Zilpha, you wake up ! Ain't you got no 
 seem to ye.^" 
 
 Zilpha rose to her feet. She felt called by an- 
 other than Aunt Joyce. Something within her 
 raised an imperious note and bade her save her 
 soul alive. She stood still for a moment rubbing 
 her dazed eyes, and then in the full flood of Aunt 
 Joyce's adjurations, she turned about and sped 
 out of the room, through the kitchen, and into 
 the shed. There she paused, her eyes fixed 
 upon the distance, an old phrase starting up in 
 her memory: 
 
 "Over the hills and far away,** 
 
 it sang itself, and her lips formed the words 
 aloud : 
 
 "I wisht I could run off!" 
 
 But at that instant Hetty Ann, at a window 
 above, raised her thin voice in a crooning song, 
 
232 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 as it might have been to a child. At the first 
 note Zilpha straightened, and she turned about 
 soberly, all the myriad calls of other souls in 
 unison against her. At the kitchen door she 
 paused again, remembering the bright world 
 without, and it was then that her eyes fell upon 
 the rough stairs in the corner of the shed. 
 " My soul ! " cried Zilpha. " O my soul ! " 
 She ran up the stairs and into the brown- 
 raftered room packed with the litter of old years, 
 and known and forgotten as the "shed chamber." 
 She stood for a moment in the one vacant floor 
 space, and looked about her at the broken chairs, 
 the chests and tables of a bygone time. The 
 worm-eaten walls were low, but there was a 
 window opening through grapevine leaves and 
 tendrils to the east. The place exhaled an at- 
 mosphere of calm. No human moods had left 
 their invisible arras upon its walls. No one had 
 slept there, nor talked out the trials of the day. 
 From time to time through the year some one 
 had come, with unrecognizing glance, to cast a 
 broken bit of household goods into the corner 
 and go again. The room had lived its life alone, 
 accumulating no memories. It had been a sleep- 
 ing possibility, and Zilpha, with a catch in her 
 throat, knew it had waked for her. She drew 
 out an old flag-bottomed rocking-chair, and 
 placed it by the windojv. There she sat down. 
 
THE PILGRIM CHAMBER 233 
 
 and looked, in measureless content, through the 
 grape leaves at the sky. She had her spare 
 chamber. All that afternoon she sat in a dream, 
 not of any conscious well-being, but of rest. It 
 seemed as if the loads of life were floating to 
 some unknown shore upon a tide of peace, and 
 when she met Aunt Joyce at the supper table, 
 her old cheerfulness had come back, throbbing 
 with a fuller note out of her certainty that now 
 there was something to justify it. 
 
 " You be'n asleep ^ " asked Aunt Joyce, noting 
 her pink flush and dewy eyes. 
 
 " No, I guess not," said Zilpha vaguely. 
 
 " Where you be'n all the arternoon?" 
 
 *' Oh, 'round!" 
 
 The next day Zilpha finished her housework 
 in haste, and set about cleaning the shed cham- 
 ber. She moved softly lest Aunt Joyce should 
 hear, and every nerve and muscle trembled with 
 the excitement of dragging down the litter of 
 furniture to pile it in a corner of the shed. In 
 due time the chamber was sweet and clean; it 
 smelled of soap instead of its own delicious 
 mustiness, and Zilpha felt in it a double charm, 
 responsive to her hand. She had with infinite 
 pains set up an old bedstead, and laid on it an 
 extra husk bed from her own room. There was 
 the chair by the window, and a table near the 
 stairs. Looking about, she could not see that it 
 
234 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 might have been bettered for her purposes. She 
 could lie down upon the bed, she could rest in 
 the chair, and she could set a glass of water on 
 the table. It was enough. Thereafter, for a 
 week or more she gave her charges a zealous 
 tendance all the forenoon, to slip away from 
 them with a clear mind at two o'clock, and spend 
 an hour in her retreat. But one day she caught 
 herself back out of her dream, and sat there, still 
 with fear. Aunt Joyce's heavy step had en- 
 tered the shed. She was looking about in one 
 of her familiar missions of inquiry, and pre- 
 sently Zilpha heard her overhauling the pile of 
 furniture. There was a rattle and a pause while 
 Aunt Joyce pondered over what she had found. 
 Then her voice arose commandingly through its 
 veiling huskiness. 
 
 Zilph 
 
 99 
 
 But Zilpha did not move. 
 
 The rummaging and clattering went on, and 
 by and by Aunt Joyce took her heavy progress 
 toward the sitting-room, calling Zilpha as she 
 went. Then the little guest of the upper cham- 
 ber slipped downstairs and into the kitchen, and 
 there Aunt Joyce, returning, met her. 
 
 "Where you be'n.^" queried Aunt Joyce, 
 though in an absent questioning. 
 
 "Oh, 'round!" said Zilpha, with the ease of 
 one who has found a phrase to serve. Aunt 
 
THE PILGRIM CHAMBER 235 
 
 Joyce hardly heeded. Her black eyes were 
 piercing with the wonder of discovery. 
 
 "Zilpha," said she, "I never set eyes afore on 
 that old truck in the corner o' the shed." 
 
 "Did n't you ?" asked Zilpha trembling. 
 
 " Never, long as I 've be'n in an' out. Did n't 
 there use to be a pile o' wood there ? " 
 
 "I guess so," said Zilpha, in a faltering voice. 
 
 "Was the wood piled in front on 't.?" 
 
 "I guess not." 
 
 " Zilpha, don't you be so numb. Do you know 
 what 's out there in that pile ? There 's Aunt 
 Mirandy's hair chist with a lot o' her things 
 in it. There 's Uncle Samwel's leg boots, the 
 ones he had on when he died. I know, for they 
 had to cut the legs to git 'em off. I 've stood 'em 
 up there on the hair trunk. You go look at 'em." 
 
 Zilpha hurried into the shed, but not to in- 
 terrogate Uncle Samwel's boots. She went to 
 the shed door, and stood there gazing at the sky, 
 blurred now by her rebellious tears. Her cita- 
 del was in danger. Aunt Joyce had begun ex- 
 ploration, and, fired by the treasures before her, 
 she would keep on. One sight of the shed 
 chamber stairs, and she would go toiling up in 
 search of unknown stores above. For a moment 
 Zilpha stood there rigid with intensity of thought, 
 and then a purpose leaped into her brain and 
 strengthened her to meet the fray. Five o'clock 
 
236 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 struck, and she turned soberly about to get sup- 
 per, and listen to Aunt Joyce in her excited 
 monologue wherein Uncle Samwel's boots came 
 like a recurring beat. 
 
 Aunt Joyce was in high feather that evening. 
 She sat in the kitchen in the dusk, and, inspired 
 by her afternoon's feast upon the relics of the 
 past, told interminable stories of the family, all 
 feuds and warfare. Zilpha hardly answered her. 
 She sat there, looking straight in front of her, 
 with eyes that seemed to pierce the dark. 
 
 "You 'sleep, Zilpha ?" Aunt Joyce asked sud- 
 denly, breaking her stream of reminiscence. 
 
 Zilpha did not answer. 
 
 " You 'sleep ? My soul ! You ain't a mite o' 
 company. I '11 go to bed." 
 
 She stalked grumbling up the stairs, and Zil- 
 pha listened. The heavy steps moved intermit- 
 tently about the room above, and then they 
 ceased. There was a creaking of the bed. Aunt 
 Joyce was set in bounds for one night more. 
 Zilpha rose, and, light-footed as an intruder 
 moved to some guilty task, stole out into the 
 shed, and began to pile cord- wood sticks in front 
 of the shed chamber stairs. For an hour she 
 worked passionately, like some fierce little an- 
 imal barricading its home. Then she stopped 
 and wiped her forehead with one trembling 
 hand. Triumph was in her heart. 
 
THE PILGRIM CHAMBER 237 
 
 "Zilpha!" came a soft voice from the door. 
 "Zilpha, you here?" 
 
 "That you, Annie? What is it? Anybody 
 sick?" She hurried to the door and laid her 
 hand on the shoulder of the young girl standing 
 there. It was moonlight, and Annie's face 
 looked pure and pale in the beguiling beams. 
 She began to sob, with sudden violence. 
 
 " Oh, my, Zilpha ! " she kept repeating. " Oh, 
 my!" 
 
 "There, there, don't you take on!" urged 
 Zilpha, in alarm. " Ain't anything happened to 
 Dan'el, has there? Annie, you speak. You 
 scare me 'most to death." 
 
 " It ain't Dan'el. He 's gone off to buy some 
 cattle. He 's goin' to be gone four or five days. 
 She 's been awful to me. She begun soon as he 
 was off." 
 
 "His mother?" 
 
 "Yes. I don't blame her. She can't bear 
 me, because she wants him to look higher, an' 
 to-night she got mad an' did n't know what she 
 was sayin', an' she twitted me about the poor- 
 farm, an' I pretended to go upstairs to my cham- 
 ber; but I 've run away, Zilpha, I 've run away." 
 
 "There, there, dear," said Zilpha crooningly, 
 in the tone she had for hushing Hetty Ann. 
 " Don't you take on. You 're goin' to stay 
 right here with me." 
 
238 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 " Oh, no, I ain't ! Your house is all took up. 
 Dan'el said you had n't a place to lay your head 
 but what somebody could walk in an' rout you 
 out like a dog." 
 
 "Yes, I have, dear, yes, I have!" said Zilpha 
 excitedly, in a rush of ardent thought. ''I got a 
 spare chamber. Annie, you wait a minute. 
 You Stan' right there, an' don't you stir." 
 
 She brushed past the girl and ran with eager 
 footsteps to the barn. In a moment she was 
 back, staggering breathless under a short ladder. 
 
 "You help me a mite," she whispered. 
 *' There. We '11 set it here, so-fashion. Never 
 mind the vine. There 's enough on 't, if we do 
 break it. Now you go up. Step right into the 
 winder. I '11 be up there in a minute." 
 
 Annie was used to acting under orders. She 
 climbed deftly, and when Zilpha followed her, a 
 little later, with bedclothes and a candle, the 
 girl was standing in the middle of the room, in 
 lax and patient wonderment. She looked about 
 her when Zilpha had lighted the candle and its 
 gleam brought straggling shadows into life. 
 
 "Why, Zilpha," she said. '*! didn't know 
 you had this room." 
 
 "Nobody knew it," said Zilpha hilariously, 
 intoxicated by the drama. ''I didn't hardly 
 know it myself. I dunno' 's 't was here till 
 t' other day. I guess 't was kinder created an' 
 
THE PILGRIM CHAMBER 239 
 
 give to me. But it 's my spare room. Now you 
 go round on t' other side there, an' we '11 put on 
 some sheets." 
 
 When Annie was in bed, quieted and almost 
 content, Zilpha straightened the coverlet, in a 
 cozy way she had, and turned to go. But Annie 
 caught her skirt with a detaining hand. 
 
 *'0 Zilpha," she said, **you 're real good! I 
 only come to leave word how 't was, so you 
 could tell Dan'el ; an' I had n't a spot to call 
 my own, an' now here I am." 
 
 " You 're goin' to stay," whispered Zilpha, in 
 a tone of ardent confidence. *'I 've piled the 
 stairs up so 's Aunt Joyce won't think o' mount- 
 in' 'em; but I can move some o' the sticks an' 
 kinder pick my way. I'll bring ye your break- 
 fast all complete, an' don't you show your head 
 to the winder." 
 
 " O Zilpha," breathed the girl again, " you 're 
 dretful good." 
 
 That night Zilpha could hardly sleep for the 
 excitement of the time, and at six o'clock she 
 was at the shed chamber door with Annie's 
 breakfast, hot corn-cake, coffee, and an egg. 
 The girl was sitting up in bed, eager as a child 
 and as innocently fair. Her curling locks were 
 all about her, and she was rubbing her eyes 
 awake. She laughed, and the dimples sprang 
 about her mouth. 
 
240 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 "You pretty creatur'!" cried Zilpha, in the 
 delight she always had in a beauty never hers, 
 and so as mysterious to her as the dawn. **I 
 never knew you was so well-favored, seein' ye 
 round the kitchen in that old choc'late print." 
 
 " I can't have you waitin' on me, Zilpha. I 
 truly can't." 
 
 " We '11 see. You keep still a day or two, till 
 Dan'el gits home. You can come down into 
 the shed, an' mebbe you could slip into the 
 kitchen when Aunt Joyce ain't 'round. Tell ye 
 what I '11 do. When the coast is clear, I '11 sing, 
 
 ** * Come, my Beloved*' 
 
 I '11 sing it real loud." 
 
 So for three days the idyl went on, and on the 
 morning of the fourth, Zilpha, holding a bowl of 
 beaten egg, was standing at the foot of the shed 
 chamber stairs, singing, 
 
 " Come, my Beloved," 
 
 and beating as she sang. She was making cus- 
 tard, and she wanted to ask Annie whether to 
 put nutmeg on the top. She heard a sound 
 above, and Annie's foot, she knew, was on the 
 sill, and then, like a ghost in carpet slippers, 
 Aunt Joyce appeared, standing in the kitchen 
 door. Zilpha screamed, and the hinges over- 
 head creaked in turning. 
 
 "What under the sun's the matter?" de- 
 
THE PILGRIM CHAMBER 241 
 
 manded Aunt Joyce testily. **You're as ner- 
 vous as a witch." 
 
 " I guess anybody 'd be nervous to see you 
 pokin' over them old things in the corner there," 
 said Zilpha, with a new asperity, summoned to 
 hide her nest. *'For mercy sake. Aunt Joyce, 
 you let me burn up that old truck" — 
 
 Something clattered in the room above. Aunt 
 Joyce cocked her head. 
 
 '^What's that.?" she demanded. ''Didn't 
 you hear suthin' overhead?" 
 
 " As for them old boots, they 'd ought to gone 
 into the fire long ago." 
 
 Still Aunt Joyce was listening, and Zilpha, in 
 a wild defense, caught up the boots. 
 
 "I '11 burn 'em up this minute," she avowed. 
 
 "Zilpha," cried Aunt Joyce, "don't you do 
 no such a thing. Them were Uncle Samwel's 
 boots. He died in 'em. You leave them boots 
 to me." 
 
 She laid a hand upon one, and Zilpha, with a 
 nervous passion that seemed to her like mad- 
 ness, tossed the other out of the shed door. 
 Something within detached itself, and fell. Then 
 Aunt Joyce began screaming in a hoarse volume 
 of sound, uncouth and dreadful, and the door 
 above creaked open. 
 
 "Zilpha Blake, I 've got my deed! I 've got 
 my deed!" She plunged out through the door- 
 
242 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 way, and opened the paper with a quivering 
 hand. "My deed! my deed!" she cried, in the 
 same ungoverned voice, and Zilpha sat down on 
 the step of the shed door and laughed and 
 sobbed. When she came to a sense of the outer 
 world. Aunt Joyce, on one side, was shaking her 
 and calling, ** Zilpha Blake, you git up here, an' 
 help me pack my things. I 've got my deed, an' 
 I 'm goin' to Illinois this arternoon !" and Daniel 
 had a hand upon her other shoulder. He was 
 saying heavily, at intervals, like a machine made 
 to work that way: 
 
 " Aunt Zilpha, where 's Annie ? Aunt Zilpha, 
 where 's Annie.?" Then, as Zilpha turned a 
 mirthful face from one to the other, he took his 
 hand from her shoulder and laid it on Aunt 
 Joyce's wrist. 
 
 "If you're goin' to Illinois," said Daniel 
 plainly, ''you march in an' pack up your things, 
 an' I '11 take ye to the Junction." 
 
 He turned her about, and Aunt Joyce, her 
 face streaked with the wonder of the event, went 
 in to pack her trunk. 
 
 "Aunt Zilpha," said Daniel gently, "where 's 
 Annie?" 
 
 Zilpha rose to her feet. Until this moment, 
 one thought had moved her: Aunt Joyce was 
 going away. Now she laid hold of Daniel's 
 coat, and gripped it with both trembling hands. 
 
THE PILGRIM CHAMBER 243 
 
 She was quite aware that a woman stood behind 
 him like a fate, his mother, hot-blooded, warm- 
 hearted, jealous, and above all, obstinate, and 
 bearing in her seamed face and piercing eyes 
 traces of emotions that had fought in her for 
 seventy years. That morning she had told him 
 Annie was gone, and met his anger with hot 
 words. Yet she had followed him, afraid that 
 he, too, might disappeai> or rashly do himself 
 some harm. All this Zilpha, seeing her, seemed 
 to know by old experience; but she could not 
 stop to weigh the outcome of it. One thought 
 possessed her, and she was holding Daniel's coat 
 that she might tell him. 
 
 "Dan'el, Dan'el," she urged brokenly, *'don't 
 you see how it 's come out ? Aunt Joyce 's goin' 
 to Illinois. Her chamber '11 be empty, an' you 
 an' Annie can git married an' come right here. 
 You can carry on your farm work jest the same. 
 Annie 'n' I can git along complete. You come, 
 Dan'el, you come." 
 
 " Zilpha Blake," said Daniel's mother, in the 
 voice of one who, from an untouched height, is 
 dealing out calm justice to the world, **I should 
 be obliged to you if you would keep your hands 
 off'n Dan'el long enough for me to have a few 
 words with him. He 's be'n off some days, an' 
 when I do git a chance to speak, I should like to 
 say Annie 's be'n called away, but she '11 be 
 
244 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 home all right. If she ain't, we shall look her 
 up, Dan'el an' me. I '11 tell you, Zilpha, though 
 I ain't spoke of it to anybody else, Dan'el 's 
 thinkin' of gittin' married in a few weeks, an' 
 he '11 move into t' other part o' the house." 
 
 " Aunt Zilpha," said Daniel, giving her shoul- 
 der a little shake, ''where 's Annie?" 
 
 "O Dan'el, here I am," came a voice from 
 the window above. There was the young face, 
 framed in quivering vine leaves. 
 
 Zilpha felt something mounting in her throat, 
 and Daniel involuntarily held out both hands. 
 His mother spoke, and her voice shook a little. 
 
 " You be home to dinner, both on ye. There 's 
 tongues an' sounds. Annie, you be sure to 
 come." 
 
 " O mother!" said Daniel, in quick compunc- 
 tion, starting after her. 
 
 "You come home, Dan'el," she counseled 
 him, in a persuasive voice. " You take half the 
 house, Dan'el, you take half the house. 'T ain't 
 fittin' for young folks to live with old folks, any- 
 ways. But don't you go to snappin' up offers 
 from folks that don't concern ye. Don't ye do 
 it. You come home, an' bring Annie." 
 
 Zilpha was not listening. She had heard 
 Aunt Joyce above, dragging about a trunk, and 
 sped to help her. Annie, radiant in her youth 
 and the bloom of joy, was coming out of the shed 
 
THE PILGRIM CHAMBER 245 
 
 chamber, and Zilpha, seeing how these days of 
 rest and calm had changed her, reflected that no 
 one had ever seen her as she was to be, shielded 
 and secure. 
 
 " You shet the door, Annie," she called hap- 
 pily, waving a hand to her. *'You go with 
 Dan'el. Leave the room as 't is, an' this arter- 
 noon I '11 slip up an' put it all to rights." 
 
THE TWISTED TREE 
 
THE TWISTED TREE 
 
 Sylvia Medway was sitting by the north win- 
 dow, gazing out into the back yard. She was 
 young, and all a sweet pathos from her pallor 
 and the hopeless look of her blue eyes. A com- 
 forter had been spread over the big rocking- 
 chair where she sat, and she leaned back against 
 it wearily, her hands in her lap. Her fair hair 
 had been braided in two braids that hung 
 almost to her waist, and her delicate chin 
 looked sharp in its outline above her bare white 
 throat. 
 
 " Sylvy," called her mother from the kitchen. 
 
 "What is it?" answered Sylvia. Her voice 
 had a depth that had once been rich and wonder- 
 ful; now it was only tired. 
 
 "Haven 's goin'," continued her mother ur- 
 gently. "Don't you want I should knock for 
 him to come in?" 
 
 *'No," said Sylvia. It was indifference that 
 dulled her voice anew. ** He '11 come if he 's got 
 anything to say." 
 
 Her mother bustled in from the kitchen, and 
 pulled out the table with a jerk. She put up its 
 leaves, and spread the cloth like magic. Once 
 
250 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 Sylvia had excelled even her in flying dexterity. 
 Now it seemed to her, as she looked on at it, 
 nothing more than the beating of a fly against 
 the pane. Mrs. Med way went on setting the 
 table. She was a tall woman, with a long nose, 
 and smooth black hair parted and brought down 
 in a glossy coat. Her cheeks were a wintry red, 
 and she wore long gold pendants in her ears. 
 
 "There he's be'n to work over here every 
 minute from 'leven o'clock on," she argued, 
 "settin' out laylocks an' syringas. Where he 
 got 'em I dunno' ; but if you wanted a slice o' 
 the moon for breakfast he 'd find it for ye." 
 
 " He sent to the nursery for 'em," said Sylvia 
 indifferently. "I did n't ask him to, mother. 
 I ain't to blame." 
 
 "To blame! Who said you was to blame ?" 
 Mrs. Medway was still juggling with the dishes, 
 and coming out triumphantly. " Only I say if a 
 man 's be'n off an' spent consid'able in bushes 
 for ye, an' then took four-five hours to set 'em 
 out, you might say you 're obleeged to him." 
 
 "The tree has n't started," said Sylvia irrele- 
 vantly. Her musing gaze was upon one spot in 
 the yard. 
 
 "What tree?" asked her mother perversely. 
 
 "The twisted tree." 
 
 When it had become apparent in Sylvia's ill- 
 ness that her mind and eyes dwelt altogether 
 
THE TWISTED TREE 251 
 
 upon the twisted tree in the back yard, the doc- 
 tor had advised the family not to combat her. 
 Up to this moment Mrs. Med way had under- 
 stood the fiat and observed it. Now, without 
 warning, she lost faith in it. There were spring 
 sounds and smells out of doors, and all day long 
 the blackbirds had been creaking about on the 
 wing, like machinery scantily oiled. Perhaps it 
 was because the earth-life was stirring; but 
 Mrs. Med way grew suddenly impatient of illness 
 and the restraints that hedged its borders. She 
 felt for the moment as if she could catch Sylvia 
 up in her arms and run with her to some heal- 
 ing spring, or at least as if she might keep her 
 from sitting there in that sad docility, staring 
 at a tree. - She stopped before the girl, a pre- 
 serve dish in her hand. 
 
 **Sylvy," she said, **you make me as nervous 
 as a witch. There you set by that north winder 
 the whole 'durin' time. It 's 'most sunset. You 
 le' me move your chair into the kitchen, an' you 
 look out towards the west." 
 
 Sylvia did not answer. 
 
 *' Come, dear," her mother urged, with a rare 
 tenderness. "You let mother take^he chair." 
 
 Then the girl's eyes filled with tears. 
 
 *'I can't, mother," she said. *'I've got to 
 set right here." 
 
 "'You le' me put my arm round you, an' 
 
252 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 kinder carry you into the settin'-room, Sylvy. 
 You look once out o' that south winder, an' 
 when you see them laylock bushes, an' all, an' 
 think how good Haven 's be'n to ye, an' kind 
 an' thoughtful, I can't help feelin' you can git 
 along without that twisted tree." 
 
 "No, mother," said Sylvia gently. *'You 
 must n't ask me." 
 
 . Mrs. Medway lost the hope so suddenly at- 
 tained. 
 
 ''Well!" she remarked flatly, and went down 
 cellar after the preserves. 
 
 Presently her husband came in, — a soft- 
 spoken man, with a long beard and mild eyes, — 
 and they ate their supper. Sylvia had hers on 
 a little table by the window; and as she broke 
 her biscuit delicately and without interest she 
 looked out, from time to time, and always at the 
 twisted tree. 
 
 At dusk, when Mrs. Medway was in the 
 kitchen washing the dishes, and her husband sat 
 by the stove in his worn chair and talked to her, 
 chiefly through unclassified monosyllables they 
 both understood. Haven came in at the door, 
 and, with a nod at them, took his way, as a 
 matter of course, into the next room. Sylvia 
 glanced up at him, and smiled briefly. He 
 looked as if he had just scrubbed and shaved, 
 and his day in the outer air had left him glowing 
 
THE TWISTED TREE 253 
 
 with youth and comeliness. He was an earth 
 creature, all brown of hair and skin, and with 
 shy, kind eyes and a swift red in the cheeks. 
 He walked softly, as large creatures are apt to do. 
 
 "You did n't look out to see the bushes, did 
 you, Sylvy.?" he asked, almost beseechingly. 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "You were real good to set 'em out," she told 
 him wanly. 
 
 At that moment her mother appeared from 
 the kitchen, rolling down her sleeves. 
 
 "Father 'n' I are goin' to take a ride down the 
 road an' find out about them seed potaters," she 
 said. " Haven, you keep Sylvy company till we 
 come back, won't ye.^" 
 
 He nodded assuringly. Mrs. Medway turned 
 back, as she was leaving the room. Her face 
 had flushed from an excess of resolution. She 
 spoke with a hard insistence proportioned to the 
 doubt she felt. 
 
 "Haven, you've be'n workin' all day for 
 Sylvy. To-morrer I want you should do suthin' 
 for me." 
 
 "I '11 be glad to. Mis' Medway," he answered 
 honestly. 
 
 "I want," — her eyes avoided Sylvia, and 
 dwelt upon him with a frightened protest, — "I 
 want you should cut down that tree out in the 
 back yard." 
 
254 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 ''Which one?" 
 
 '*The twisted tree," said Mrs. Medway, and 
 left the room. 
 
 Sylvia sat quite silent while her mother was 
 moving about in the chamber overhead putting 
 on her bonnet and shawl. Then Mrs. Medway's 
 steps came down the stairs, the door closed be- 
 hind her, and the horse's hoofs clattered out of 
 the barn and sounded spongily upon the drive. 
 Sylvia looked up, and Haven was aware, in the 
 gathering dusk, that tears were running down 
 her face. 
 
 "Sylvy, don't," he cried. "Don't you take 
 on. What is it, Sylvy.?" 
 
 She began speaking wildly, as he had never 
 heard her. It moved him beyond all possible 
 expression, and he sat and gripped his hands and 
 listened. 
 
 "They want to cut it down. They think it 's 
 bad for me. Maybe it '11 be just as well. 
 Twisted things like that better be cut down, 
 an' have an end of 'em." 
 
 It had all been a mystery to him for many 
 months, why she looked at the tree, and at no- 
 thing else with any willingness. 
 
 "How was it, Sylvy?" he asked, to begin 
 speech about it. *'What happened to 't.?" 
 
 "You know as well as I do," she cried pas- 
 sionately, amid her sobs. "'T was the time 
 
THE TWISTED TREE 255 
 
 the old henhouse burned, an' much as ever we 
 saved the house an' barn. 'T was a nice round 
 little tree — nothin' but a Bald'in; but father 
 meant to have it grafted. 'T was goin' to be a 
 Hubbardston. That 's what I picked out. The 
 fire scorched it on one side, an' it ain't ever 
 bore any since. You knew that, Haven." 
 
 "Well, yes," mused Haven. *'I don't know 
 but I did." 
 
 " It 's like me," the girl burst out. " It 's just 
 like me. I 'm scorched so 't I shan't ever be 
 the same again. Everybody else 'round here 's 
 well an' strong, all except the tree an' me. But 
 you can cut it down, if you want to." 
 
 "No," responded Haven; *'I don't know 's I 
 want to." He sat for a time in silence, and Sylvia 
 dried her eyes. He had never seen her break into 
 emotion in all these months of wasting illness, 
 and it was terrible to him. Now that she had 
 begun, it seemed easy to her to go on. She 
 looked at him recklessly. A red of excitement had 
 come into her cheeks, and her eyes burned hotly. 
 
 "You know what 's the matter of me, Ha- 
 ven?" she asked. 
 
 He answered slowly: 
 
 "No, I don't know 's I do." 
 
 "Yes, you do. You know. Haven Terrill. I 
 don't know whether mother does or not — or 
 father. I 'm goin' to tell you, anyways. I 
 
256 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 thought I was goin' to be married, Haven. 
 Then — he got tired of me." Her head had 
 sunk until her chin was on her breast. 
 
 He could not answer. 
 
 "I won't tell you his name," she faltered. 
 
 "No," he said, "I would n't" 
 
 "That's why" — her voice fell lower and 
 lower, in little gasps born agonizingly — "that 's 
 why I am sick, an' why I can't eat nor sleep. 
 They think I 've gone into a decline. I — I 
 kissed him. Haven, an' he did n't care, after all. 
 I 'm all twisted, like that tree. I 'm all burnt an' 
 scorched, an' there 's the end of it." She rocked 
 back and forth in her chair, and involuntarily he 
 put out his hands to draw her toward him. 
 
 "Well," he said, at last, *'we '11 see what we 
 can do about the tree." 
 
 It was a wild relief now to unburden herself. 
 
 "I can't tell you anything about how I feel. 
 It ain't that I want him back. It 's somethin' 
 else. I want to be as I was before I ever see 
 him. An' I can't! I can't! I can't!" 
 
 " Well," said Haven musingly. He sat look- 
 ing straight before him, his hands on his knees. 
 He was thinking. "You don't feel's if you 
 could give up settin' by this winder, do ye.^" 
 he hinted. 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "To please your mother, mebbe?" 
 
THE TWISTED TREE 257 
 
 " Where can I go ? " she burst out wildly. " If 
 I sit in the kitchen I shall see his house, an' if I 
 sit in the front room I shall see him go by. This 
 is the only place I 've got, Haven. It 's the only 
 place I 'm safe." 
 
 "Mebbe you could have your chair moved 
 up to that south winder in the sittin'-room.?" 
 he pursued. "You could see the laylocks 
 when they bud out. You try it, Sylvy. Your 
 mother 'd be proper glad." 
 
 Her passion had deserted her as quickly as it 
 came. She looked dispirited. 
 
 "Maybe I will," she said. "Seems as if 
 't would kill me ; but mother 's gettin' all wore 
 out seein' me sit here. Maybe I will." 
 
 " I kinder want you to see the laylocks," he 
 soothed her. " There 's a clump o' three, an' 
 then one syringa by itself. I like a great syringa 
 all alone, full o' bloom, an' bees hummin' over 
 it. Sylvy," his voice deepened as it dropped, 
 '* I 've set out much as a dozen over to the old 
 place." 
 
 "Have you?" she asked indifferently. 
 
 "All them old-fashioned kinds you set by, 
 an' thirty fruit trees in the back lot. Mother 
 walked over there with me, t 'other arternoon. 
 'Haven,' says she, *what you goin' in so steep 
 for ?' * I dunno', mother,' says I; *mebbe along 
 towards fall I may build.' " 
 
25S THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 Sylvia at that moment began to look a little 
 more like a human thing and less like a wraith 
 born to blight and pain. A delicate flush had 
 crept into her cheeks, and she clasped her hands 
 in her lap and then loosed them willfully, as if 
 their tension betrayed something that must not 
 be known. 
 
 Haven spoke again, and with a deeper shy- 
 ness. His voice thrilled passionately. 
 
 " ' Sylvy sets the world by laylocks an' syrin- 
 gas,' I says to mother. * Yes,' says she, * I know 
 she does.' " 
 
 Sylvia had closed her eyes, and the rose in her 
 cheeks had faded. 
 
 *'I'm pretty tired," she said, at length. 
 " Maybe I '11 go to bed. You don't care, do 
 you.?" 
 
 " No, I'll set here till they come home. Hark!" 
 
 She was standing in a drooping grace, one 
 hand upon the window-ledge. Her eyes interro- 
 gated him. 
 
 *'Hark!" he said again. "Hear the frogs. 
 Some folks think it 's mournful. It 's the best 
 kind o' music to me. It 's the beginnin' o' the 
 year." 
 
 The continuous rhythm of spring was thrilling 
 in through the closed window, the sound of little 
 instruments all attuned to expectation and de- 
 sire. Suddenly Sylvia bent her head upon her 
 
THE TWISTED TREE 259 
 
 hands and began sobbing, while her body shook. 
 Haven had risen, and he stood by her in a pite- 
 ous distress, saying at intervals: 
 
 " Don't take on, Sylvy. Don't take on." 
 
 A wave of her new outspokenness had over- 
 taken her, and flung her toward him in intem- 
 perate confidence. 
 
 "It was the spring o' the year then," she 
 whispered. ''Everything comes in the spring o' 
 the year, trouble an' all. I heard Lame Lois 
 say that once, — she that was crazed, — an' we 
 used to run over from school an' look at her 
 where she sat with her feet in the ashes. All the 
 sounds are awful to me. Haven, one as bad as 
 another. Last week I thought the frogs were 
 the worst, but now it 's the robins. They '11 be 
 the worst, too. I s'pose I 'm crazed. Haven, 
 just like Lame Lois. She was love-cracked. 
 So am I. An' I 'm worse, for she wanted to hide 
 herself away, an', now I 've begun to talk to you, 
 I see I ain't got any shame." She lifted her 
 head and looked at him, a wild-eyed creature 
 with sodden cheeks and a quivering mouth. 
 His eyes also were wet, but he stretched out his 
 hand and laid it on her chair. 
 
 " I 'm goin' to take this into t' other room," 
 he said, **an' set it by the south winder. Then 
 when you come down in the mornin' you can 
 slip into 't, an' not have no talk about it." 
 
260 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 " No, no," she besought him, " I don't believe 
 I can." 
 
 But he had lifted the chair, and was carrying 
 it over the sill. 
 
 "There!" he called to her from the next 
 room, "when you git up in the mornin', you run 
 right down the front stairs, an' se' down here, 
 an' cast your eyes over the laylocks an' that nice 
 syringa." 
 
 Sylvia caught her breath in dying sobs, but 
 when he came back, talking about plants and 
 the kindliness of a south exposure, and wonder- 
 ing when her father and mother would be home, 
 she was ashamed of her emotion, and bade him 
 a shy good-night and went upstairs. Haven 
 stood listening until her hesitating step had 
 reached the upper floor; then he sat down by 
 the window and looked through the dusk at 
 the twisted tree. By and by the wagon drove 
 into the yard, and Mrs. Med way, leaving her 
 husband to unharness, came in, all redoubled 
 cheer and freshness, from the damp spring 
 air. 
 
 "Where 's Sylvy ?" she inquired, throwing off 
 her shawl. 
 
 Haven had risen. 
 
 " She 's gone to bed," he answered. *' I guess 
 she was pretty tired. See here. Mis' Med way, 
 don't you speak to her no more about that 
 
THE TWISTED TREE 261 
 
 twisted tree, nor don't you let nobody else. It 
 ain't best." 
 
 Mrs. Med way was folding up her shawl. 
 
 *' Well," she answered, frowning over the pin 
 in her mouth, *'so doctor said. I dunno' 's 
 't was exactly right to bring it in, but my tongue 
 got ahead o' me. For mercy sake ! where 's 
 Sylvy's chair.?" 
 
 " It 's in t' other room. I carried it in by the 
 south winder. To-morrer she 's goin' to try to 
 set there. An' don't you speak o' that, neither." 
 
 He towered there, still and tall, the man in 
 authority, and Mrs. Medway looked up at him 
 in a puzzled acquiescence. 
 
 ** Well ! " she remarked, from the depths of her 
 perplexity; but when he had said good-night 
 and shut the outer door behind him, she sped 
 after him a step. ^* Haven," she called, *'you 're 
 real good." 
 
 The next morning Sylvia came downstairs 
 earlier than usual. Her mother heard her light, 
 hesitating step in the sitting-room, and presently 
 bustled in with a breakfast tray. Sylvia sat by 
 the south window, but she was not looking out. 
 Her head was bent so that her eyes rested on the 
 clasped hands in her lap, and there were tears 
 upon her cheeks. Her mother did remorseful, 
 tender things about her, and then, as the girl 
 could not eat, hesitated there beside her. 
 
262 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 "You want to go back, Sylyy?" she asked 
 compassionately. " You want to set by the north 
 winder ? Mother 'U move your chair for you." 
 
 Sylvia shook her head, and by and by she ate 
 a little bread and milk, and after that closed her 
 eyes and seemed to withdraw into some solitude 
 of her own. Haven went past the window and 
 smiled at her. She had waked at the sound of 
 his step, and she returned his smile wanly. But 
 he did not come in. 
 
 *' Mother," she called presently, "is Haven 
 out there in the yard?" 
 
 "I guess so." 
 
 "Don't you see him .^" 
 
 "Why, yes, Sylvy, I s'pose I see him." 
 
 "What's he doin'.?" 
 
 "Well" — her mother hesitated. Then she 
 added in some confusion, '' I guess he 's goin' to 
 do suthin' to that old tree in the yard." 
 
 Sylvia bowed her head as if a wind had struck 
 her. It was impossible to think Haven could 
 cut down the twisted tree. But if it must hap- 
 pen, at least she need not hear the blows. She 
 put her hands to her ears; and when she took 
 them away her mother was standing by her, 
 looking sorrowful, and Haven had gone home. 
 She asked no more questions ; but she crouched 
 all day by the south window, and ached over 
 her lost tree. 
 
THE TWISTED TREE 263 
 
 The south window was a large one, built for 
 the plants in winter; and as Sylvia sat there, day 
 by day, the sun poured on her in a flood. It 
 made her feel as if the world were very large, 
 with no cool corners in it. One morning, be- 
 cause Haven asked her, in his slow, kind fashion, 
 she did look at the budding lilac bushes; and 
 that was the very moment that her mother called 
 from the kitchen: 
 
 *' Sylvy, you glance out an' see Lorin' Pratt. 
 Who 's that he' s got with him?" 
 
 Sylvia started back, and gasped with the sur- 
 prise of it. The color rushed into her face, as if 
 a hand had smitten her. The window was wide 
 open, and a warm breeze was coming in. She 
 heard the quick beat of the horse's hoofs on the 
 road, but she could not look. Haven's voice, 
 with that note of calm in it, came from the other 
 side of the window, where he stood on the 
 springing grass. 
 
 *'It's nobody but old Aunt Nancy. She's 
 goin' to stay a spell." 
 
 Sylvia felt the generous kindliness of his tone. 
 It was as if he begged her to be comforted, re- 
 membering that, if Loring had cast her off, at 
 least her place had not been taken by another 
 girl. She tried to thank him, and, as that was im- 
 possible, she looked at the lilacs again, and told 
 him he had set them in exactly the right place. 
 
264 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 It was the next week that, as she sat there by 
 the open window, a shadow fell upon her closed 
 eyelids, and she opened them, smiling a little, 
 knowing who had come. But it was not Haven. 
 Loring Pratt himself stood there, a little flushed 
 with the awkwardness of meeting, yet vividly 
 excited in a way she knew. This was the look 
 in his eyes when he had told her, in old days, 
 how pretty she was, and planned their life to- 
 gether. Loring was a handsome creature, of a 
 gypsy cast, with a swarthy skin and dark, soft 
 hair. To-day he had been hurrying, and a deep 
 red had settled in his cheeks. Sylvia could not 
 take her eyes away. She looked at him curi- 
 ously, as if he had once been familiar to her, and 
 now the sight of him gave her a vague pain that 
 she could neither conquer nor resist. 
 
 "Sylvy!" he hesitated. **Sylvy!" Then he 
 added, ''You better, Sylvy .?" 
 
 Her lips parted slightly, as if for breath ; but 
 it was an instant before she could answer, and 
 then almost inaudibly: 
 
 "I guess so." 
 
 "Mother said you was in a decline," he went 
 on eagerly, in the manner of those who, because 
 they have begun speaking, rush on and say what 
 they would not. "She said you set there by 
 the north winder, lookin' out into the yard, an' 
 would n't see nobody. But t' other day I was 
 
THE TWISTED TREE 265 
 
 goin' by, an' I see you by this winder, an' — so I 
 come over, Sylvy." 
 
 His voice had softened wonderfully. That 
 note, also, she knew. A strange triumph swelled 
 within her. The outward effect of it was im- 
 mediately upon her like a wreath of loveliness, 
 and he saw it. Her eyes had brightened into 
 liquid glory. Her head lifted, and the red 
 poured into her cheeks. 
 
 "Sylvy," he said, with the beseeching of a 
 lover, " I '11 come 'round this afternoon. We '11 
 go to ride." But his glance followed hers over 
 his shoulder to the road. " Who you lookin' at ?" 
 he asked. 
 
 Haven was going by with a basket of plants, 
 their green tops showing above the brim. She 
 knew what they were, — larkspur and monks- 
 hood from his mother's garden, to set out at the 
 old place where he meant to build. Involun- 
 tarily she leaned forward in her chair and waved 
 her hand at him; but Haven only nodded and 
 strode on. She thought his shoulders settled 
 together a little, as if he were tired, though the 
 basket, she knew, was light for strength like his. 
 Loring laughed. 
 
 **You can't stop him when he 's got any kind 
 of a withe to set out," he said. " He 's as crazy 's 
 a loon over anything that 's got leaves to it. 
 Why, the day he grafted that old tree in your 
 
266 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 yard, I wanted him to go to stockholders' 
 meetin' on some stock I had, but he would n't 
 hear to 't." 
 
 "What tree?" Sylvia was sitting straight in 
 her chair, gazing at him. 
 
 **Why, that tree in your back yard, the old 
 twisted tree. I told him he 's a fool to tackle it. 
 When a thing 's gone, it 's gone." 
 
 Sylvia was on her feet. She stood superbly, 
 like a lithe goddess. 
 
 *' I 'm much obliged, Loring," she said, in a 
 clear voice. " No, I can't go to ride. I 'm too 
 busy." She left him standing there, and walked 
 out through the kitchen, where her mother was 
 beating eggs, and into the back yard. There 
 was her tree, strangely altered and yet familiar. 
 The top had been cut off, and new grafts were 
 in it. At its foot the land had been spaded up 
 in a great circling space. She smelled the earth 
 and the enrichment of it, and life was good to 
 her. 
 
 "Law, Sylvy, what you doin' .?" called her 
 mother from the doorway. 
 
 Sylvia turned about and walked back to the 
 house. 
 
 "Give me them eggs, mother," she said 
 calmly. " I '11 beat 'em for you." 
 
 Haven was at the old place all day. He had 
 his dinner there with Aunt Betsy next door, and 
 
THE TWISTED TREE 267 
 
 came home at dusk, his feet dragging a little 
 with the weariness of an accepted loss. He did 
 not look up at Sylvia's window, but Sylvia her- 
 self, a shawl about her, stood at the gate. He 
 saw her and stopped, staring as if she had 
 been a ghost. She was the Sylvia he had been 
 used to know, sweet- colored, and all a wistful 
 pathos that was not grief, but youth. 
 
 '*Haven," she called, her voice vibrating in 
 some mysterious accord with the spring twilight, 
 *'what made you graft my tree .^" 
 
 He took off his hat, and passed a hand wearily 
 over his forehead. 
 
 "Oh," he said, smiling faintly, *'I thought 
 we might as well give it a chance." 
 
 "Do you think the grafts '11 live ?*^ she asked 
 breathlessly, like one who had news to tell. 
 
 " Oh, yes ! " he answered. " I know they will." 
 He gave her a little good-night nod, and was 
 moving on; but she called to him. 
 
 "Haven, I 've seen him. It 's all right." 
 
 He paused then, and looked down through the 
 dusk at the ground. 
 
 *'I know it," he said presently. "I see ye 
 there. I thought maybe 't was goin' to be — all 
 right." 
 
 "No! no!" — she stretched a swift hand to 
 him across the fence, and then withdrew it. 
 " It 's just as if he was a stranger. When I 
 
268 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 looked at him — an' see you goin' by — an' you 
 grafted my tree an' all — O Haven, somethin 's 
 come back to me. I 'm goin' to live." 
 
 He stooped to her then, and she put up 
 her lips, cool with the sweet spring air, and 
 kissed him. 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS 
 
 DoRiNDA Lake stood before her glass in the sit- 
 ting-room and tied a blue ribbon at her throat, 
 singing as she did it. She loved this glass, with 
 its gilded basket of fruit and the peacock fea- 
 thers above, because it held a flood of sunlight, 
 and reminded her anew how well her beauty 
 could bear it. After the ribbon was tied she laid 
 her hands on the table in front of her, and bent 
 forward, smiling into the glass with a gay recog- 
 nition. The girl she saw there, crisp in muslin, 
 was untouched, like the morning, and, like the 
 morning, lovely. Her cheeks had the inexpres- 
 sible freshness of rose petals, her hair was flood- 
 ing gold bound about her head in fine-spun coils. 
 Her eyes — the old simile of violets failed here, 
 even of violets wet with dew, for they had depth 
 as well as lustre. At this moment they were 
 dark with pleasure, a pleasure in themselves. 
 As she looked, there was a thudding step at the 
 door, and Aunt Dorindy came looming through 
 the entry. She moved like a heavy craft, pitch- 
 ing a little from unf avoring seas ; then she stood 
 there a moment to recover her balance before 
 making another essay. She was no taller than 
 
%1% THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 Dorinda, but her breadth outran proportion. 
 She had the quivering bulk of excessive flesh, 
 and her double chin hung in a shining fold. The 
 faded blue eyes were merry, and neighboring the 
 good, motherly mouth lurked a dimple or two. 
 She gave a little unctuous laugh, which seemed 
 to have resided no lower than her throat. 
 
 *' The land, Dorindy !" said she, " you standin' 
 there worshipin' your good looks .^ I don't 
 blame ye. I 've done it myself, more 'n once, 
 times gone by." 
 
 Dorinda blushed, and made herself the pret- 
 tier. She had been worshiping the works of 
 the Lord in herself, and she was fairly caught. 
 But looking at Aunt Dorindy, seated now by the 
 window in the big rocking-chair, she smiled. It 
 occurred to her for the first time that this older 
 woman had once been young, and that the hues 
 of springtime had lain upon her also like a veil. 
 
 "You come here a minute," said Aunt Do- 
 rindy suddenly, pitching to her feet. "Stan' 
 right where ye be. Now turn 'round. I want 
 to measure." She backed about ponderously, 
 and, when they were matched, put up a hand 
 to find the level of their heads. "Jest as I 
 thought," said she. " We 're the same height. 
 I knew we were." She sank into her chair 
 again, and kept a swaying rhythm while she 
 talked. Young Dorinda meantime sat down 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS 273 
 
 by one of the front windows, and began bind- 
 ing shoes. 
 
 '' We 're the same height to an inch," said 
 Aunt Dorindy. *'I'm a leetle heavier, but I 
 started with the same kind of a figger you 've 
 got. You jest reflect on it, Dorindy. Forty 
 years ago I looked for all the world jest as you 're 
 lookin' now. In forty years' time you '11 be 
 lookin' jest like me. Don't this world beat all .^ " 
 
 Dorinda laid down her work for a moment, 
 and stared at her in an irrepressible wonder. 
 She had never thought of youth, save as it be- 
 longed to her inalienably, or of age, the strange 
 decaying state presaging death. But at that 
 moment, as if a rough hand tore the comfortable 
 film wherein she lived, she saw a brutal truth. 
 Aunt Dorindy was right; they were alike. She 
 met in the other woman an overgrown carica- 
 ture of herself, and the prophecy appalled her. 
 
 *' Aunt Dorindy," she said, with the directness 
 of a child, "do I look like you ? Do I .?" 
 
 Aunt Dorindy was fanning herself with her 
 sunbonnet, ingeniously disposed. She yielded 
 herself now to reminiscence. 
 
 " I guess you do ! Your mother see it when 
 you wa'n't more 'n a week old. * Dorindy,' 
 says she, *this child favors you. Same colorin', 
 same everything.'" 
 
 "Was that why I was named for you .?" 
 
274 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 " Yes, I guess as much that 's anything. 
 Mebbe they would anyway. Well, you were as 
 likely a leetle creatur' as ever I see. Some folks 
 say pretty young ones grow up homely; but you 
 were pretty all through. I was married when I 
 was your age. I wore a white spotted muslin, 
 an' when I come in jest now you give me a kind 
 of a turn. I '11 be whipped if I should ha' 
 known the difference." 
 
 "Yes," said Dorinda, absently; *'yes. Aunt 
 Dorindy." 
 
 ''Well, I guess I'll be gittin' along home," 
 said Aunt Dorindy, rising. *' I only stepped in a 
 minute in passin'. I be'n down to the Talbots'. 
 Old Mis' Talbot 's on her high hoss to-day. 
 Wanted to know if you knew how to make a 
 batch o' bread. *Law,' says I, 'don't talk that 
 way! Ain't she lived alone ever sence her 
 mother died ? Do you s'pose she eats baker 's 
 stuff an' sweet trade ? She 's as good a house- 
 keeper as ever I see. Don't you worry,' says I. 
 ' Martin ain't made no mistake.' She 's terrible 
 tried because you bind shoes, an' put all the 
 money onto your back. Seems as if you did 
 spend a good deal that way, Dorindy." 
 
 *' It 's my own money," said Dorinda hotly. 
 "I like to look nice." A blush engulfed her. 
 She was thinking of a day two years ago when, 
 in this very room, Martin Talbot had told her 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS 275 
 
 she was the prettiest thing God ever made, and 
 so stamped her beauty with a new significance. 
 
 '*Well! well!" said Aunt Dorindy comfort- 
 ably, "I dunno' 's I blame ye. Say, Dorindy, 
 when you an' Martin goin' to be married ?" 
 
 Dorinda rose, and dropped her work on the 
 table. She wore a look of haughtiness, but that 
 was only because the question stirred her, and 
 she charged herself to seem unmoved. 
 
 ** We have n't made up our minds," said she. 
 
 *' I hate this everlastin' hangin' on," continued 
 Aunt Dorindy ruthlessly. *' Young folks think 
 life 's terrible long. It ain't. It 's short. It 
 don't seem more 'n yesterday I walked out a 
 bride, an' here I be with the spring halt, an' 
 I dunno' what all. Live while ye can! Live 
 while ye can!" 
 
 She moved out, a ponderous figure under the 
 cape of her great sunbonnet, and Dorinda looked 
 after her with the distaste springing from a pre- 
 monition of the sorry jokes life is capable of 
 playing. The blossomy day was hurt. Some 
 taint of mortality had crept into it. Involuntarily 
 she shrank back to the mirror to face inexorable 
 change; but one glance summoned her young 
 bravado. She was a little paler than in the 
 care-free moment gone, but that was all. Youth 
 sprang up, like a challenging knight, and cleared 
 the lists of doubt. She smiled into her own face. 
 
276 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 and at that instant the gate clanged, and she 
 heard Martin's hurrying step along the walk. 
 The scarlet flushed into her cheeks, and her eyes 
 widened. In the untroubled estate of their 
 courtship the outward calmness had all been 
 hers; but now she met him with outstretched 
 hands. She seemed a woman, not a girl : a wife 
 who welcomed love she knew by heart. 
 
 ''Martin! Martin!" she whispered. 
 
 He was taller than she, and his brown face 
 showed marks of patience threading its great 
 kindliness. He thought he knew Dorinda well, 
 yet at that moment she seemed to envelop them 
 both in the veil of a marvel making all things 
 new. He drew her to him, hands and mouth. 
 A second, and she swayed back again, and, 
 flooded in her blushes, retreated from him. She 
 laughed a little, and put up her hands to her 
 shining hair. 
 
 "No," she said, "no! " when he would have 
 touched her. "Aunt Dorindy 's just gone out." 
 
 That seemed to be no reason why a man 
 should not kiss his sweetheart, but it served. 
 Martin, confronted with the vision of Aunt Do- 
 rindy, also laughed a little. But the spell of the 
 moment was still upon them, and Dorinda asked 
 him, in spite of herself: 
 
 "Martin, do you like me.^" 
 
 "Like you ! " He was silent, looking down at 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS 277 
 
 his hands. They were ready to work for her 
 and fight for her, those brown hands. The 
 blood in them answered when she breathed 
 upon them. 
 
 A shade of thought lay upon her face, and 
 veiled its radiance. She hesitated a little in her 
 speech. 
 
 " Do you think I 'm — pretty ?" 
 
 " I think you 're the prettiest creatur' God 
 Almighty ever made." 
 
 She thought of Aunt Dorindy and the dark 
 coverts of sixty years, and dared her test. 
 '' Should you like me if I was n't pretty at all ?" 
 
 "No," said the man, " no, I guess not. I like 
 you jest as you are." 
 
 As he looked at her, in his adoring madness, 
 he could not conceive of her as changed. If his 
 halting mind had been hunted into corners with 
 more questioning, he must have said that time 
 and loss had power over maids and men alike; 
 yet he would have owned it simply, not defying 
 them, but childlike in his ignorance that such 
 things mattered. Whatever she might be, she 
 was Dorinda. 
 
 The words had stung her, and she started, but 
 a step brought her in front of the glass ; the pic- 
 tured eyes met hers again, and her head went up 
 triumphantly. She could dare her destiny. Life 
 scoffed at Aunt Dorindy. 
 
278 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 Martin moved toward her in his big, soft 
 way, and laid a hand upon her shoulder. 
 
 "Dorinda," said he, *'I guess we might be 
 married in the fall." There was a still solem- 
 nity about him ; it moved Dorinda greatly. At 
 such moments he seemed to be hers, and yet set 
 apart from her in a strange inviolability. "I 
 spoke to mother again. We had quite a talk last 
 night. I guess I did most o' the talkin'." 
 
 "What did she say.?" 
 
 " She had a kind of a faintin' spell, but she 
 come out of it quicker 'n usual. She 's all right 
 to-day." 
 
 "Did n't she say what she thought?" 
 
 *'No, not really." 
 
 "She said something! Martin Talbot, you 
 tell me what it was." 
 
 He laughed a little, as if he passed the matter 
 
 by. 
 
 " Why, 't was no great matter. Fact is, mo- 
 ther thinks you set by dress, an' not much else. 
 She thinks you 're no kind of a housekeeper. I 
 told her she 'd find out. I told her she 'd ha' 
 found out long before if she 'd only come up here* 
 to tea." He looked at her in happy pride, the 
 triumph of the man who trusts his mate. 
 
 Dorinda had no resentments where his mother 
 was concerned. 
 
 "You tell her, Martin," she began. "No, 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS 279 
 
 don't you tell her anything. But I guess you 
 ain't afraid." 
 
 They stood there in the sweet spring weather, 
 and talked a little in the indeterminate snatches 
 of youth, the broken words helped out by keen 
 f or eshado wings. Martin recalled himself first, 
 or the old clock roused him with its stroke of 
 noon. He turned to its dial, and found there 
 some reproach. 
 
 " Gee !" said he, '' I 've got to go. I promised 
 mother I 'd be home by 'leven to dig 'round the 
 sage an' wormwood. Well!" The word held 
 a meaning not quite clear to him, yet strong 
 enough to stir his pulses. It was born of the 
 certainty that before snow fell it would be his 
 wife to whom he went home at noon. He parted 
 from Dorinda with a sober kiss, and when she 
 had watched him down the garden walk, she sat 
 still for an hour's luxurious dreaming, regardless 
 of her dinner and the crisp dandelions ready to 
 be boiled. They must wait for supper time; 
 bread and milk were quite enough for her this 
 noon. She was very happy. Life stretched before 
 her in an endless way, all sunshine and spring 
 weather. She had forgotten Aunt Dorindy. 
 
 But Martin's mother could not be forgotten. 
 There was something of the child in Dorinda to 
 feel a pang of grief because old lady Talbot 
 would not quite accept her. She must become 
 
280 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 Martin's wife on sufferance, and afterwards win 
 her way by thrift and homely zeal. Was it pos- 
 sible she spent too much on dress ? Aunt Do- 
 rindy's clumsy shaft had hurt; yet, looking down 
 on the sprigged muslin, her lips curved into a 
 smile. It was too pretty for any woman really 
 to decry it in her heart. So she ate her dinner 
 in a happy dream, and sang while she set the 
 things away. In the pantry a thought came 
 tapping at her elbow, and she laughed. There 
 sat a round sponge cake, baked that morning in 
 the scalloped pan with a hole in the middle. It 
 was a perfect cake, risen to the highest point of 
 excellence, the crust dotted with candied freckles. 
 Dorinda was afraid of old lady Talbot; but surely 
 the cake would speak for her. She set it in a 
 large sprigged plate from the parlor cupboard, 
 and laid a glossy napkin over it. Then she 
 settled the blue ribbon at her throat, and went 
 bareheaded into the road, carrying the plate be- 
 fore her as if it held some sacrificial emblem, and 
 she were the moment's chosen ministrant. Little 
 flecks of shadow danced over the ground from 
 budding leaves, and a light wind came up in a 
 whiff to make them move the faster. All the 
 touches of nature held a mystery that day. 
 Dorinda's face wore a look of serious calm, as if 
 wifehood and motherhood stirred within her, 
 unrecognized, yet potent. So she went along 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS 281 
 
 the country road, and up the path to Martin 
 Talbot's house, and there she heard a woman 
 crying. Old lady Talbot was having a '* spell." 
 Dorinda stood there by the sweet clove bush at 
 the corner of the house, and waited. Her hands 
 were eager with desire of service. If Martin 
 were away, perhaps she might go in. But Mar- 
 tin was there. The old woman's voice, fierce 
 with a nervous agony, besought him: 
 
 "Martin, don't you marry her. Martin, don't 
 you do it. You tell me now you won't. You 
 promise me." 
 
 Martin's voice broke soothingly on hers : 
 
 " There, there, mother ! Don't you mind. 
 There! there!" 
 
 "She's a pink an' white flippertigibbet ! 
 She 's dead in love with her own face!" shrieked 
 the old woman. "Look at them blue ribbins 
 she ties on. Pink one day, an' blue the next! 
 She looks like a doll. If you 'd ha' picked out 
 a good, sensible girl with suthin' to her, I 
 would n't ha' cared. You promise you won't 
 have her." 
 
 "Mother! mother!" entreated Martin. 
 
 "You promise me! O Martin, my heart! I 'm 
 scairt. Oh, my heart! Oh, you promise me!" 
 
 "Yes, mother, yes, I '11 promise," groaned the 
 man. He was dropping medicine with a trem- 
 bling hand, when a quick step sounded on the 
 
282 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 kitchen floor. It was Dorinda. She held the 
 plate before her with a mechanical care, but she 
 had forgotten it. Her blue eyes were dulled. 
 Her cheeks looked faded. But her voice held 
 firm. 
 
 ''You need n't take it out of Martin that 
 way, Mrs. Talbot," said she, with an imperative 
 clearness. " He don't need to promise. I '11 
 promise for him. I won't marry him. You 
 need n't mind about my face. I guess it '11 
 fade fast enough. You need n't mind about my 
 clothes, either. I shan't spend any more on 
 clothes. Good-by, Martin. It 's over. Good- 
 by." She walked out of the room while he was 
 holding the cup to his mother's lips, and went, 
 in some poor panoply of pride, back through the 
 smiling day to her own house. 
 
 All that afternoon Mrs. Talbot lay quite still, 
 and Martin, after he had sent the hired man for 
 the doctor, sat beside her. He thought she was 
 nearer death than she had been before; but, 
 though her heart beat low, Mrs. Talbot was 
 thinking very little about that. She was won- 
 dering what she had done, and counseling her- 
 self not to be glad too soon. 
 
 Dorinda walked into her own silent house, 
 and set the cake back on the pantry shelf. It 
 was all over. She knew it from some inner con- 
 viction rather than the facts themselves. Life, 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS 283 
 
 too, was over, as she conceived it. A curious 
 scorn of herself was reigning in her, since women 
 who are slighted slight themselves. Her ill luck 
 seemed to go back to her pink and white face. 
 If it had been ugly, she might not have been 
 condemned. 
 
 ''Well," she said aloud, *'it '11 fade fast 
 enough. She need n't worry herself. It '11 fade." 
 
 And she wished it. She longed to be old and 
 ugly, like Aunt Dorindy, and so the nearer to 
 her journey's end. But though her loveliness 
 must go, she could not bear to stand by at such 
 a death; and with a sudden purpose she went 
 up to the mirror, and sought herself once more. 
 The face she saw there was wan with grief, with- 
 out, as yet, any of grief's veiling beauty. The 
 lightning stroke of life had smitten it. Dorinda 
 looked into the flower-blue eyes. **Good-by," 
 said she, to something precious. **Good-by.'* 
 
 She took the looking-glass from its nail and 
 carried it up into the attic. There she set it 
 under the rafters, its face turned toward the 
 wall. After that she went through the house in 
 haste, collecting all the other glasses, to pile 
 them there beside it. Then she went down 
 calmly to her work, and to grow old like Aunt 
 Dorindy. 
 
 Next day at dusk Aunt Dorindy came stum- 
 bling over. 
 
284 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 "The land, Dorindy!" said she, entering the' 
 sitting-room, "you ain't be'n an' broke that old 
 glass?" 
 
 Dorinda was sitting by the window, sewing 
 fast. She looked up and smiled. There were 
 brilliant spots of color in her cheeks, and her 
 voice rang hard. " I guess I cracked it, lookin' 
 so," she said. '*I carried it off upstairs." 
 
 '* Why don't ye fetch down that old Constitu- 
 tion out o' the west chamber?" 
 
 "I don't know. I don't believe I will." 
 
 "Ain't you done your hair a mite on one 
 side?" 
 
 " Maybe I have. I ain't looked at it." 
 
 "What you got on that old choc'late calico 
 tor? You don't look nat'ral." 
 
 " I don't care how I look," said Dorinda. 
 
 Aunt Dorindy opened her mouth in an inef- 
 fectual gasp, closed it, and went home. 
 
 But the space left vacant on the wall was 
 vacant still. Dorinda, dressed in sober calico, 
 sat by the window and bound a marvelous quan- 
 tity of shoes. She hardly looked up from her 
 work, even when Aunt Dorindy brought tidings 
 that old lady Talbot was still in bed with a pro- 
 longed ''heart spell." Martin was staying at 
 home with her. He was not allowed to leave 
 his mother's sight. At the end of the week 
 Dorinda went out to the front gate and looked 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS 285 
 
 wistfully up and down the road, recognizing her 
 own loneliness, and wondering why it should 
 seem so dull to think of visiting the neighbors. 
 She leaned on the gate and mused blankly over 
 her desolation, and there Eli Morse saw her, as 
 he walked by with a basket full of young tomato 
 plants. He was a tall, loosely jointed man, 
 with the absorbed look of one who has some 
 gentle passion and tends it by himself. Years 
 ago he had raised the laughter of the neighbor- 
 hood by starting a market garden, though this 
 was thirty miles from town and three miles from 
 a railroad. But strawberries and spring greens 
 repaid his fostering. He lived alone, in a sweet 
 intimacy with his garden, and put away the 
 money it brought him, not from niggardliness, 
 but because it made an alien element in his 
 simple ways. When he looked at Dorinda, the 
 clouded loveliness of her face besought him, like 
 a flower drenched in storm. He stopped, and 
 spoke with a faltering pity. 
 
 ** You look all beat out." 
 
 Dorinda smiled. 
 
 "I 've been sewin'," said she. 
 
 "What makes you.?" 
 
 "I don't know. It 's as good as anything." 
 
 While he was standing there before her, Mar- 
 tin Talbot passed. For a moment, relying on 
 the habit of old days, Dorinda thought he meant 
 
286 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 to stop; but he only gave her a brief good- 
 evening, and hurried on. He looked wan and 
 sorry. 
 
 "Old Mis' Talbot's pretty low," said Eli. 
 " Guess he 's puttin' for the doctor." 
 
 The breath of evening touched Dorinda's 
 cheek, and made her sigh in answer. Her 
 muscles ached from the cramping day, and 
 she longed to taste the air that made this man 
 so calm. Hot cravings seemed afar from him ; 
 with his still face and gentle eyes he might have 
 been a part of the earth, risen up out of it for a 
 moment's activity, then to return gladly to some 
 deep covert. 
 
 **I wish I could work outdoors," said she un- 
 thinkingly. '*I 'm sick and tired of the house." 
 
 A new light shot into his face. 
 
 "You can," said he. *'It's complete. 
 There 's nothin' like it." 
 
 "Could I have a garden?" 
 
 "I guess you could. You could sell things. 
 I 'd carry your stuff with mine." 
 
 "It 's too late for this year, though." 
 
 "No, it ain't: not for everything. You could 
 sow some lettuce an' some redishes, an' plant 
 late corn. You could have tomatoes. Look a' 
 here! I'll leave these plants." 
 
 He went in and sat on the steps with her until 
 late in the evening, while they talked of gar- 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS 287 
 
 dens; and next day, almost before the dawn, 
 he and his man were planting for her. 
 
 Then Dorinda began her new life. She gave 
 up her housework, and lived out of doors. She 
 and Eli drifted into an odd, unspoken partner- 
 ship. He carried her produce to market and 
 worked for her, as she, when lighter tasks were 
 urgent, worked for him. The neighbors wagged 
 their heads and prophesied, and Aunt Dorinda 
 clucked like a hen because Dorinda would not 
 talk of sheets and tablecloths. Mrs. Talbot 
 kept her bed, not so much because her state de- 
 manded it as that the pathos of persistent illness 
 was an iron finger on her son. Martin's shoul- 
 ders bent under the weight of life. Once within 
 the first month he met Dorinda face to face by 
 her own gate. 
 
 "Did you mean that, Dorinda," he asked, 
 '*what you said .?" 
 
 She looked at him in a kindliness that left him 
 chilled. 
 
 "Yes," she said; '*! meant it." 
 
 When he spoke again, the words were like a 
 sob. 
 
 "Dorinda, I don't know whether I done right 
 or wrong. But I could n't kill her." 
 
 "Of course you couldn't," said Dorinda, 
 with the same decisive clearness. *'I don't ex- 
 pect you to." 
 
288 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 She walked inside her gate alone, and all that 
 afternoon she hoed potatoes in the sun, and took 
 a fierce delight in thinking how the dirt was sift- 
 ing into her shoes, and how coarse her hands 
 would look. That night at supper time came 
 Aunt Dorindy. 
 
 "Ain't you got a coat o' tan!" said she. 
 "You '11 be as black as an Injun 'fore summer -s 
 over." 
 
 It was like the verdict of the world on a lost 
 cause. Dorinda washed her hands mechani- 
 cally at the sink, and thought her pang was over. 
 There would not be the agony of growing old. 
 She had bought at one purchase what Aunt 
 Dorindy was accepting from the niggard years. 
 She wondered, with a dull curiosity that held no 
 bitterness, how her skin looked now it was get- 
 ting black, and how long it would be before the 
 sun made wrinkles under her eyes. After that 
 day she withdrew more and more into a silence 
 of her own, and the neighbors ceased to question 
 her. She had turned queer, they said, takin' 
 up man's work, an' all. 
 
 The progress of the years began, the years 
 that make up life. The man and woman con- 
 tinued their tacit partnership, like two earth 
 spirits born to toil for some compelling reason 
 they could not understand. The neighbors 
 wondered whether they would marry when 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS 289 
 
 they had laid by enough; but between them- 
 selves there was no talk of marriage. Eli in- 
 structed Dorinda in crops and all the ancient 
 lore of earth. Sometimes he told her about the 
 woods and herbs that grow in hidden places, and 
 more than once he led her to the spot where a 
 partridge had hidden the treasure of her nest. 
 Dorinda learned from him in some strange way, 
 as if she breathed it in, the patience of the sea- 
 sons and the soil. Spring found her out of 
 doors, and in the winter, unless the snow lay 
 deep, she went, with some unformed purpose, 
 tramping over the hills. In years she had not 
 seen her own face. When she combed her long 
 hair she would not look at the sweeping mane, 
 lest it had grown dull, like Aunt Dorindy's. 
 Sometimes, when she went into a neighbor's, her 
 reflection, as she passed a mirror, waved and 
 beckoned to her; but she never turned. It was 
 as if the ghost of her repudiated youth held out 
 a hand in vain. In the seventh winter Eli died, 
 after a short sickness, and she sat beside him in 
 the dawn and tended him. He turned loving 
 eyes upon her. 
 
 "I 've prized you more 'n ever you knew, Do- 
 rindy," said he, " Seems sometimes as if a piece 
 was cut right out o' your life and gi'n to me. 
 I 've had good days with you. Well, he need n't 
 begrutch 'em to me. Good-by, Dorindy." 
 
290 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 Then he closed his eyes, and there was no 
 more talking. 
 
 When the will was found, Dorinda had his 
 land. This was in December; and with a 
 strange new patience she made her plans for 
 more gardening, and for hiring two men instead 
 of one. 
 
 On a spring day, when the plow was set 
 into the first furrow. Aunt Dorindy came and 
 said: 
 
 ''Old Mis' Talbot's goin' at last. High 
 time, too! Martin sets there in the kitchen. 
 He won't take bite nor sup. She don't know 
 him, neither. Some say he 's begun to mourn ; 
 but I say his mother 's be'n the death of him." 
 
 Dorinda went swiftly out of the house and 
 down the road. She turned in at the Talbots' 
 gate, and smelled the sweet clove long before she 
 came to it. A light wind wafted it to meet her. 
 She went in at the kitchen door, and there 
 she found him sitting by the window, his head 
 sunken between his shoulders. His face was 
 scarred by lines of grief and age, but it looked 
 withered, as if no tear had touched it. The 
 house was very still, all but the buzzing of one 
 fly upon an upper pane. Mrs. Talbot was 
 asleep, and the nurse, lying on the lounge beside 
 her, slept, too. Dorinda walked up to Martin, 
 and laid her hand upon his shoulder. 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS 291 
 
 "Martin!" said she, speaking softly, but as 
 if she called one from the dead. '* Martin!" 
 
 He looked at her in a dull wonderment. 
 
 "Dorinda," said he. "Is that you, Do- 
 rinda.?" 
 
 She seated herself beside him, and drew his 
 head down to her breast. She was strong with 
 the vigor built up through hardy years lived near 
 the earth; and he, shrunken and weak with 
 grief, seemed like a child beside her. The 
 denied motherhood in her rose with an enfolding 
 tenderness, and she touched his hair. 
 
 "You stay here a minute, dear," she whis- 
 pered him. "I '11 make a cup o' tea." 
 
 Martin lay down, and watched her from the 
 pillow, with the gaze of hungry souls new come 
 to heaven. The nurse appeared, and looked 
 her wonder; but the tea was made, and when 
 Dorinda poured it, with a sweet composure, 
 they drank together. 
 
 " I would n't go far away," said the nurse to 
 Martin, in a tone of prophecy; and he nodded. 
 He was another man. He had quaffed some 
 great assurance from Dorinda's eyes, and life 
 flowed in on him. 
 
 Dorinda stepped about, doing little neigh- 
 borly deeds, and once she stopped near him to 
 say haltingly, with some shyness at essaying 
 comfort : 
 
292 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 "Don't take it so. You mustn't." 
 
 "It ain't that," labored the man. "It ain't 
 now. It 's what we 've undergone so long." 
 The slow tears trickled down his cheeks. 
 
 After that the sick woman moaned a little, 
 and Dorinda said no more, lest the dying ears 
 should catch some hint of her. Seven years ago 
 she could not have stolen into that house to 
 guide its currents ; but now life seemed larger to 
 her, and the living more to be considered than 
 the dead. At sunset old lady Talbot spoke out 
 clearly to her son: 
 
 "You call her in here. Dorindy! You call 
 Dorindy!" 
 
 He spoke the name like an echo, and Dorinda 
 answered it. The woman turned beseeching 
 eyes upon her. 
 
 "That 's a good girl," said she, and died. 
 
 Dorinda went quietly out of the house; and 
 next day she watched her plowing, and sowed 
 early peas. She was the only one of the neigh- 
 bors who did not go to old lady Talbot's funeral. 
 Instead she sat at home, and thought of life in a 
 strange equable musing, like one for whom the 
 keenness of the struggle is quite over, while 
 sweetness still remains. She thought of young 
 Dorinda with a tender smile, as of some one who 
 had died, a creature all frailties, yet with one 
 desire, — to be beloved. The creature had been 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS 293 
 
 beautiful. The woman who mused about her 
 had ceased thinking of her own face, worn as 
 it must be, and scarred by careless usage. 
 
 The next day she took up her work again, and 
 at twilight Martin came. She heard his step on 
 the walk, and it all seemed a part of a dream. 
 She had been in the vestibule of the dream be- 
 fore. He came into the sitting-room, where she 
 had risen to meet him, and Dorinda, in a strange 
 acquiescence, let him take her to his heart. 
 
 "There!" she said gently, stepping apart 
 from him. "There, Martin, we mustn't call 
 things back." 
 
 He looked like the ghost of his youth. 
 
 "Don't you care about me?" he asked, like 
 a child. " I ain't wuth it, Dorinda. I never 
 knew how to fix things when they got so tangled, 
 but I thought that day — I thought you cared." 
 
 "Oh, yes, I care," said Dorinda. She real- 
 ized in that flash how patient she had grown. 
 " I care. But things are over when a woman 's 
 got to be — like me. It 's all gone, Martin, 
 what you liked — all gone." 
 
 " What I liked, Dorinda. What did I like ? " 
 
 "My looks are gone," said Dorinda simply. 
 
 The man in him awoke; it was the man that 
 had hungered for her in silence under an un- 
 worthy fetter. He took her strong wrists and 
 drew her toward him. 
 
294 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 " Dorinda," he whispered, " you 're the pretti- 
 est thing God ever made; but if you wa'n't — 
 if you was homely, if you was old — O Dorinda, 
 don't you know ? " 
 
 She knew, and life returned upon her like a 
 flood. 
 
 When he was gone, she ran upstairs in the 
 daring of great joy, and out of the blackness of 
 the attic took the looking-glass. She carried it 
 down, catching strange fragments of reflection 
 as she went, and hung it in its place. Then she 
 lighted two candles, and, holding one in either 
 hand, looked at herself. The face that met her 
 was a loving stranger. It was like the mother 
 of the girl who bade herself good-by so long ago. 
 This was a daughter of the earth, a child of 
 wind and sun. The eyes were deep and patient; 
 the hair had darkened, but it held glints of 
 gold. Here and there were little characters 
 set down; yet life had only touched her to new 
 bloom and ripening. While she mused the eyes 
 began to smile, the mouth took on a curving 
 grace, and three dimples she had quite forgotten 
 came out and danced before her. 
 
 "Oh!" said Dorinda. "Oh!" and under- 
 stood the resurrection. 
 
A HERMI'T IN ARCADIA 
 
A HERMIT IN ARCADIA 
 
 It was a pulsating noon in the spring of the 
 year. Adam Field dusted the flour from his 
 hands, and came to the door of his little house to 
 salute the weather. He was the hermit of the 
 Tristram Woods, and this was his baking-day. 
 Four pies, desirably browned, stood on the 
 kitchen table, and the dough he had given its 
 second moulding was set in the pans to rise. 
 These were duties past; but his pleasures lay 
 out of doors, and he came forth to seek them. 
 He was a tall, great-shouldered creature, with 
 bronze-red hair and a freckled face. The line 
 of his profile swept nobly from brow to chin, and 
 at first sight he justified the exactions of beauty 
 as applied to men. 
 
 But looking longer at him, it would be found 
 that all this strength of moulding and outline 
 was pathetically softened by his eyes. They 
 were dog's eyes, brown and seeking, and by no 
 means knowing what they sought. He was 
 dressed in a gingham shirt and gray trousers, 
 and he wore a blue checked apron. The apron 
 he untied, and, turning, hung it on a nail by the 
 door, moving with the air of one who does an 
 
298 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 accustomed act with an added precision because 
 he hates it. Returned to man's estate by the 
 removal of the belittUng garment, he seemed to 
 free his soul and let it rove abroad among the 
 riches of the day. 
 
 His house, gray-lichened in its ancientry, 
 stood on the shore of Tristram Pond, and the 
 little clearing about it was fringed by trees, now 
 lustily pricking into green. So lucent was the 
 green, and yet so pervasive, that it held every 
 coign of the forest like an ardent mist. It 
 seemed to rise and waver before Adam's vision, 
 and his responsive senses told him he might 
 almost bathe in it. He was at one with the 
 woods, not even owning in his heart that he 
 loved them, but yet absorbed into their thrilling 
 life. Suddenly, while his eyes were fixed on a 
 group of birches marking out the path about the 
 pond, they parted, and a girl stood there, framed 
 in green. 
 
 "Gee!" said Adam Field. It was the old 
 situation, a man and a maid ; but he found him- 
 self as disturbed by it as if the one of them had 
 been Adam the First, and the other. Eve. The 
 day and the season smelt so new that the girl 
 seemed new also. 
 
 Yet she was not in any sense remarkable to 
 the generalizing glance, — a slight thing, with a 
 brown face and brown hair growing in a one- 
 
A HERMIT IN ARCADIA 299 
 
 sided peak on her forehead. Her eyes only 
 were unusual. They were large and dark, and 
 at this moment they held the gypsy glint. The 
 hermit met them, and could not look away. 
 Their gleam bewitched him. He had an im- 
 pulse to walk forward in response, but as he laid 
 a hand upon the casing of the door, to be assured 
 of something solid, the girl smiled. Her face 
 crinkled up; the brown pool of the eyes broke, 
 and Adam was released. He drew a quick 
 breath, and passed a hand before his eyes. The 
 girl came lightly forward. She held a withe, 
 and stripped it as she walked. 
 
 "Are you the hermit?" she inquired. 
 
 Adam frowned. '*I should like to know," 
 said he fractiously, **if a chap can't go off 
 and live by himself without being called 
 names!" 
 
 ''What 's anybody want to go off by them- 
 selves for?" asked the girl, with an outward 
 indifference and yet some keenness of veiled 
 interest. 
 
 "Because they 're sick of the whole damned 
 show!" 
 
 She looked at him in a fashion so gravely in- 
 dulgent that Adam's heart gave one quick throb: 
 for he thought of his apron. Then he remem- 
 bered having taken it off, and he blessed his 
 stars. 
 
300 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 " She said you had a lovely voice," remarked 
 the girl, with a smooth irrelevance. 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 *' Melissa Beane. She that was Melissa 
 Hawkins." 
 
 The slow red crept into his face and suffused 
 it. Many thoughts were surging within him, but 
 none such as he could utter. For certain reasons 
 he felt that Melissa Hawkins had the sorry right 
 to say anything she pleased about him. 
 
 "She told me how you looked," continued the 
 girl dispassionately, **but you ain't half so 
 freckled as I expected." 
 
 The pinprick hurt. His mates at school had 
 taunted him with freckles, and that old nerve 
 had life enough to thrill. 
 
 " I ain't the only one in the world that 's 
 freckled," said he; but the girl interrupted him 
 sweetly : 
 
 "Do you mean me? Oh, no! I ain't 
 freckled. I 'm tanned, that 's all. You 'd better 
 see to your oven. Something 's burning." 
 
 Adam could never explain why he felt so hope- 
 lessly at her mercy. She seemed to possess an 
 infinite power of deriding him, and he was the 
 more undone because he felt, at the bottom of 
 his soul, that she could soothe with an equal 
 potency. She hurt him, and undoubtedly wished 
 to hurt; yet mingled with his inner protest 
 
A HERMIT IN ARCADIA 301 
 
 against the injustice of that onslaught was an 
 unreasoning desire to go to her for comfort. 
 But the girl, as if she knew nothing about these 
 warring subtleties, looked at him with satirical 
 eyes. Within the man waves of resolution were 
 mounting high. No power on earth should 
 force him to acknowledge before his arch tor- 
 mentor that ovens and other household gear 
 were not things afar from him. 
 
 ** There 's nothing to burn," said he firmly. 
 
 She swept the words aside in wholesale scorn. 
 "I guess I know!" said she. **You just let me 
 look!" She brushed past him, crossed the 
 kitchen, and opened the oven door. Burned 
 pastry and trickling juices met her in a steaming 
 cloud, and she spoke warmly, yet with some 
 indulgence, as one to an inferior in a kindred 
 art : *' I 'd be ashamed ! They were elegant pies, 
 and you 've let 'em run all to waste." 
 
 Deft as some trained ministrant, she caught a 
 dish-towel from the nail and took out the pies. 
 She set them on the table beside the others, and 
 regarded them with true sorrow. 
 
 "The crust is as flaky as ever I see," she re- 
 marked, as if confiding in some sympathetic deity. 
 ** And you 've let it burn to a crisp." Then she 
 turned upon him with a hateful smile, and asked 
 insinuatingly, "You fond of cooking.^" 
 
 '*No!" thundered the hermit. But he was 
 
302 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 breathlessly content, seeing her inside his door. 
 Keen desire flashed up in him to keep her there. 
 
 "What makes you do it, then ?" She seated 
 herself, like a bad fairy, on a stool in the chim- 
 ney corner, and looked at him with impudent 
 eyes. Instantly Adam Field judged and classi- 
 fied his deftness about the house. He had 
 always hated woman's work, though he gave it 
 great attention because it was his religion to do 
 all things well. Now it seemed to him not 
 merely dull, but most unmanly. 
 
 " Somebody 's got to do it," he returned 
 lamely. 
 
 '*If you 'd married Melissa, she 'd have done 
 it for you." 
 
 He made no answer, even to voice a sudden 
 inward relief that he had not married Melissa, 
 with her yellow hair and her look of eternal 
 Sabbaths. 
 
 "If you'd married Melissa," continued his 
 tormentor calmly, "I should be visiting you 
 both. I 'm staying with her mother; but your 
 house is bigger than the one Melissa lives in 
 now, so she 'd have had me there." 
 
 His doglike eyes besought her not to play 
 with such fine ironies; but she sparkled back 
 an answer, and went on : 
 
 "Don't you want to know what I 'm down 
 here for?" 
 
A HERMIT IN ARCADIA 303 
 
 He answered eagerly, her cruelties forgotten, 
 "Yes, I do." 
 
 "Well, Melissa told me you 'd jilted her" — 
 
 "I didn't jilt her," he continued in haste. 
 The words tumbled tumultuously. Though she 
 jeered at him, he had a pathetic certainty that, 
 after all, she would understand. It was an 
 almost poignant relief, too; for never before 
 had he been able, in speech, to touch upon that 
 mortifying time. '*You don't see how it was. 
 She did n't. Nobody does. We were going to 
 be married. I liked her real well, and I wanted 
 her to be happy." 
 
 A curious expression came over the girl's face. 
 It was that quick, wounded look which betrays 
 a jealous mind. 
 
 "I 'm a queer chap," Adam went on, in that 
 rush of confidence. "So how was I going to 
 know whether I could make her happy or not ? 
 Still, I liked her, and I meant to chance it. But 
 when it was 'most time for us to be married, I 
 got scared. I got so scared I told her so. I bet, 
 if the truth was known, every man jack of 'em 's 
 scared before he 's married. You ask 'em, and 
 if there 's any man in 'em, they '11 own it. 
 Well, I owned it to her, and she cried, and Silas 
 Beane he up and married her." 
 
 '*And you locked your door and came traips- 
 ing off down here to make town talk of yourself 
 
304 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 over all this hermit business," said the girl 
 sharply. Her eyes were full of angry tears. 
 She felt that unreasoning bitterness from which 
 we wound our beloved when they put themselves 
 in the wrong. 
 
 *'It wa'n't what you think. I could bear to 
 see her, but I could n't face being a coward. I 
 could n't live with other folks. You can't see. 
 You could n't if you tried a year." Yet at the 
 same instant he was conscious of a warming 
 hopefulness that she could unriddle all the prob- 
 lems likely to concern him. 
 
 The girl put out her hand, and then withdrew 
 it before he could guess whether it was for him. 
 ''Well," she said, ''I must go." 
 
 Adam felt himself thrown, with a shock, out 
 of accustomed musings, to face this quick re- 
 verse. ' * No ! " he cried, appealingly — ' * no ! you 
 ain't going.?" 
 
 She was making her way toward the door. 
 He looked at her sharply, in the keenness of his 
 questioning, and he could see that this was quite 
 a different girl from the one who had parted the 
 bushes with that witchlike mien. She was a 
 little pale under her brown skin. Her eyes held 
 something like a troubled tenderness. 
 
 "I help Aunt Sarah get the dinner," said she. 
 
 "But I don't know what your name is," 
 blundered Adam. 
 
A HERMIT IN ARCADIA 305 
 
 Again she sparkled. Her spirits returned 
 with a dash. "That 's no consequence," said 
 she. **You won't have to use it." 
 
 He looked at her helplessly, and she laughed. 
 He was so big, so soft and sorry, so like an 
 elephantine puppy lost in the snow. 
 
 "What a goose you were," she said irrele- 
 vantly, "to give up Melissa!" 
 
 "I did n't give her up!" 
 
 "Well, make her give you up. You were 
 a goose. You 'd have been living in that nice 
 big house, and Melissa 'd have made your 
 pies." 
 
 "I don't want her to make my pies!" 
 
 "Well," she returned, with her diabolic pre- 
 cision, "I don't know 's they 'd have been so 
 flaky." 
 
 In that instant he resolved that thenceforward 
 this should be a pieless house. 
 
 She had stepped out of the door, and the 
 spring sunshine fell upon her hair and set a 
 shimmer on every curly crest. *' Well," she said 
 meditatively, "I'm sorry you haven't got 
 Melissa!" 
 
 ' ' I would n't take the gift of her ! " The pas- 
 sion of this defiance he understood as little as 
 the former disquiet the creature had aroused; 
 but he sent it hurtling after her. She was walk- 
 ing away lightly and very rapidly. In an instant 
 
306 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 the bushes would close upon her. Adam started 
 after, and reached her in a series of strides. 
 
 *'Say," he began violently, "you tell me what 
 your name is!" 
 
 ''Angelica Payne," said she, still walking 
 away. He remembered then. She had been a 
 visitor here before, an ugly, elfin sort of child, 
 and he had strangely forgotten her. 
 
 '* Angelica Payne!" said he wonderingly, as 
 he followed her. She was more and also less 
 miraculous now that she had a name. But 
 with a twist of his will he broke the spell, though 
 for an instant only. 
 
 "Well," said he roughly, "what you down 
 here on my land for, anyways?" 
 
 She confronted him, and, to keep her com- 
 posure, called up some weak defiance. But the 
 sparkle had gone out of it. "I wanted to see a 
 man that was afraid to marry a girl," she said, in 
 a poor simulation of scorn. 
 
 This time Adam hardly winced. He was 
 going to lose her, and the prospect held some- 
 thing incomprehensibly poignant. ' ' Angelica ! " 
 he called after her, "shan't you come down 
 here again .?" 
 
 She cast a flashing look over her shoulder. 
 Her face was dimpled with fun, but he read also 
 some fine scorn of him. "You 're real kind," 
 said she. "Of course I '11 come. A man that 
 
A HERMIT IN ARCADIA 307 
 
 was afraid to marry a girl would expect other 
 girls to come and call." 
 
 Adam groaned in his inability to cope with 
 her, and she went rustling on through the 
 bushes. When the path turned she stopped 
 an instant, and again looked back. '*Oh, I '11 
 come!" said she softly. "I '11 bring you a re- 
 ceipt for cake!" And he had lost her. 
 
 He walked heavily back to the house, and sat 
 down upon the step. There he stayed for per- 
 haps an hour, his eyes fixed on a little weed at 
 his feet. He seemed to be learning it by heart, 
 the leaves and the horseshoe shadow on them. 
 But chiefly he mused upon his visitor, and gave 
 some vague cognizance to the strange self she 
 had liberated within him. He thought he knew 
 his own nature to the root, after days of intro- 
 spection down here alone, and nights of reverie; 
 yet all this formulating turned upon his faults. 
 He had a curious scorn of himself, of his great 
 strength, and the softness of heart that made 
 him a child whenever it came to action. He 
 could not even "go gunning" as other fellows 
 did; he was afraid of hitting some warm and 
 palpitating mark, some winged timidity. He 
 could not speak in town-meeting for fear of 
 *'hard feelings" somewhere. 
 
 The extremity of bathos had come in his hesi- 
 tating at the altar because he liked Melissa too 
 
308 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 well to marry her; and, following on that, an 
 overkeen sensitiveness brought echoing to his 
 ears those hoots of derision certain to attend his 
 name. So he had shut up his house, sent off 
 old Betsy, who had worked for him ever since 
 his mother's death, and betaken himself to the 
 woods. As a citizen and a man he had become, 
 in his own estimating, a being of no account; and 
 he proposed to spend the rest of these hateful 
 years removed from the men with whom he 
 could not cope, and who must perpetually judge 
 him. But Angelica Payne had arrived. Things 
 were at once different. He pulled out the scroll 
 of his past life, as a man must do for at least one 
 woman, and groaned over its futility. All the 
 day's routine took part in his changed mood. 
 He did not set his orderly dinner-table as usual, 
 but stood at the cupboard and ate savagely, 
 showering the floor with crumbs. Nor would 
 he sweep the crumbs away; and at nightfall, 
 when the kitchen, like himself, betrayed some 
 signs of being out of joint, he appraised the con- 
 fusion and exulted in it. It was a betrayal of 
 man's housekeeping, and that suited him. When 
 she came again she should not flout him. 
 
 But she did not come again. The days 
 lagged, while Adam stayed religiously by his 
 own doorstone lest he should miss her. He 
 made curious compromises in his indoor work. 
 
A HERMIT IN ARCADIA 309 
 
 striving to earn her approval of man's house- 
 keeping, and yet guessing how she must loathe 
 untidiness. Sometimes he left the floor unswept, 
 and then brushed it up in fevered haste, lest she 
 come and find him doing it. But he made him- 
 self fastidiously clean in his own person, since 
 that at least was due her. Toward the end of 
 the third day he had an ache in his throat, the 
 kind from which he had dumbly suffered in 
 childhood when his mother used to go away, at 
 rare intervals, to spend the night. Later it came 
 again when she died ; but he could not remember 
 anybody else who had the power to summon it. 
 At five o'clock on the afternoon of the fourth 
 day it suddenly occurred to him that Angelica 
 did not mean to come back at all. That cer- 
 tainty was like a blow in the face from a beloved 
 hand. A great reproach welled up in him. It 
 seemed incredible that any human being should 
 treat another with such cruelty. He was stand- 
 ing by his doorstone when that conclusion 
 struck him, and without a second's delay he got 
 his hat and went striding toward the county 
 road. No definite purpose moved his mind. 
 He could hardly seek out the Hawkins family in 
 pursuit of their alluring guest ; but he was drawn 
 magnetically toward even the airs enfolding her. 
 He went straight across lots and over a swampy 
 tract spanned by a little bridge; and there she 
 
310 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 was. It was like a miracle. She was sitting on 
 a bank, staring into a pool of black water, her 
 chin on her hand, her elbow on her knee. The 
 pang in his heart saluted her, and then kept 
 beating on in a sickening joy and pain. Fear it 
 held also, the delicious fear that threatens and 
 denies. She was not in the least like the crea- 
 ture who had baited him that other day. Her 
 face had fallen into musing; the red mouth 
 looked sad. The world was bourgeoning about 
 her, but he could see, through that involuntary 
 comprehension of her which was a part of his 
 nature, that her own thoughts had shut her 
 away even from the springtime. He had not 
 paused in his swift progress, and these impres- 
 sions flashed across his mind like the pageant 
 from a moving train. At one plunging step she 
 looked up, and the quiet of her attitude broke, as 
 a ripple stirs within a stream. She did not utter 
 a sound, but her eyes dilated, and she grew a 
 little paler. Adam stood before her, breathing 
 hard. He took off his hat, and passed his fingers 
 through his moistened hair. He spoke with 
 bitterness : 
 
 ''You never meant to come! " 
 
 Angelica had in that moment been summon- 
 ing new forces. Her cheeks grew warmer. Her 
 eyes were suddenly alive with something bound 
 to mock at him. "Come where?" she asked. 
 
A HERMIT IN ARCADIA 311 
 
 Instantly he remembered the taunt she had 
 tossed him in farewell, and he could not run the 
 risk of hearing it again. "You said a lot of 
 things to me the other day," he began, shifting 
 his ground. 
 
 "Did I.?" answered the girl innocently. 
 *'Did I talk too much?" 
 
 "You said a lot about my going with Me- 
 lissa!" 
 
 " Oh, no ! I guess I did n't do that. I don't 
 care anything about your going with Melissa." 
 
 "I do!" He was passionately desirous of 
 proving his point. He would protest, explain. 
 She must believe him. 
 
 " Oh, do you ? I 'm real sorry. But it 's too 
 late now. She 's married to Silas Beane, and he 
 ain't the kind of man to give her up." 
 
 Again she was trying to hurt him. He knew 
 that, and looked at her in an acquiescent help- 
 lessness. She seemed to be equipped at every 
 point with stings warranted to wound. 
 
 " I swear ! " he cried. And then some strange 
 impulse made him add, "If you ain't a little 
 devil!" 
 
 Her face crinkled up into a bewilderment of 
 fun. If she was a little devil, it was plain she 
 liked to be. She rose and patted her hair into 
 place. A shower of green things had fallen on 
 it from above. They were the drift of the grow- 
 
312 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 ing year, and somehow, seeing them so tangled 
 there, the spring choked Adam, and he felt the 
 foolishness of talk. This woman creature had 
 turned him into a mass of quivering sensations. 
 She hurt; she delighted. She was his tormentor, 
 his angel, his heart's darling and his foe. Great 
 burning tears came into his eyes. The impossi- 
 bility of her understanding at this point — nay, 
 the impossibility of quite understanding himself 
 — kept him silent, and made his bruised heart 
 doubly sore. 
 
 " You 're real polite," remarked Angelica. 
 " I guess I '11 be going." 
 
 She turned demurely and walked away from 
 him. Adam walked after. He could not call 
 to her as he had the other day, because that 
 somehow seemed to belong to the man he was, 
 and was no longer. He could only endure these 
 queer feelings within, and march along, fitting 
 his stride to her irregular pace. They kept the 
 black cart-path, enlaced above and fringed with 
 ferns below ; but when they neared the border of 
 the bushes where the open meadow lay beyond, 
 the girl stopped. Her voice quivered a little, as 
 if she felt some new mastery; but she chose her 
 words from the same mocking vocabulary. 
 
 "You better not go any further," she said. 
 
 "Why.?" Question and answer seemed to 
 him significant. His voice was trembling. 
 
A HERMIT IN ARCADIA 313 
 
 ** Somebody might see you!** 
 
 "What 's the harm in that?" 
 
 "Ain't you hiding?" she asked innocently. 
 ** If you come out among folks, you won't be a 
 hermit any more. Good-by." She walked a 
 step without looking at him, and Adam over- 
 took her. 
 
 "Stop!" he said; and she stopped, though 
 she did murmur to herself: 
 
 "The idea!" 
 
 " You seem to think I 'm no kind of a man 
 because I said that to Melissa," he began. 
 " Perhaps I ain't. I don't lay claim to much. 
 I want to ask you this : What would you say if 
 a man said it to you ?" 
 
 The girl turned, in a quick access of feeling. 
 She looked straight into his face, and her eyes 
 were burning. "I should say," she flashed, 
 "that I didn't care whether I was happy or 
 not, ^ — if I liked him." 
 
 The landscape seemed to engulf her, she was 
 so swiftly gone. The fringing birches closed as 
 she melted into them, and the air betrayed no 
 echo of her step. Adam did not follow. He 
 turned about as quickly, and went back to his 
 lake. It was without conscious resolution that 
 he strode into the little house; yet there was no 
 shade of indecision in what he did. He opened 
 the cupboard door and took out the scanty relics 
 
314 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 left from food which had of late contented him, 
 and piled them in a milk pan. These he carried 
 out of doors and dumped in a hollow where the 
 birds were accustomed to find provender. The 
 water thrown from his pail, he gave one swift 
 glance about him for anything perishable that 
 might not be left behind. There was a blue 
 apron hanging by the door. His eye fell upon 
 it, and he flushed deeply, with rage at his heart. 
 It was the insignia of disgrace, and he seized it in 
 his hands as if to tear it. That instant he re- 
 membered that it was his mother's apron, and he 
 rolled it, with a remorseful tenderness, and thrust 
 it on a cupboard shelf. Then he went out, shut 
 the door upon the life he had been living, and 
 walked away without one look behind. Neither 
 had he apprehending eyes for the woods where 
 such months of seclusion had been passed, 
 though now they were full of a great significance. 
 Twilight was coming, and peace enwrapped 
 them like a garment. There were little rus- 
 tlings and stirrings among green leaves, although 
 the breeze had fallen. The sharp, liquid peep of 
 frogs came from the distance, and a nearer shrill- 
 ing kept the measure. 
 
 Adam had at one time felt that he was as 
 much a part of this elemental harmony as he 
 could be of anything. He had learned unfor- 
 mulated things out of it, out of the look of the 
 
A HERMIT IN ARCADIA 315 
 
 sky and the way the wind blew, out of long, level 
 reaches of land. He had not been happy, be- 
 cause with his strange, tumultuous nature he 
 was not happy anywhere; but here at least there 
 was peace, and he had not meant to be drawn 
 from it into that turmoil tolerated by other men. 
 But now some note had sounded, clear and com- 
 pelling, out of the myriad noises of the moving 
 world. It was for him. The imagined sound 
 of rushing sap and the greatening of leaves, that 
 universal movement of the growing year, had 
 seemed to him the most significant thing created ; 
 but suddenly its potency yielded, as an army 
 parts for a chieftain with banners, and he must 
 answer. He had withdrawn from life. He 
 must return. But this was not thought within 
 him : only a resistless impulse that sent him, with 
 a whirring in his head, straight back to his old 
 home. There, arriving after six o'clock, he 
 opened the house to the renewing air. A man 
 on a passing team gave him a cordial, "H' are 
 ye ?" and that night the news spread that Adam 
 had come back. 
 
 Melissa Beane, straining the milk in the dairy, 
 heard it from her husband, and her meek face 
 flushed a little. 
 
 '*Now," said she, in her tepid way, "I hope 
 folks '11 give up talkin'." 
 
 Her husband, scented from the barn and ox- 
 
316 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 like in good-humor, set down the last milk pail 
 and took a spear of hay from his trousers. He 
 pulled it absorbedly through his fingers, and fell 
 into the process serving him for thought. Silas 
 was a clumsily chiseled figure, all honesty and 
 good- will. ' * Might as well," said he. * * I never 
 knew what all this hurrah-boys was about, any- 
 how." He lounged away to wash his hands, 
 vaguely soothed by Adam's return to life. A 
 certain disquieting feeling had hung over him 
 that he was in some fashion responsible for this 
 hermit business, and he had an impression that 
 the sooner everybody settled down to their 
 farming the better. 
 
 Melissa drew a sigh over the milk. She, too, 
 had been more or less puzzled by the little drama 
 where she had played so dazed a part. Adam 
 had always embarrassed her by his queer ways 
 and panics over nothing; but she had a kindly 
 feeling for him, and she was easier in her mind 
 now that he had assumed the ways of men. 
 
 That night Adam went to bed without any 
 supper, and next morning he tramped to Sud- 
 leigh, five miles away, took some money out of 
 the bank, and bought a horse and wagon. Then 
 he drove five miles farther, and asked old Betsy 
 Norcross to come and live with him. Betsy was 
 overjoyed. She had known him from a baby, 
 and she was used to all his ways. Nothing 
 
A HERMIT IN ARCADIA 317 
 
 he did was comprehensible, and nothing was 
 wrong. She hastily packed her little hair trunk 
 and dressed herself in her best. She was a 
 slender creature, with a peaked face, most loving 
 eyes, and a quizzical mouth; and she wore a 
 rusty crape shawl and a bonnet that looked as if 
 it had been built by some eccentric and untidy 
 bird. Now she mounted the wagon in a state as 
 exalted as a bride's. Adam took his place beside 
 her, and they drove away. Betsy was thinking 
 how well Adam had suited her, and he sud- 
 denly remembered how perfectly she had suited 
 him. 
 
 **Say, Betsy," he began, as they drove under 
 the quickening elms, "could you stay right 
 along.?" 
 
 Betsy nodded, brimful of happiness. Be- 
 cause she was silent, Adam looked at her, and 
 she nodded again. 
 
 "Would you stay if there was somebody at 
 the head of the house .?" 
 
 Betsy darted a look at him. "You goin' to 
 git married.?" she asked. 
 
 "Would you stay.?" repeated Adam. 
 
 "Law, ble^s you, yes!" said Betsy. **I'm 
 real glad. That '11 be complete." 
 
 Betsy cleaned the house, and she and Adam 
 set about the business of life. He bought cows 
 and a yoke of oxen, and, though late, began his 
 
318 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 planting. The neighbors dropped in at odd 
 times, and one after another they got used to his 
 return. The women would borrow a cup of 
 yeast from Betsy and ask a careless question, 
 and they found her loquacious on every topic 
 save what concerned Adam. When he met 
 them, men or women, he was so commonplace 
 that his "crazed spell" dropped into abeyance. 
 It seemed like the vanity which is less than 
 nothing in the face of this great creature who 
 walked about his farm doing deeds with an 
 unerring hand. 
 
 But Adam hardly knew what he was thinking 
 in those days while he harnessed himself to the 
 needs of earth. He was perhaps not thinking at 
 all. Only he was throbbingly conscious of the 
 spring life about him, like the god Pan set to 
 plow furrows, feeling the earth riot and surge 
 and tremble, and yet plowing, and plowing 
 for a purpose, and not even willing to escape. 
 He said very little to old Betsy; but she set his 
 food before him, and made the house a miracle 
 of neatness. Nobody told her when the bride 
 would come. Nobody had told Adam either, 
 even his own hot purpose; but the old woman 
 and the young man worked together with equal 
 paces and according aim. 
 
 All this time Angelica Payne, growing a little 
 paler hour by hour, sat within doors, sewing. 
 
A HERMIT IN ARCADIA 319 
 
 Her aunt wondered at her, because an errant 
 will had always taken her out into the woods 
 and fields at any interval of the day or night. 
 Melissa was worried, and begged her to drive 
 or walk; but Angelica denied them gently, and 
 sat by the window with head bowed over her 
 seam. 
 
 " Now what you want to make so many things 
 for.?" said her comfortable aunt. "Trimmed 
 to the nines, too ! Anybody 'd think 't was your 
 settin' out." 
 
 One night, when the planting was all done, and 
 the year was still between promise and its bloom, 
 Adam made himself very clean, and started out 
 along the county road. Old Betsy watched him 
 away. She made fantastic gestures at his back, 
 translating her good-will ; then she sat down on 
 the steps and thought of life, — chiefly what a 
 big baby Adam had been, and what a freckled 
 boy. Betsy was happy. She often said she had 
 better luck than most, because she had always 
 lived with her own kind of folks. 
 
 Adam walked along, neither fast nor slow; 
 and in the darkening turn of the road where the 
 pines meet and there is the sound of running 
 water, he saw Angelica Payne. She was dressed 
 in white, and her face was very pale. The dusk 
 was thin enough for him to see how black and 
 soft her eyes were, and how still she carried her- 
 
320 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 self. She looked like a bride, and a great ten- 
 derness calmed his manner toward her. She 
 seemed very little and very young, something 
 miraculously accorded him to protect as well as 
 to adore. She walked up to him, and he took 
 her hands. 
 
 "Did you come to meet me.?" he asked her 
 gently. 
 
 " I don't know," said Angelica. " I came." 
 
 Their hearts beat quickly, but they beat with 
 an according measure. 
 
 "Should you be ready to marry me by to- 
 morrow .?" asked Adam, as if he inquired about 
 the weather. 
 
 "Yes," said Angelica, like one speaking out 
 of a dream. 
 
 " Should you rather I 'd come and see you at 
 the house a few times first.?" 
 
 "Oh, no!" said Angelica, "not unless you'd 
 rather." 
 
 "You know what folks '11 say about me! 
 They '11 always remember I was queer, and 
 went off into the woods!" 
 
 "Yes," said Angelica. She was leaning her 
 head against his arm, and thinking his coat 
 smelled of the earth, the spring earth with its 
 imperious promises. 
 
 "They may say I could n't get Melissa after 
 all! Can you put up with that.?" 
 
A HERMIT IN ARCADIA 321 
 
 "Not get Melissa?" she repeated absently. 
 "Poor Melissa!" 
 
 They stood silent, the dusk sifting down about 
 them. Angelica, in a flash, recovered her old 
 fire. 
 
 " Do you s'pose you 're going to make me 
 happy?" she asked audaciously. 
 
 The silence thrilled like unknown, poignant 
 speech. Adam was meeting his hunger for her, 
 his certainty of having found something which 
 was all his own. 
 
 "I don't believe I care," said he, "whether I 
 do or not." 
 
 Then he lifted her until her eyes were level 
 with his, and kissed her on the mouth. 
 
A CROWN OF GOLD 
 
A CROWN OF GOLD 
 
 Mirabel stood in the kitchen door, on an April 
 day, waiting for her husband to come in from 
 the barn, where he had been unharnessing after 
 his trip to town. It was noon, and her dinner- 
 table, in exquisite order, stood waiting for them. 
 A beef soup of the old-fashioned kind, with 
 onions and dumplings, bubbled on the stove. 
 Mirabel knew he would be content. Pleasure 
 was too strong a word for anything Harrison 
 might feel. He had no commendations to ex- 
 press, more than a sober certainty that she would 
 do things as perfectly as they could be done. 
 He thought exceedingly well of Mirabel, but 
 there was no throb of surprise over any miracle 
 she could offer him from time to time. She 
 stood there on the doorsill, swaying from one 
 foot to the other, in a childish way she had, her 
 face half smiling in a quivering response to the 
 bright spring weather. It made her feel quite 
 strangely, as if she were a little girl, with no 
 tasks, only to laugh and sit in the sun. Yet she 
 liked her work. Only there was a part of her 
 that seemed to be always flying abroad over the 
 boughs, or singing irresponsible things, like the 
 
326 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 bluebirds, now in their nesting fervor. From 
 the sky she looked down at her blue calico, and 
 wondered if it were becoming, and then sighed 
 impatiently because there was no way to find 
 out. Mirabel looked quite unlike any of the 
 girls in the neighborhood, or any girl she had 
 ever seen. She had a skin so delicate that the 
 sun seemed to scorch it, and a fine drooping 
 profile. But what puzzled her most was that 
 there were freckles on her nose, and that she 
 had thick, heavy hair, bright bronze-red and curl- 
 ing passionately, and that to her husband none 
 of these things seemed to matter. Sometimes 
 when she went into a room all by herself, and 
 stood in front of the glass in wild self-scrutiny, 
 it seemed to her that she had the prettiest neck 
 and chin a girl ever had, and her hair was so 
 glorious to her that she caught her breath. 
 After such a meeting with herself she would look 
 at Harrison when he came in from the barn, 
 and, flushing all over her delicate face, wonder if 
 he would tell her how pretty she was. But he 
 never told her. Not once in all their courting 
 days had he mentioned how she looked to him; 
 and they had begun their love-making so early 
 that there had been hardly time for other men to 
 speak of it. Sometimes Mirabel wondered if he 
 took her looks for granted. Sometimes, with a 
 sorry laugh, she wondered if he thought she was 
 
A CROWN OF GOLD 327 
 
 really too hideous, with her red hair, for any- 
 thing but the homely uses of life, and if it was 
 his kindness that made him keep that silence 
 toward her. He was coming now from the 
 barn, a straight, tall-fellow with good brown 
 eyes and a square chin. Mirabel sped in to the 
 stove, and had the steaming dinner dished up 
 before his feet could touch the sill. Harrison 
 had an armful of packages. He laid them down 
 on the kitchen lounge, swept off his hat with one 
 motion of his hand, and with the other began to 
 pump into the basin in the sink. He soused his 
 head and face, and came up dripping. After a 
 scrub at the towel by the door, he turned to 
 Mirabel, waiting beside her plate. 
 
 "Well," said he, "you all right?" 
 
 That was deep affection. Mirabel knew it, 
 and her eyes glowed. But she answered soberly, 
 because that contented him; and they sat down 
 to eat. When Harrison had dulled the edge 
 of appetite, he sat back and sighed with satis- 
 faction. 
 
 " Well," he said, " who do you s'pose I see in 
 the post office waitin' for the mail?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "Lucy Miles." 
 
 In spite of her the color flew up into Mirabel's 
 telltale skin. She felt it there, and chided her- 
 self for it. 
 
328 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 *' How 's she look ?" she asked, with a careful 
 interest. 
 
 "Young' as ever. Pretty, too." 
 
 "How 's she look, Harrison.?" said Mirabel. 
 "You know I never really see her." 
 
 " No, she was visitin' here when I used to see 
 so much of her. That 's what she 's doin' now. 
 Goin' to-morrer, she said." 
 
 "How's she look.?" Mirabel repeated the 
 question clearly, and turned candid eyes on him. 
 She had no reason for being jealous over Lucy 
 Miles. If Harrison had wanted her, she had 
 many a time assured herself, he might have had 
 her. But Harrison always called her pretty, 
 and hearing that, Mirabel's heart ached and her 
 lips grew mutinous. 
 
 Harrison was speculating over her question. 
 
 "Yes," he said, at length, "I guess Lucy 's a 
 mighty pretty girl, fur as looks go. She 's got 
 black eyes an' black hair an' a good skin, an' 
 she 's straight as an arrer. Yes, I guess there 's 
 no doubt but what Lucy 's pretty. Got any pie ? " 
 
 There was a custard pie, warm from the oven, 
 and Harrison addressed himself to it with a 
 fervor feminine beauty had not challenged in 
 him. Mirabel ate a little of the brown skin on 
 the top of her piece. 
 
 "You sick?" inquired Harrison, seeing it 
 unfinished on her plate. 
 
A CROWN OF GOLD 329 
 
 " No," she answered. " I ain't very hungry." 
 
 " Give it to me, then." He ate both pieces, 
 and rose with another sigh. But he came back 
 from the door, on his way out again, hearing 
 how Mirabel's step lagged, beating back and 
 forth from table to pantry. " I guess you ain't 
 very rugged to-day," said Harrison. He put a 
 big hand on her shoulder, and Mirabel bright- 
 ened. "I 'd lay down a spell." 
 
 Her spirits came back in a dancing troop. 
 Her face dimpled delightfully. She bent her 
 head, and dropped a kiss on his sleeve. 
 
 "No," she said, "no. I ain't tired. I ain't 
 ever tired, this weather. Only I got thinkin'." 
 
 "Well," said Harrison kindly, and went on to 
 the barn. 
 
 The days when Mirabel got thinking were not 
 very frequent; but she was conscious all the 
 time that she did want Harrison to like her looks. 
 At least, she longed to know whether he did or 
 not. It was partly hunger and partly curiosity, 
 but between them they consumed her. 
 
 The next day the fever was still upon her, and 
 when, in the morning, he told her he was going 
 to the river pasture, fencing, to be gone all day, 
 she was glad. She could wash her long red 
 hair, and then coil it up decently, and by the 
 time he came home be ready to forget it and 
 shake herself down into a new calmness. It 
 
330 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 was a sweet April morning with the warmth of 
 May. Harrison looked at her almost regret- 
 fully as she ran out to give him his little packet 
 of lunch, where he sat in the dingle cart, ready 
 to go. 
 
 "I 'most wish you was comin', too," he 
 mused. "Mebbe 'twould be kinder damp, 
 though, settin' round outdoors all day long." 
 
 " I 've got lots to do," said Mirabel gayly. 
 " Good-by. I '11 have somethin' for supper 
 'long about six." 
 
 When the blue cart was bobbing away down 
 under the old elm, she ceased to watch it, and 
 ran indoors, because she meant to be so busy, 
 and the outside sweetness tempted her. She hur- 
 ried through her tasks, with a lick and a promise, 
 as old Aunt Mag used to say, the vagabond aunt 
 who had named her, and then got out the little 
 keeler, and into a bath of warm suds let down 
 her long, thick hair. It was a hard task for one 
 pair of hands, but in half an hour she was sitting 
 out in the yard in the full flood of sunlight, with 
 the hair streaming over her shoulders, drying, 
 and curling as it dried. She rubbed it, and 
 played with it, and tossed it up to let the air blow 
 through it ; and when the bronze-red kinks, like 
 growing things all alive, were clustering over her 
 head, she still sat there, holding up the ends of 
 it to let the sunlight in again. 
 
A CROWN OF GOLD 331 
 
 "Good-morning," said a voice. 
 
 Mirabel gave a little cry. She dropped her 
 hair, and parted the golden fleece to look at him. 
 She knew him at once. He was the man who 
 boarded two miles away on the Sudleigh road, 
 and put up his great umbrella in the midst of 
 meadows, and sat there painting all day long. 
 He was a short, stout man, with a grayish, 
 pointed beard, and eyes set very far under 
 straggly brows. He carried the umbrella, 
 closed, and other things she did not under- 
 stand. 
 
 " Good-morning," said he again. " I want to 
 paint your hair." 
 
 Mirabel gathered it about [her, this time like 
 a mantle. She said nothing. 
 
 He was opening a camp-stool, and, without 
 looking at her, he kept on talking. 
 
 "I guess you can give me a sitting, can't 
 you ? Give me all the time you 've got to-day. 
 I 'm going away to-morrow. Wish I could stay 
 longer, but I sail Saturday. I did n't know 
 there was such hair within a hundred miles." 
 
 She half rose from her seat. He seemed kind, 
 and also irresistible, but she felt like flying into 
 the house, and doing up her hair tight and firm, 
 and not looking at it all day long. 
 
 "Come! come!" said he. "I can't waste a 
 minute. Infernal fools, not to tell me there was 
 
332 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 hair like that" — He stopped his grumbhng, 
 and smiled at her. 
 
 At once Mirabel sat down in her chair, and 
 timidly returned the smile. 
 
 "Why," said he, "you mustn't be afraid. 
 You would n't be afraid to have your photo- 
 graph taken, now would you.^" 
 
 "No," said Mirabel, almost inaudibly. 
 
 " Well, then ! I only want to make a picture 
 of your hair. Sit still, like a good girl, and let 
 me do it." He had unstrapped other things. 
 He was seated before her. She could not flee. 
 But her face quivered a little. She felt as if she 
 were going to cry. He had been dabbing colors 
 on his palette, and now he leaned back and 
 looked at her, his head on one side. She felt 
 her chin trembling. 
 
 "That's right," he said. "Part it a little 
 more away from your face. That 's good. I 
 want you to seem to be looking through it. 
 There, that 's exactly right." Then he began 
 to work. 
 
 Mirabel's chin shook more and more, but he 
 either did not see it or he did not seem to mind. 
 Suddenly he began talking. It might have been 
 to himself, though it sounded partly as if he 
 were reading from a book. 
 
 " Once upon a time there was a little girl, and 
 she had red hair. Why!" — he glanced at her 
 
A CROWN OF GOLD 333 
 
 with a queer surprise in his Ufted eyebrows, — 
 " it was just like yours. Is n't that odd ? Well, 
 she went to school with other girls, and none 
 of them had red hair. None of the boys had, 
 except one, and his was a real carroty red, and 
 he was all freckles. On his hands, too." 
 
 " Lester Pritchard ! " called Mirabel. " How 'd 
 you know ? " Her voice surprised her, it was so 
 sharp and loud. 
 
 "There 's always one like that," he said. 
 "Well, the girl kept on growing and growing 
 and growing, till she could n't grow any longer, 
 because she was grown up. And her hair kept 
 growing and growing and growing, too, and it 
 could always grow longer if it wanted to; but 
 when it got the right length it stopped. But it 
 was always red hair." 
 
 Mirabel was watching him keenly from her 
 glistening covert. 
 
 "And," he said abruptly, "red hair's the 
 prettiest hair there is. So that 's all there is to 
 that story. What 's your name?" 
 
 She could answer now, though she would 
 rather have stopped to think over the conclusion 
 of the story. 
 
 "Mirabel May," she said. "My husband's 
 name is Harrison May." 
 
 "Mirabel May! Who gave you such a pretty 
 name?" 
 
334 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 Mirabel jumped in her chair, and her eyes 
 gleamed out at him. She began to talk tumul- 
 tuously. The barriers were down. 
 
 " Do you think it 's a pretty name ? My aunt 
 gave it to me. She used to read story papers, 
 an' lay 'round outdoors, mother said, an' she 
 died as poor as a rat. Mother said they all said 
 she would if she carried on so, but nothin' would 
 stop her. I thought maybe 't was a funny 
 name. I thought maybe my hair was funny, 
 too." She ceased, aghast at her own boldness, 
 and gathered her hair again under her chin. 
 The stranger was smiling at her kindly, and 
 pausing with his brush in air. 
 
 "Sit still," he said, as if he were gentling 
 a horse. " I '11 tell you another story. This is 
 the story of the picture they made out of the red 
 hair. Once upon a time there was a grown-up 
 girl that had red hair. She looked just like you. 
 Maybe it was you. One day an old man came 
 limping along to her gate. He looked just like 
 me. Maybe he was me. * Hullo!' says he to 
 himself. *Here 's a girl with red hair.' So he 
 sat down and painted all day long, and the girl 
 sat still, very still — don't wiggle 'round so. 
 You '11 hear the story if it 's ever finished, and I 
 guess it will be. — And he painted all he could 
 that day, and took the picture away with him, 
 and painted some more as he remembered it, 
 
A CROWN OF GOLD 335 
 
 and he called the picture 'A Study in Red.' 
 And everybody came to see it, and they all said 
 * Oh, my ! ' And all over the city they said ' Oh, 
 my ! ' for two weeks by the clock, till the painter 
 had to pack up his umbrella and his canvas and 
 his camp-stool and run away, because he was so 
 deafened by hearing them say *Oh, my!' " 
 
 Mirabel's cheeks were blooming rose with the 
 wonder of the hour. She forgot Harrison. She 
 forgot her bread rising. She forgot everything 
 that had once belonged to her; so that now when 
 the cat came and rubbed against her skirt, purr- 
 ing and setting a waving tail in air, she looked 
 down as if it were an alien cat. It seemed as if 
 this April day had been the one she had waited 
 for, and the stranger was an old friend come back 
 from somewhere to talk things over. She be- 
 gan to talk herself, but she could think of only 
 two things to say, though she had said them 
 once already. 
 
 "I thought maybe my name was funny." 
 
 "Mirabel May," he repeated. "No! no! 
 That is n't funny. It 's nice. Mistress Mira- 
 bel May!" 
 
 "I thought maybe my hair was homely, 
 too." 
 
 He smiled at her, and shook his head over his 
 painting. 
 
 " No ! no ! " he said. " No ! no ! You sit still. 
 
336 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 and maybe I '11 tell you another story about that. 
 Do you mind the sun on your head?" 
 
 " No, oh, no," said Mirabel, in a vague happi- 
 ness. "I like it." 
 
 There were soft, flying clouds in the sky. 
 They dappled the grass with shade. The birds 
 were very busy that morning, singing and weav- 
 ing. The road was quite deserted. Nobody 
 went to market, and nobody came to spend the 
 day. . More and more it seemed to Mirabel that 
 she and the stranger were in a new place, where 
 she had never set foot before, and where she 
 liked to be. 
 
 At noon he laid down his brush. He knew it 
 was twelve o'clock by his hunger, and she knew 
 it by the shadows on the grass. 
 
 "Well!" he said, in a tone of satisfaction. 
 
 " I '11 run in an' cook some eggs," said Mira- 
 bel. "Do you like milk?" 
 
 He did. His smile told her. At the door she 
 paused and looked back at him timidly. " Won't 
 you come in," she asked, "and rest?" 
 
 "In a minute," said the stranger; and while 
 she cooked the eggs he walked about and 
 stretched himself, smoking a short black pipe. 
 When the meal was set out, she called him. She 
 had put up her hair, and it crowned her heavily, 
 so that she carried her small head with what 
 looked like pride, to balance it. She had spread 
 
A CROWN OF GOLD 337 
 
 her table in the sitting-room, with the best pink 
 lustre and the big cut-glass preserve dish Aunt 
 Mag had bought once with money she had taken 
 to town to get shoes. The stranger was very 
 hungry, and he liked everything; but Mirabel 
 ate only a little bread and milk, perhaps because 
 she felt so solemn. After it was over and he had 
 gone out to smoke another pipe, she left her 
 dishes standing, and hastily let down her hair. 
 Like a modest handmaid, she appeared before 
 him in the yard. 
 
 " You want me to sit down again ? " she asked, 
 in a fervent faithfulness. 
 
 He nodded, and they took their places, and 
 that afternoon he worked in silence. When the 
 sun was low he looked up at her with a different 
 smile, as if they had both been in the picture 
 together, and now they had come out of it. 
 
 " There, child," he said, " that '11 do. We 've 
 done all we can." 
 
 " Have you finished it ? " asked Mirabel. Her 
 eyes were large and seeking. She was very pale. 
 At last she began to feel how stiff she was. 
 
 "Come and look at it," said the stranger. 
 
 She went timidly round to his side and looked. 
 She gazed at it a long time, and then she took up 
 a strand of her hair and studied that. 
 
 "You think it's pretty?" she asked him. 
 *i~ He answered gravely. 
 
338 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 " It 's very pretty, Mirabel. We 've done a 
 good day's work." 
 
 "You satisfied?" She interrogated him like 
 a child. 
 
 He nodded, again gravely. 
 
 "Yes, I 'm satisfied. Now I must pack up 
 my traps." 
 
 While he did it with deft hands, she stood 
 absently watching him. She still looked pale, 
 and her eyes were tired. Glancing at her, he 
 hesitated. His hand sought his pocket. 
 
 "I want" — he began. "I know you '11 let 
 me give you a little remembrance to " — 
 
 "No! no!" she cried. Her voice was sharp 
 with protest. "No, I couldn't." 
 
 " You would n't" — he lifted a little charm on 
 his watch chain and looked at it. 
 
 "No, no," said Mirabel again. She did not 
 know how to tell him that he had given her 
 already everything he had to give. 
 
 "Well." He considered a moment. Then 
 he smiled at her as he had when he told the 
 stories. " I know what I '11 do," he said com- 
 fortably. " I 've got a little picture of the Long 
 Meadows down below here, — with the willows 
 by the edge. You 'd like that. Yes, I know 
 you would. I '11 send it to you to-morrow when 
 I go. And thank you, Mirabel. Thank you." 
 He took off his hat and stretched out his hand. 
 
A CROWN OF GOLD 339 
 
 She laid hers in it, and smiled gratefully at him. 
 Then he picked up all his traps, and she walked 
 with him to the gate, and stood there watching 
 him as he went away. Once he turned and 
 smiled at her. 
 
 "Good-by!" she called. "Good-by!" 
 When Harrison came home from the river 
 pasture, the supper-table was ready in the sit- 
 ting-room, and there were ham and eggs. Mira- 
 bel, her hair done tidily and her face a little 
 pale but very happy, was ready to pour his tea 
 and listen to his story of the day. It was 
 not until he had finished that he looked about 
 him and realized the festival aspect of the best 
 china and the table spread in the "company 
 room." 
 
 "What makes ye eat in here .^" he asked, not 
 
 complainingly, but with an acquiescent interest. 
 
 Mirabel did not answer directly. She pushed 
 
 back her plate, and leaned her white arms on 
 
 the table. 
 
 "Harrison," said she, "there was somebody 
 here to-day. He wanted to make a picture of 
 my hair. He said 't was no worse than sittin' 
 for a photograph." 
 
 "Sho!" said Harrison. "Where is it?" 
 "The picture .? He took it away with him." 
 " Was it that feller that 's be'n paintin' down 
 in the medder.?" 
 
340 THE COUNTY ROAD 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "How was it? Anything like?" 
 
 A blush burned her cheek. 
 
 "I don't know," she said humbly. " I don't 
 know 's we can tell how we look ourselves." 
 
 Harrison chuckled. 
 
 "Some on us can," he rejoined. "There's 
 Lucy Miles. She 's peekin' all over herself 
 every minute, jes' like a rooster afore he crows. 
 Jote Freeman spoke on 't last town-meetin' day. 
 We passed her when we were drivin' along to 
 the schoolhouse. * Look there,' says he. ' See 
 her crook her neck an' ile her feathers. Now, 
 there's your woman, Harrison,' says he; 'a 
 handsomer woman never stepped, an' she don't 
 know it no more 'n the dead.' " 
 
 Mirabel was leaning forward over her plate. 
 The red had come into her cheeks, and her eyes 
 were shining. 
 
 " Who did he mean, Harrison ? " she trembled. 
 "Who'd he mean?" 
 
 Harrison gazed at her in slow wonder. 
 
 "Why, I told ye," he returned. 
 
 "Was it me, Harrison?" 
 
 "Why, yes. Who'd ye think it was?" 
 
 "What did you say to him, Harrison?" she 
 breathed. "You tell me what you said." 
 
 "Why, I don't rightly remember what I did 
 say. Come to think of it, yes I do, too. *That 's 
 
A CROWN OF GOLD 341 
 
 the way with them real high-steppers,' says I. 
 ' They don't know there 's any odds between 
 them an' anybody else!' Seems queer." He 
 was lighting his pipe on the way to the kitchen, 
 and he paused to laugh a little. 
 
 "What seems queer .^" she reminded him, 
 still breathlessly. 
 
 "The way things go. When I fust begun 
 to shine up to you, mother she warned me. 
 'Harrison,' says she, 'she 's a handsome crea- 
 tur'. You dunno' how she'll turn out.' *Yes,' 
 says I, 'she's the handsomest creatur' in this 
 county, but she don't care no more about 
 it'n I do.' She lived to see I was right, too. 
 Where 's the strainer pail ?" 
 
 Mirabel flew out of her chair, and brought the 
 pail to him. He took it, and she clung to his 
 arm a minute, laughing and crying together. 
 
 "O Harrison," she said, "ain't it wonder- 
 ful?" 
 
 He stayed a moment, to stroke her hair with 
 his clumsy hand. 
 
 "There," he said tenderly, "I guess you 've 
 done too much. You 're all beat out." 
 
 
EUctrotyPed and Printed by H . O. Hotighton &» Co. 
 Cambridge, Mass., U.S.A. 
 
PARADISE 
 
 By ALICE BROWN 
 
 "Few writers of fiction have equaled Miss Brown in 
 their understanding and analysis of the New England 
 character, and few have been so skillful as she in en- 
 dowing the creations of her imagination with actual 
 life." — Boston Transcript. 
 
 *^ Paradise is Miss Brown's best novel thus far, 
 strikingly superior in merit to all her previous sus- 
 tained fiction, on a level throughout — this is high 
 praise — with the best of her admirable short stories. 
 In workmanship it is cut and polished, and set like a 
 jewel worthy to be the pride of the artist and the 
 delight of the beholder/' — New York Mail 
 
 Crown 8vo, %\,^o 
 
 HOUGHTON f^^ BOSTON 
 
 MIFFLIN i^fW ^ND 
 
 & COMPANY fellra NEW YORK 
 
The 
 
 SPIRIT OF THE PINES 
 
 By MARGARET MORSE 
 
 A little tragedy enacted amid the fragrance of piney 
 woods and hill-tops in New Hampshire is here charm- 
 ingly told. It is a love story, a story of nature and 
 of two nature lovers ; of a man and woman of unusual 
 temperaments, ideals, and affinity. 
 Miss Morse shows herself an" enthusiast for AmiePs 
 Journal and for the Obermann Letters, so highly 
 praised by Matthew Arnold. In some ways her story 
 may recall that delightful romance ** Our Lady of the 
 Beeches," but it has a strong individuality. 
 
 i6mo, $\joo 
 
 HOUGHTON f^^ BOSTON 
 
 MIFFUN X^?S^ ^^^ 
 
 & COMPANY rcllra NEW YORK 
 
.JH^Wi. U IS. 
 
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 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
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 Books not returned on time are subject to a fine of 
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