rXTY 
 
 NE 
 
 V \TOiTN; 
 
 ,UTHER 
 LONG - 
 
SIXTY JANE 
 
. 
 
 .V. 
 
Aud then, at the very last, to put each piece away in 
 rose-leaves or violets." 
 
SIXTY JANE 
 
 AND THE STRIKE ON THE SCHLAFE- 
 PLATZ RAILROAD <* "OUR ANCHEL" & 
 THE LADY AND HER SOUL <$ THE 
 BEAUTIFUL GRAVEYARD LUCKY 
 JIM * THE OUTRAGEOUS MISS DAWN- 
 DREAM & THE LITTLE HOUSE IN 
 THE LITTLE STREET WHERE THE 
 SUN NEVER CAME $?THE ATONEMENT 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN LUTHER LONG 
 
 AUTHOR OF "MADAME BUTTERFLY," "PRINCE OF 
 ILLUSION," "NAUGHTY NAN," ETC. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 THE CENTURY CO. 
 
 1903 
 
Copyright, 1902, 1903, by 
 THE CENTURY Co. 
 
 Copyright, 1899, by The Curtis Publishing Company. 
 
 Copyright, 1903, by The Butterick Publishing Co. (Limited). 
 
 Copyright. 1899. by Thn Brisben Walker. 
 Copyright, 1899, by Pearson s Publishing Co. 
 opyright, 1901, by P. F. Collier &. Son. 
 ght, 1899, by Ainslee Magazine Co. 
 
 Copy 
 Co 
 Copyrig 
 
 Published October, IQOJ 
 
 THE DEVINNE PRESS. 
 
THESE ARE 
 
 THAT YOU MAY NOT HEIN 
 OUSLY FORGET THE LITTLE 
 JOYS AND THE VAST SORROWS 
 OF THOSE WHOM YOU SHALL 
 HAVE ALWAYS WITH YOU 
 
 THE POOR 
 
CONTENTS 
 SIXTY JANE 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I When Jane Went Shopping Long Ago .,..... 3 
 
 ii When Jane Was 111 in Sixty -one 5 
 
 in When Dawn Began to Come to Jane 8 
 
 iv When Jane Was to Have Been a Bride ...,... 13 
 
 v When Jane Sang Softly " Fading, Still Fading" 18 
 
 vi When the Sun Made Terror Plain 21 
 
 Vii " Only Waiting Till the Shadows " 24 
 
 viii When Do You Think She Will Wake? 28 
 
 THE STRIKE ON THE SCHLAFEPLATZ RAILROAD 
 
 i Chuff 33 
 
 n Chill 35 
 
 in Flicker 38 
 
 iv Ermentrude 43 
 
 v Blinsinger 48 
 
 vi Pink 53 
 
 Vii Finis 55 
 
 "OuR ANCHEL" 
 
 i Daisy Wished I Was a Copperhead 61 
 
 ii By the Lord, it Was n t Hal ! 71 
 
 in Gettysburg! 74 
 
 iv It Was War 78 
 
 v The Valley of Death . 83 
 
 Vi Home! 86 
 
 vii 
 
viii CONTENTS 
 
 THE LADY AND HER SOUL 
 
 PAGE 
 
 i The Place Which Throbbed 93 
 
 ii No Soul Has She 95 
 
 in Grammis s Weapon % 
 
 iv Love s Danger-Lamps 99 
 
 v " Remember Then What I Am Now " 102 
 
 vi " Because I Love You Because I Love You " 104 
 
 THE BEAUTIFUL GRAVEYARD 
 
 i The Mogi Road 109 
 
 ii The Bay Among the Boulders 112 
 
 in Snowflake 115 
 
 iv The Last Night of the Feast of the Blessed Dead 119 
 
 LUCKY JIM 
 
 i The Chain-Gang 125 
 
 n Master God 128 
 
 in The Sinister Sun 131 
 
 iv The City of the Night 133 
 
 v Such a Specimen! 135 
 
 vi The Pain at Jim s Heart . 137 
 
 THE OUTRAGEOUS Miss DAWN- DREAM 
 
 i About an Inch Past Seven in the Morning 14% 
 
 ii At One in the Afternoon 154 
 
 THE LITTLE HOUSE IN THE LITTLE STREET WHERE 
 THE SUN NEVER CAME 163 
 
 THE ATONEMENT 
 
 i "After Taking" 189 
 
 n How Heroes Are Made In the Newspapers 193 
 
 m The Blond Capillaries 199 
 
 iv What Rent Should One Pay for a Patch of Skin? . . . . 201 
 v She Sent Him to Nell Then Sobbed! 203 
 
SIXTY JANE 
 
SIXTY JANE 
 
 WHEN JANE WENT SHOPPING LONG AGO 
 
 I DID not know then, and I do not know now, why 
 they called her " Sixty Jane." Perhaps because she 
 was always dressed in the things of the period of 
 1860. At all events, you did not know her, and I 
 saw her only twice. The first was on one of those 
 holiday occasions when she would issue from some 
 unknown habitat in the slums to " go shopping." She 
 did this in the biggest of the big stores, and with quite 
 an empress air ordering everything, buying nothing. 
 Salespeople found it easier to "sell" her everything 
 she wanted, and then to return her purchases to the 
 shelves. 
 
 On these occasions she was sure to be " dressed up." 
 And her toilets were always, as I have said, of the style 
 and pattern of 1860. If her shopping excursions were 
 festival occasions to her, I should have added that they 
 were even more so to the boys who had the felicity to 
 encounter her then. The temptation to make bril 
 liant epigrams concerning the bandbox she invariably 
 carried was not to be resisted. 
 
 3 
 
4 SIXTY JANE 
 
 Her head-gear also lent itself to the encouragement 
 of juvenile humor. It was a turban of apple-green 
 velvet, adorned with flowers and feathers in a profu 
 sion out of all proportion to the object they were set 
 to embellish. And it had the look of distress which 
 might have come from having been rained upon, and 
 having beon inadvertently sat upon, and of having 
 been lovingly restored. There would be a Zouave 
 j\3\-ct of blue with faded gold braid, and a flounced 
 frock, which she invariably carried so as to exhibit 
 the skirt of white beneath. A generous collar with 
 thin ruffles at the edge completed this part of her 
 costume. 
 
 All this was supported by a hoop-skirt which gave 
 the boys more pleasure than any other article of her 
 attire. For they would run back and forth to tilt this, 
 with elaborate evidence of accident. Then would be 
 disclosed to the inactive participants a pair of Con 
 gress gaiters, out of the relaxed, calyx-like tops of 
 which started a pair of ghostly ankles. 
 
 So it was that on these holiday occasions the boys 
 would pelt her bandbox, tilt her hoop-skirt, make 
 humorous remarks about her turban, and "worry" 
 her in the way boys know so well, until she turned 
 and smiled ! 
 
 Then, somehow, they would slink away and be sorry 
 only, I dare say, to do it again. But one of them 
 at least did not for days forget the great brown eyes 
 he had seen, and the something in them which he 
 knows now was hunger weariness ; nor the huge 
 mass of copperish hair which glorified the silly apple- 
 green turban and its feathers and flowers; nor the 
 
SIXTY JANE 6 
 
 vast sweetness he felt but could not otherwise ac 
 count for. For Sixty Jane was young then, and had 
 not been Sixty Jane long. 
 
 And I for you perceive that I was one of the boys 
 who tilted the hoop-skirt, and that I have made you 
 my confessor did not know then (no one did) that 
 the bandbox held some article of a trousseau which 
 through forty tired years she was never to complete 
 and never to wear, and that when she looked into the 
 faces of men she was mistily seeking a lover who never 
 came, and who never would come, because he was dead ; 
 because the lips and the hands and the eyes with which 
 he had told her he adored her as all men do were 
 dust. 
 
 Do you care for the story of Sixty Jane? It is a 
 very humble one. And if you do not fancy that sort 
 of tiling, the pity, the sorrow, the joy, of the humble, 
 stop where you are. There is nothing else. 
 
 II 
 
 WHEN JANE WAS ILL IN SIXTY-ONE 
 
 THE second time I saw her was not long after my or 
 dination. It was my "turn" in the Alaska-Street 
 " Settlement." I fear I was not sufficiently lowly then 
 for exactly that. I still took pride in the fit of my 
 clerical coat and the way my waistcoat buttoned up ; 
 and I remember the satisfaction I had in the plain 
 cross of Roman gold which I was permitted to wear. 
 
6 SIXTY JANE 
 
 At dusk on the first Saturday of my service, the 
 maid, answering the door, informed me that I was to 
 go to Alaska Street. Some one was ill there. The 
 call was urgent. The man was at the door and would 
 conduct me. I looked ruefully at my freshly var 
 nished shoes, and was about to change them, when I 
 heard the voice of the messenger. He had been left 
 at the open door. 
 
 " < For inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the 
 least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me. " 
 
 Not to me. He was repeating it to himself. But 
 it accused me weirdly. 
 
 I put on my hat and followed him. 
 
 He was an elderly man, stooped and whiskered, and 
 ill clad. 
 
 " Who are you?" I asked. 
 
 " The doctor s driver," he answered. 
 
 "What doctor?" I asked again. 
 
 " Wliat doctor?" he said, and turned to look at me 
 accusingly. He spoke no more until he had brought 
 me to a decrepit tenement decrepit even for Alaska 
 Street. An old horse and buggy were standing there. 
 He pointed up the stairway which opened like a foul 
 mouth from the outside. 
 
 "Up top," he said. Then, as if I had not under 
 stood, " Garret," he added. " The doctor s there." 
 
 I had never been in a place quite so bare and squalid. 
 It chilled and depressed me. I think I shivered. Per 
 haps it was more disgust than cold. The doctor 
 noticed this. He was just going a stoop-shouldered, 
 pale-eyed, silent old man. He looked at me, from my 
 varnished shoes upward, a little doubtfully, and con- 
 
SIXTY JANE 7 
 
 tinned to wrap his hypodermic instruments in a piece 
 of cotton flannel. I saw that it was worn with much 
 using, and at one place torn. 
 
 When this was done he stood up not straight; he 
 could not have done that and looked at me again, 
 my face now, more carefully. He was a little kinder 
 then. 
 
 " When she wakes/ he said gently, " she will remem 
 ber. Be good to her. It will be the last time she 
 will need us." 
 
 He went so softly that I scarce knew he had left me 
 alone. But then, in the little moment of reflection 
 which came, I understood why he was simply "the 
 doctor." I remembered all I had heard of him, and 
 saw that he was threadbare and poor and tired him 
 selfquite like those he served. And then, also, I 
 understood how he comforted the poor as I could not 
 not unless they should learn to call me "the min 
 ister " as they called him " the doctor." 
 
 I turned to the sick woman. Recollection knocked 
 at my brain, and knocked again, and presently I knew 
 that it was Sixty Jane. 
 
 She slept lightly ; she smiled. There was a coal-oil 
 lamp on a little wooden bracket. By that I stood at 
 the foot of the thing she would have called her bed, 
 and studied her sleeping face. It was Jane. But I 
 was a little boy when I had seen her before, and now 
 I was a man. I could not see the great eyes I remem 
 bered, but the smile on her shrunken features seemed 
 quite the same. And the hair which had been sunny 
 then was gray now at the temples two great waves of 
 white. And yet, somehow, it was very beautiful that 
 
8 SIXTY JANE 
 
 way even as a pair of dove s wings. One could see 
 that it had been cared for lovingly. My mood was 
 become very gentle, and perhaps I saw her in a fash 
 ion quite unreal. I do not know. Certainly she did 
 not now seem anything like the invertebrate subject 
 of our boyish jokes. And those two rich white wings 
 I fancied, in my mood of gentleness, finally, to be more 
 beautiful than the radiant locks I remembered. Just 
 above the bed was a head of Jane done in water-colors, 
 and she was not at all Sixty Jane then, and with 
 it, on the same medallion, was another one a dark 
 young man with a smooth face and somber, serious 
 eyes. The shoulders of a clerical coat of the fashion of 
 many years before showed, and a cross of plain gold 
 something like mine. The hair of the portrait was so 
 long as to curl a little at the ends, and there was a rich 
 dark lock combed before each ear. 
 
 I am looking at the portraits as I write. And the 
 one with the brilliant hair seems smiling at me. I am 
 glad even to fancy that. 
 
 For you are to know that I lied for her I, a min 
 ister. Yet I am not sorry ; there is nothing to repent, 
 for I am sure that God understands. 
 
 Ill 
 
 WHEN DAWN BEGAN TO COME TO JANE 
 
 WE were quite alone, the crazy woman and I, in the 
 cold and grime of the garret of a tenement. But there 
 
SIXTY JANE 9 
 
 was an unnamable sweetness in it I could not quite 
 tell why. Perhaps God had given me a little intelli 
 gence of what was to come. 
 
 She did not wake till the dawn began to come j not 
 in the windows, no dawn ever shone there, but in 
 a faint flush far away. Perhaps I had slept a little 
 myself. 
 
 If it were so, then I must first have heard her voice 
 in my sleep. It seemed so marvelous for melody that 
 I did not at once credit it to her. I had not heard it 
 on the other occasion when I had seen her. It said 
 softly, yet with pulsing emotion : 
 
 "Arthur!" 
 
 But as I looked at her the voice no longer seemed 
 strange. For the waking had wrought a transforma 
 tion in her features which was wondrous. They were 
 brilliant now, and sparkled with a certain glow of 
 immortal youth. Her face smiled upon me, and her 
 hands were outheld. Her eyes had been opened, but 
 now they closed. She spoke with them thus with 
 softness, and tenderness, and wonder, and joy immea 
 surable : 
 
 "Arthur!" 
 
 Then slowly, very slowly, the great eyes opened, and 
 they were as I had seen them long ago. I knew later 
 that she did this to assure herself that she was not 
 dreaming. Only now they were full of strange violet 
 lights, and something with which the violet lights 
 seemed to have to do sanity, intelligence. And the 
 rosy flush of the dawn reflected from somewhere fixed 
 itself in her face, and she was young again, like the 
 picture, when she had not at all been Sixty Jane. 
 
10 SIXTY JANE 
 
 Then she saw me. I had again moved to the foot 
 of her bed. I saw recollection knock at her misty 
 brain-doors; I saw them open; I saw intelligence, 
 remembrance, flash into the eyes that had so long been 
 vacant. Then she said again : 
 
 "Arthur!* 
 
 Now it was a breathless interpretation of yearning 
 when one s soul yearns. Her arms strained to their 
 utmost toward me. 
 
 * Why do you not come to me ? Do you not know 
 that I have been ill dying ? Have they not told you ? 
 Have they deceived me? Why do you not come to 
 me, Arthur, my love ? 7; 
 
 At the last she was whispering so wondrously that 
 I could not have stayed if I would. I moved slowly, 
 uncertainly, to her side. 
 
 " Yes/ 7 she whispered ; " yes yes -yes. At first I 
 thought it might still be a part of the dream, but I 
 feel your hand. I never could do that in the dream. 
 And you will you not take mine ? Have you forgot 
 ten how ? n 
 
 She laughed a little and thrust her hands into mine. 
 
 Thus I stood an awkward moment. Then she said 
 with archness and reproach : 
 
 " Arthur! 77 
 
 I was about to tell her that I was not Arthur. But 
 the words of the doctor flashed into my head. " Be 
 good to her/ 7 he had said. 
 
 " Yes," I said to the doctor. To her : " What is it 
 you wish ? " 
 
 " What is it I wish f Do you not know ? " 
 
 "I do not think I do quite/ I said. 
 
SIXTY JANE 11 
 
 "So soon have you forgotten so soon? Do you 
 not wish to kiss my hands?" 
 
 Again an awkward silence. And then, with a 
 caress of the melodious voice : 
 
 " Dearest ! " 
 
 At the instant I happened to glance at the picture 
 over the bed. Then I quite understood. The young 
 priest of the medallion looked very like me. In a 
 moment of uncontrollable revulsion I tried to withdraw 
 my hands ; but she gripped them, and a little terror 
 sped across her face. 
 
 "No! You shall not!" she cried. "Oh, you 
 must must kiss my hands, as you used to do before 
 I was ill. You cannot have forgotten so soon so 
 very soon ! Oh, kiss my hands ! Then I shall know 
 best of all that you are not the dream. Arthur- 
 kiss my hands ! n 
 
 At the end it was a mad, ineffable plea. I put my 
 lips upon them, wrinkled and withered and calloused as 
 they were ; and I was glad then, and I am glad now, 
 that I could bring a smile of such wondrous glory to a 
 human face. 
 
 "Ah, you are not the dream ! And my lips, too 
 kiss my lips, Arthur ! n 
 
 And I kissed her lips. 
 
 I half sat on the bed, and she kept me at her side, 
 with an arm about me. 
 
 " Oh, it seems like years and years instead of only 
 a few days, or at most a few weeks. It can t have 
 been more than a few weeks since they told me that 
 you were ill with the fever and would die. Oh, sweet 
 heart, I feel yet the terror ; it ran straight through 
 
12 SIXTY JANE 
 
 me, and then" she stopped to laugh " and then it 
 turned back and ran straight through me again and 
 again and again ! That is the way with terror, is n t 
 it ? And then they told me that I was going to be ill, 
 too, and that I might die. That was when I sent for 
 you." She laughed again. " I told them I ivould n t 
 die till you came and then you would n t let me die. 
 That s what you said, don t you know ? That you 
 would snatch me back from death to make me your 
 yes your bride, sir ! But I suppose you were too ill 
 to come at once. At least, I don t remember seeing 
 you until to-day. Oh, perhaps, sweetheart, you have 
 been by my side through it all, and I only knew you 
 to-day ? For my head has been wrong. Oh, I know 
 that ! That is what I mean by the dream. One s head 
 is always wrong when one has the fever. Yes, I know 
 that you have been here all the weeks oh, maybe 
 months of my illness. Because you are quite well. 
 Oh, it was sweet for you to give me your own dear face 
 to rest my eyes upon first. But you were always 
 sweet, always ! Oh, there is no one in all the world 
 like you ! " 
 
 The emotion, the joy, exhausted her. She stopped 
 to rest. Then she saw me more critically. 
 
 "I do not like it that you have so outstripped me 
 in getting well. Why, you look as if you had not been 
 ill at all ! It must have been months instead of weeks. 
 Come closer. My eyes seem dim like those of a 
 very old person. But that is the way when one has 
 been ill. The eyes are weak. I must take care of 
 them. Some moments your face seems quite vague. 
 Has n t it been months since I sent for you, dearest ? n 
 
 " It has been months," I said. 
 
SIXTY JANE 13 
 
 "Yes. But what does that matter? We are to 
 gether again never, never to part. And it is sweet 
 sweeter than you, a man, can understand to be to 
 gether again, never to part. For, Arthur, I am not 
 going to be nasty any longer. We shall be married 
 whenever you like. And please like soon soon ! 
 Only you know I did want the trousseau so much ! 
 But now" she became girlishly arch "when shall 
 it be, sir ? " 
 
 " As soon as you wish," I said. 
 
 " Oh, very well, if you have no wishes about the mat 
 ter ! Once you had very decided wishes." 
 
 She laughed surely, and I said " Yes," trying to echo 
 the laugh. This comforted her. 
 
 " Oh, TJcnow your wishes ! How could I not know 
 them ? Did I not hear them day by day ? And now, 
 just at this one moment, I am sorry that I did not 
 heed them. If I had I would now be your wife. And 
 that would be sweeter than even this. Your wife ! " 
 
 She looked away toward the hidden sunrise. The 
 glory of the Sabbath which was rising came into her 
 face. 
 
 u Oh, it is so splendid your wife ! There is no 
 thing so splendid in all the world ! Your wife ! " 
 
 After a moment she resumed the other thought. 
 
 IV 
 
 WHEN JANE WAS TO HAVE BEEN A BRIDE 
 
 " ONE day you must remember that you commanded 
 me to marry you ! Don t you remember how I told 
 
14 SIXTY JANE 
 
 you it was not quite time to begin to obey f That, any 
 how, I would not be married in your slums, but in my 
 own home. And so there ! Oh, it was nearly a quar 
 rel ! But then you said you were sorry, and I was 
 much more sorry j for, you see, I had to be sorry for 
 two. Always a woman must. Because I had been so 
 nasty myself to you you ! and because you were 
 sorry. And then I told you what the true, the real 
 reason was. How a bride must have a trousseau, and 
 that you would never respect me if I married you with 
 out one. And I would have one that was glorious, 
 splendid. Oh, there are a thousand things a bride 
 must think of which a bridegroom has no conception 
 of none at all ! The tailor makes him a bridegroom, 
 but a bride makes herself. And, darling, you must 
 let a bride have her way ; for she is a bride only once. 
 Yes, sir ; only once. Oh, yes j I know there are women 
 who marry two, three, four times. But even they are 
 brides but once. The rest ? Well, I shall be married 
 but once. Ah, that dear bridehood ! Think ! To see 
 every little piece of the trousseau grow into marvels 
 of lace and silk ! To do all the thousands of little 
 things one will never, never do again never! The 
 things which one has lived for and dreamed of from 
 childhood! And to do them all with love infinite 
 oh, infinite ! To consecrate each stitch with kisses ; to 
 say to every little flimsy thing : Be beautiful j be the 
 most beautiful and dainty in the world ! You are to 
 adorn his bride Aim, the king, the emperor, the god, 
 the all in all ! ; And then, when each little thing is 
 done, to hold it up to the light ; to put it on and off, 
 oh, a hundred times ; to stand this way and that before 
 
SIXTY JANE 15 
 
 the mirror to make it more perfect after it is perfect. 
 And then, at the very last, to put each piece away in 
 rose-leaves or violets, with guilty kisses and caresses, 
 with rapture a man can never know, with tears both 
 of joy and of sorrow; to watch them as a miser does 
 his treasure ; to get up early in the morning for a look ; 
 to take one alone late at night after one has prayed 
 God to keep him for whom they all are j to wait for 
 the one day in all the life of a woman her splendid, 
 glorious, delirious wedding-day ! " 
 
 She paused again, perhaps from exhaustion ; but the 
 rapture which had come with the sun remained. 
 
 "You will tire yourself, I fear," I said gently. 
 
 "Tire myself talking about my wedding? When 
 did ever a girl tire of talking of her wedding 1 And 
 to him she is to wed ? Oh, let her talk ! Never, never 
 again can she, will she, be so eloquent ! Does it bore 
 you perhaps just a little?" 
 
 I said that it did not. 
 
 " Oh, dearest, a man does not understand because 
 just because he is a man." 
 
 She laughed lowly. But I could see that the 
 strength with which she supported this emotion was 
 artificial. 
 
 " You don t mind me saying that ? I like you to 
 be a man. And you are you always were more of 
 a man than any one I knew. Yet you were sweet. 
 Oh, I think the bigger and greater and braver and 
 stronger a man is, the more manly he is, the sweeter, 
 the more like a woman, he is inside at the heart, soul. 
 So you were always sweet to me. And you would let 
 me talk, talk, talk j and I remember how sometimes 
 
16 SIXTY JANE 
 
 the tears came when you did not even know it for 
 me ! You see, I must tell you ! You must understand. 
 There is no one for me else. We are orphans, out 
 casts. Other girls have their sisters or intimate 
 friends to tell it to. I have not only you only you 
 in all the whole world now. I chose it to be so. I 
 wanted no one but you. For in you I found every 
 thing I wished. You could understand better than 
 most girls could. That is why I talk to you of it. 
 Why, don t you know that girls laugh and cry over 
 everything, and for the same reason ? When they are 
 going to be married they grow possessed. They tear 
 up all the old letters, and weep over them. They put 
 away the dolls they have treasured from infancy and 
 first kiss them, sobbing. They put away the books 
 they have kept from their school-days, reading first 
 the inscriptions in them. They put away all childish 
 things to begin another and infinitely sweeter life 
 the life of a woman ! Oh, yes ; it is as completely 
 another life for a girl as if she were born anew. Yes j 
 to begin another and sweeter life. To take leave, joy 
 ous, eager, hopeful leave, of the old life ; to reach out 
 madly, tempestuously, for the new one ; to dream, both 
 waking and sleeping, of him ; to plan for all the future, 
 for all eternity ! " 
 
 For a moment she stopped, and I forgot, in the 
 sweetness of her passion, who and what she was, and 
 fancied her a girl on the verge of the bridehood she 
 was telling me of so thrillingly. At the end she just 
 whispered. She sobbed a little. 
 
 " And, at the last, to come to you into your arms ! 
 To cease to be except as you are. To be one with 
 
SIXTY JANE 17 
 
 you ! To be lost, absorbed, in you ! All this have I 
 felt and been, except this last except to come to you. 
 Ah, sweetheart, is it not true that a woman is a bride 
 but once ? " 
 
 " Yes," I said. 
 
 The trousseau is ready almost ready. And every 
 piece has been made and gathered with smiles and 
 tears, just as I have told you. Go, look! But do 
 not touch. There in the closet !" 
 
 I went, compelled, driven, to the place she pointed 
 out. The shelves of the closet were loaded with par 
 cels. I could tell which were those of the earlier years 
 by their greater care and daintiness. These were in 
 white papers. Later they were in manila paper. 
 Those of the last of her years were ill made and were 
 in newspapers. Some were unkempt and soiled with 
 much carrying. One had the mud of the street upon 
 it where it had perhaps fallen at the assault of some 
 boy, such as I was once. What the parcels contained 
 I know not. I obeyed her, and touched none of 
 them. 
 
 But the old and grimy closet breathed an odor of 
 rose-leaves as I opened it, and again as I closed it 
 that odor which always seems to me as dim and misty 
 and evanescent as the past. And as I stood there, in 
 that rose-laden atmosphere, I knew once more why / 
 had not married, why I cared for no one more than 
 another, why I had lived my life with no comrade, no 
 other soul, and why I meant to live it that way. There 
 in that rose-odor of the ineffable past I stopped, with 
 my face to the closed door, and saw the flower-faced 
 girl who had died. It had been very long ago, but 
 
18 SIXTY JANE 
 
 I saw her there. There had never been another 
 like her; there never could be. 
 
 WHEN JANE SANG SOFTLY " FADING, STILL FADING 7 
 
 WHEN I came again to Jane she had rested, and her 
 eyes glowed upon me. She must have seen the ten 
 derness in my own, for she put her hands within mine 
 and said archly : 
 
 "You did not touch?" 
 
 " I did not touch," I answered. 
 
 " It shall be," she went on, " as soon as the doctor 
 says I am well enough. And he shall say that very 
 soon. For you will tell him, and I will tell him, and 
 he will not be able to resist. And you will help with 
 kisses and caresses. Ah, it has been very sweet, has 
 it not, dear? The long walks in the dirty streets 
 the sunny and the rainy ones. Oh, sweetheart, of all 
 the days, I prefer the sunny ones, of course, because 
 the sun and your love seem to belong together. But 
 if not those, then the rainy ones. For then we can 
 be very close, even in the open streets, under the 
 umbrella ! " 
 
 She laughed roguishly. 
 
 "And the smell of the garlic how I hated that at 
 first! Don t you remember how you said that my 
 nose was too insignificant to take offense at it ? And 
 that I said that it was n t half as big as yours ? And 
 
SIXTY JANE 19 
 
 how you answered that for that reason I ought not 
 to hate it half as much as you did, whereas I hated it 
 twice as much, which was absurd ? And how you fun 
 nily prophesied that I would learn to like the smell of 
 garlic, as you had learned to like it ? Well, darling, 
 I did! Did I ever before confess that? No; I don t 
 think I did. 1 do so now, father father confessor ! 
 I confess that I love the smell of the garlic and you. 
 I confess that without you it is still garlic and that 
 I hate it ! There, Arthur ! Was n t it all strange and 
 beautiful ? No one has ever been like that or done like 
 that before ! We two orphans all alone down here ! 
 Don t you remember how I tried to persuade you not 
 to come ? You looked so dainty in your clericals and 
 your serious patrician face ! I was afraid it would 
 have to be always dirty, like theirs, poor things ! And 
 I was absolutely certain you would always have muddy 
 shoes ! n 
 
 Again she laughed joyously. 
 
 I kept my silence. 
 
 " And I told you the thieves would be sure to snatch 
 your cross ! And, when you lost it, the greatest of the 
 thieves brought it back to you ! Then I said do you 
 remember ? that if you would do it, I would come too, 
 and keep your house for you, and keep you neat and 
 tidy, and go about with you, to protect you ! Oh, 
 sweetheart, protect you, whom the great God protects ! 
 But I did not understand then, dearest. I did not ! 
 How could I know that you mean not to be like them, 
 but to make them like you ! But, anyhow, I did all 
 that, did n t I, sweetheart? And, even though I did 
 not understand, I did keep your house, and your 
 
20 SIXTY JANE 
 
 clothes, and your heart ! Oh, yes; you thought I 
 would n t that I would not hold out. But you did 
 not know that a woman can do anything, anywhere, 
 if the man she loves is there if it is for him. And 
 soon I liked it. Because it was so very sweet to go 
 about with you only you to the sick, the poor, the 
 hungry, the dying, every day, every day ! Oh, I 
 remember that people said mean and nasty things 
 about us that is, the people in the world we had come 
 from. But what did that matter? "We were in 
 another world, and in that world every soul who knew 
 us loved us, yes, every soul. Why, don t you remem 
 ber the day you could n t find me until you came to 
 that den of thieves at Front and Lombard streets, and 
 found me with all the thieves in the half-darkness, 
 singing to Billy Briggs, who had been shot and was 
 dying 1 I did n t know you were there till your voice 
 joined mine. Do you remember what it was we sang ? 
 
 "Fading, still fading, the last beam is shining; 
 Father in heaven, the day is declining ; 
 Safety and innocence fly with the light 
 
 She sang it with a sweetness that was wondrous. 
 And, as I happened to know the old tune, I sang it 
 with her, taking the tenor. 
 
 "Yes," she cried, clapping her hands, "that way. 
 Oh, yes; you soon found out, little preacher of the 
 poor, that I was doing as much as you, and doing it as 
 well, and that the people liked me even more than they 
 liked you. And were you not just a little jealous ? 
 Ah, they liked me because I am a woman, that is all. 
 
SIXTY JANE 21 
 
 And you were a little angry when they called me the 
 Goddess of Thieves. Of course it would n t have 
 sounded well to have to announce from the pulpit of 
 Grande Square that the Goddess of Thieves would 
 visit in Alaska Street on such-and-such days ! You 
 remember how that came about ? I had always such 
 an extraordinary affection for the thief on the cross, 
 and I told them about that so often and it was so 
 hard, so very hard, for them to believe that Christ had 
 said, l This day shalt thou be with me in Paradise. " 
 
 Her speech had become slower and more difficult. 
 Now for a moment she lay quite still. Her eyes closed 
 wearily, but the happy smile never left her face. When 
 she went on again it was a mere murmur at first ; but 
 presently her voice grew a little stronger. Yet always 
 it was soft. 
 
 " Oh, Arthur, do you remember how we used to get 
 into corners to well, so that you might hold my 
 hands a little f We knew where all the places were 
 where it was safe to do that. I liked that place on 
 Catharine Street where the stairway was so dark. You 
 could kiss me there. Do you remember how, when I 
 said we must spend our honeymoon in Italy, you said : 
 1 Yes, Little Italy ! Well, so it shall be right here 
 in Little Italy ! " 
 
 VI 
 
 WHEN THE SUN MADE TERROR PLAIN 
 
 THE sun was rising and making objects in the garret 
 plainer. She had not yet seen anything but my face. 
 
22 SIXTY JANE 
 
 Now, as I inadvertently turned it to the light, she 
 examined it a little more anxiously. 
 
 "Arthur dear," she said then, " there is something 
 wrong. You do not look quite yourself. I don t know 
 what it is, either. Are your clothes different, or are 
 you thinner, or both ? Your hair has been cut ; and 
 I am not quite sure I like it that way. It is like Jim 
 Griggs s. And you look older. Ah, I understand. 
 You have been so troubled about me. Darling, stop ! 
 "Worry makes wrinkles. But there is no more need. 
 I shall be quite well now and soon." 
 
 She stooped and kissed my hands. Something in 
 myself, perhaps, renewed her little doubts, and again 
 she looked up at me : 
 
 " Perhaps it is my eyes. They are always weak after 
 the fever. Were n t yours ? " 
 
 I said they were. 
 
 She laughed and said : 
 
 " I feel old, old, old, and I shall not be twenty till 
 January ! Arthur, get down the picture and hold it 
 up by your face." 
 
 I did so. At first I was afraid of this test; but 
 instantly I was reassured : she was quite satisfied. 
 
 " Yes, there is some change ; I can t quite make out 
 what it is, and I shall not try. I know that you are 
 my Arthur mine ! And that is all I care to know." 
 
 I went to hang the picture up again. 
 
 " No, take it with you to your own room. I prom 
 ised it to you when it was made. Take it. When 
 you go, take it." 
 
 The light was coming more and more. Suddenly 
 she stopped and stared about. I saw the gray shad 
 ows of terror touch her happy face. 
 
SIXTY JANE 23 
 
 "When you go!" she repeated in vague fear. 
 "Suddenly I am afraid to let you go. I don t quite 
 know why. Do you ? " 
 
 " There is no reason for fear/ said I. " If I go for 
 a little while, it will be but to come again." 
 
 " Yes ; your room is still just over mine ? " 
 
 " Yes," I answered. 
 
 But yet her eyes roved the bare garret. More and 
 more the sun lighted it up for her. Never before had 
 I wished the sun to be hidden away. She slowly shud 
 dered back upon me. 
 
 "Arthur," she shivered, "I do not understand ! " 
 
 Her eyes were riveted upon the bare and grimy 
 shingles. 
 
 "What is it you do not understand?" I asked, 
 though I knew. 
 
 " All this." She waved her hand outward. " How 
 did I come here ? " 
 
 I knew nothing to say. 
 
 " Arthur, this is not your house our home ? How 
 did I come here ? Where am I ? " 
 
 Then I thought of what she had said. 
 
 " I think you are still dreaming," I said gently. 
 
 " Oh ! " It was a vast sigh of relief. " I thought 
 I had come out of that. You remember I told you 
 when I first saw you. And nothing is real ? " 
 
 " Nothing," I said. 
 
 " Nothing ? " she begged wistfully. " Oh, I wish you 
 were real. It has been so sweet. Darling, are not you 
 real ? Oh, please be real ! " 
 
 "Yes," I said; "I am real." 
 
 She tried to be joyous, but distress came down upon 
 her in a moment again. 
 
24 SIXTY JANE 
 
 " Ah, but how can I know ? Oh, yes ! The scar on 
 the palm of your hand ! Let nie see ! You used to 
 say that I might always know you by that, for it 
 could never change." 
 
 VII 
 
 "ONLY WAITING TILL THE SHADOWS" 
 
 BEFORE I could prevent her, she had seized my hand 
 and put it close to her eyes. With a moan she let it 
 go and covered her face. 
 
 " There is no scar," she whispered. 
 
 I took her hands from her eyes and said gently, 
 piteously : 
 
 " Your eyes are very bad." 
 
 Something like trust came back to her face -, but the 
 change in it had been vast and shocking. 
 
 " And these are not shingles, and this is not a foul 
 floor, a garret ? " 
 
 " Poor eyes ! " said I. 
 
 Her face lighted up. 
 
 " Why, of course it is the eyes ! " she said. " How 
 could it be otherwise ? You would not let it be other 
 wise. You would tell me ! " And she laughed 
 again. " But it is hard to understand. Be patient 
 with me, dear. The covers of my bed were dainty. 
 These-" 
 
 She touched with loathing the rag which covered 
 her. As she did so she caught sight of her hands for 
 the first time. Her face flushed burningly, then 
 
SIXTY JANE 25 
 
 became in an instant pinched and leaden. I under 
 stood, but I had no words to dam up those which 
 rushed from her soul : 
 
 " Arthur are you sure sure it is a dream? 
 My God, what is it? This this seems more real 
 than anything ! " 
 
 She held up her hands to me. 
 
 "These are the hands of an old old woman ! 
 And poor ! One who works ! See, they are stained 
 calloused, wrinkled, bloodless ! The nails are 
 unclean." 
 
 She examined them, analyzed them, as if they were 
 not her own ; then she put them up to me. 
 
 " And that is what I dreamed," she whispered on : 
 " that it all happened long, long ago years and years 
 ago. They told me that you were dead, and then 
 very suddenly something happened to my head, and 
 I lived to be an old, old woman, and wore other peo 
 ple s clothes, but always the kind in which you had 
 seen me last, so that you would know me when you 
 came. For I seemed to know that you were not dead 
 but gone, perhaps, to Italy for your health, and that 
 you would come back. Always I was a little uncer 
 tain whether you were dead or whether you were in 
 Italy and would come back to me. And that made 
 my hair gray. But I preferred to believe that you 
 would come back, so I wore always the clothes you 
 knew, the clothes of the pictures, so that you would 
 not pass me by. But I was very, very old; and all 
 that happiness I had thought was but yesterday, and 
 would be again to-morrow, was long, long ago and 
 could never be again. That there had been no hap- 
 
26 SIXTY JANE 
 
 piness for years and years and years only waiting, 
 waiting, waiting" 
 
 Then, suddenly, as if for other proof, she reached 
 up and brought around to her eyes a handful of hair. 
 And, as if for confirmation, she took another from the 
 other side. 
 
 She shuddered back upon the pillow, and pulled the 
 hair over her face. 
 
 There was a shutter to the window. I softly closed 
 it and shut out the sun. Then I slowly took her 
 hands from her face. 
 
 " Such a dreadful dream ! " I said. " Look ! " 
 
 I put the picture before the dim eyes. 
 
 "Yes," she wondered; and then, "Yes yes yes." 
 
 " And has it not always hung on the wall of your 
 own room 1 " I begged. 
 
 " Why, yes," she said gropingly ; then gladly, " Yes 
 yes yes ! " 
 
 " And do you not see and touch me ? " 
 
 "Yes," she said still more happily. She looked 
 about the now shadowed room. " And the room is 
 not the same now. Yes, it must have been the dream ; 
 for now I am very tired, and the doctor has always 
 said that the dream comes when one is tired. Only 
 I seem to have been tired for years and years. No ; 
 I cannot see the shingles. Arthur" 
 
 She turned, and for a long minute looked into my 
 very soul. Then she whispered she could scarce do 
 more: 
 
 " Arthur you have never deceived me. You have 
 never spoken an untruth, even in kindness. Do not 
 now. I could endure it if it were from you ! " 
 
SIXTY JANE 27 
 
 " Thank God ! you need not endure it," I answered. 
 " He doeth all things well ! " 
 
 " And my hair is not white?" 
 
 Just then, as if God were helping me again, a 
 reflected beam fell upon it. "The sun is in it," I 
 answered. 
 
 " Yes 5 it used to be red, yellow, all sorts of colors ! 
 Don t you know you used to say the sun was in it? 
 And my hands" 
 
 Suddenly she thrust them out to me. 
 
 "Kiss them!" 
 
 I did it, one after the other. 
 
 She laughed joyously. The pink came back to her 
 face. 
 
 " Now I Jcnow that it is true. You would not kiss 
 them if they were as I thought them old and blood 
 less, wrinkled, unclean. You could not. You used 
 to call them exquisite, immaculate." 
 
 She put them to her dimming eyes. 
 
 " Now they do not look as they did. How strange ! 
 And how I was frightened ! But, Arthur, you 
 kissed them ! " 
 
 She said it with a mighty triumph, and was at peace. 
 
 " Arthur," she whispered happily, " bliss has come." 
 
 " Yes," I whispered back. 
 
 "Only waiting till the shadows 
 
 Are a little longer grown, 
 Only waiting till the reapers 
 Their last sheaf have gathered home." 
 
 She laughed a little. I sang it for her murmuringly. 
 "It is like that evening, rest, peace, sleep, 
 dreams ! " I said. 
 
28 SIXTY JANE 
 
 " The waiting ? " she questioned, with the long sigh 
 of a tired child. 
 
 " Yes," I answered, " only waiting ! " 
 
 VIII 
 
 WHEN DO YOU THINK SHE WILL WAKE? 
 
 A LONG time she looked at the hands, smiling. But 
 presently I knew that she did not see them, and that 
 it was something else her mind was engaged upon. 
 At last she looked slowly up at me once more. The 
 glory, the immortal youth, had come back to her face. 
 She smiled with great surety. Then she laughed, the 
 low, full laugh of matchless joy. She was looking 
 deeply into my eyes. 
 
 " How foolish I have been ! If I had only stopped 
 to think. You are young and splendid, just as you 
 were a little while ago. Therefore I cannot be very 
 old, for you are seven years older than I am ! But it 
 seems so dreadful to go to sleep at twenty and wake 
 to find one s self oh, eighty ! and to know that there 
 had been no happiness, only terror, and insanity, and 
 waiting, and hunger, and weariness ! But the hair 
 and the hands," she once more looked about the 
 room," and the other things, frightened me, terrified 
 me. But now forgive O my beloved, forgive your 
 doubtin g sweetheart forgive " 
 
 She was at the end of the resources the doctor had 
 given her. She sank exhausted into the pillow. For 
 a long time neither of us spoke. I had her hand. 
 With that she seemed quite satisfied. She smiled on. 
 
SIXTY JANE 29 
 
 " Arthur," she said presently, in a far voice, " when 
 do you think I shall wake? The dream, you 
 know. I want to wake from it sometime. Ar 
 thurwhenshall I wake to my happiness?" 
 
 I could not at once answer. The tears were in my 
 eyes. I hoped I should not need to. But after 
 another silence she whispered from very far : 
 
 "Arthur dearest you never deceived me. Tell 
 me true ! When-shall I-wake ? " 
 
 A moment I meditated my answer. 
 
 But she pressed for it, softly, gently, as if it might 
 not come before she slept as if she must have it before 
 she slept. 
 
 "Arthur my love when shall I wake to my joy 
 
 jy joy?" 
 
 She began to drowse. Once more God seemed to 
 help me to my answer. 
 
 " Very soon ! " I said. 
 
 "Arthur let it be in your arms." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Now I shall sleep. I am very very tired. I sup 
 pose I have talked too much. The doctor told me 
 not to talk so much. But it was too sweet to 
 resist opening my eyes and seeing you you 
 you. That is always the way when one is getting 
 well to be tired by every little thing." 
 
 "Yes," I said. 
 
 " It was so with you j was n t it ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 This was now my one word. 
 
 " Tired tired tired ! " she murmured from out the 
 shadows, happily. "And if I should sleep just a 
 
30 SIXTY JANE 
 
 minute you will not go away? I want you here 
 when I wake to see you first, as the other time. And 
 will you hold my hand that way till I wake? I 
 will not sleep long. Will you hold my hand till 
 I wake beloved?" 
 "Yes," I said. 
 
THE STRIKE ON THE 
 SCHLAFEPLATZ RAILROAD 
 
THE STRIKE ON THE 
 SCHLAFEPLATZ RAILROAD 
 
 CHUFF 
 
 mem ry works while I sleep," laughed Hannikin 
 Chuff, as he rose. 
 
 That of his daughter did not. He tapped on her 
 door as he passed. She murmured sleepily within. 
 
 " Sleep yit ? " he asked, laughing. 
 
 "Ye-es." 
 
 "Well-you nefer mind. I 11 git it myself." He 
 referred to his breakfast. 
 
 But before he returned from the spring she had the 
 fire going. 
 
 "Oh, fat >s bully!" laughed Hannikin Chuff. 
 " Sought you >d forgot. My mem ry works while I 
 sleep. Now I kin saw wood." 
 
 This he did. 
 
 After breakfast Chuff sawed more wood for his 
 engine. That is why he had risen an hour earlier. 
 He did not saw wood every day. He filled the tender 
 from the pile he had made, and always kept, in his 
 forehanded fashion, then pumped the boiler full and 
 3 33 
 
34 THE STRIKE ON THE SCHLAFEPLATZ RAILROAD 
 
 the cistern empty. When the fire got going he stood 
 off and looked at his engine. 
 
 " Guess 1 11 clean her a little," he said affection 
 ately, though she really did not need it. 
 
 There were four brass hoops about the boiler, which 
 he kept ineffably bright. The one about the top of the 
 stack he brought a ladder to reach. He set the safety- 
 valve at eighty-five pounds, and opened the ticket- 
 office. Then he filled the tin basin with water from 
 the cock in the tender, and washed, and combed his 
 hair. Finally he took off the jeans which belonged to 
 the engineership, and put on a blue cap marked 
 " Ticket-agent." 
 
 Presently there were three passengers, a woman 
 with an enormous waist and a basket of apples first. 
 
 "Morning," greeted Chuff, busily. 
 
 " Ticket ! " she puffed into the small window. 
 
 "One way?" 
 
 " Well, I want to come back." 
 
 Chuff cut her uncertainty in two : 
 
 " Excursion." 
 
 He wrote the date on the ticket, and kept his hand 
 on it guardedly. 
 
 "What s the price?" sighed the fat woman, emp 
 tying a netted purse on the sill. 
 
 " Sirty-two cents." 
 
 "No change yit?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Eggs is down." 
 
 " Tickets ain t." 
 
 " It 7 s soon time," said the woman. 
 
 " T ey been t e same for sirty-sefen year," said Chuff, 
 irrelevantly. 
 
THE STEIKE ON THE SCHLAFEPLATZ EAILEOAD 35 
 
 The next was a Duukard with hair parted in the 
 middle and trimmed straight across. He put a tin 
 ear- trumpet into the window. 
 
 " What did you charge her f " he whispered hugely. 
 
 " Sirty-two cents." 
 
 " What kin I git a ticket for 1 " 
 
 " Sirty-two cents." 
 
 "But-t at st esame!" 
 
 " T is is a one-price railroad," said Chuff. 
 
 "Iss it always sirty-two cents?" 
 
 " Forefer." 
 
 "An alwayss will be, I expect," complained the 
 Dunkard. 
 
 " I expect." 
 
 " I f e beared at some people rides free ? " 
 
 " Directors an employees." 
 
 "T ey call it-" 
 
 Chuff helped him : 
 
 " Dead-head." 
 
 He counted out an unwilling thirty-two cents. 
 
 " I sought account I was a kind a relatif e I could 
 also be a deceased-head." 
 
 " My Sis pays her fare ef ery time." 
 
 The Dunkard turned hopelessly away. 
 
 " An helps at t e ingine yit," Chuff flung after him 
 cumulatively. 
 
 II 
 
 CHILL 
 
 THE plain young man said stenographically : 
 " Schlafeplatz and return." 
 
36 THE STRIKE ON THE SCHLAFEPLATZ RAILROAD 
 
 He put down the exact change, then stood with his 
 hand on his hip haughtily. 
 
 Chuff gave him his ticket without a word. 
 
 " Check for my baggage, please." 
 
 Chuff put on a cap marked " Baggage-agent," and 
 gave him his check. His baggage was a green canvas 
 suit-case. Chuff closed the ticket-office and swung the 
 case rudely into the baggage-compartment of the pas 
 senger-car. The tin clock showed the time to be eleven 
 minutes past seven. Schedule time was 7 : 14 A.M. 
 He looked at his watch. Sometimes the two varied. 
 They agreed to-day. He had set them the night before. 
 The safety-valve was blowing gently. He put in a 
 stick of wood and closed the valve. He went over the 
 tender to the baggage-compartment, where he got a 
 cap marked " Conductor." Then he stepped down to 
 the platform. 
 
 " All aboard ! " he shouted superfluously. 
 
 There was some jockeying before Chuff got his 
 engine off and steadied down to her gait. Then he 
 tied the lever with a twine, and collected the tickets. 
 
 "Ain t you going fearful fast?" asked the woman 
 with the apples. 
 
 " Why, no, Mrs. Gull," said Chuff, with secret pride j 
 " only bout sef en miles a hour." 
 
 " Most as fast as a horse ! " 
 
 Chuff laughed. 
 
 " Oach ! A horse kin do fourteen. I >fe run her 
 t at fast, though, when she wass young an I wass 
 an rackless." 
 
 "Fast as a horse?" 
 
 This was hard for Mrs. Gull to believe. 
 
THE STRIKE ON THE SCHLAFEPLATZ RAILROAD 37 
 
 " Why, some ingines kin go as fast as two horses ! " 
 Chuff s cunning way of saying that they could go 
 twice as fast. 
 
 " Heth Chill "she looked fearfully around, and saw 
 that Chill was at the rear of the car (he was the young 
 man with the green suit-case) " says he kin run a 
 ingine." 
 
 " He can t run t is one." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "I growed up wiss her. I know all her works 
 chust like I know my own. She would n t mofe for 
 him. No more n I would! She knows me, an I 
 know her. Chill ! Gosh-a-mighty ! He don t know 
 a squirting- waive from a windmill ! Chill ! He 
 worked in a ingine-shop in Schlaf eplatz for sree days 
 or so, an now he sinks he knows t is ingine I growed 
 up wiss ! Chill ! Did you see his tarn little green 
 trunk? An he yit wants a check! You might as 
 well git a check for you apples. She s about a sou- 
 sand yearss old. So am I. She gits rheumatism in 
 her connecting-rods. So do I. She gits mad an plays 
 hell wiss sings sometimes like me. Also she gits 
 balky an won t go. So do I. She 7 s held toget er 
 mostly wiss strings an wire like me. Yit she an* 
 me s been friends ef er since. She knows me t e minute 
 I come about. An you kin chust bet at I know her. 
 Heth Chill ! She would n t mofe a inch for him ! I 
 bet a dollar she d bust on him." 
 
 " Some day mebbe she 11 bust on you," sighed the 
 woman, ominously. " I m always afeard." 
 
 Proud as Chuff was that his reckless courage should 
 make her fear, he yet comforted her gaily. 
 
38 THE STRIKE ON THE SCHLAFEPLATZ RAILROAD 
 
 " You sink she M hurt me ! Look-a yere ; as long 
 as I run t at ingine you safe. She an me air friends. 
 Some day she 11 play out, I expect. But so will I. 
 Don t you worry. I got strings an wires enough to 
 make her last as long as I do. When she plays out 
 she 11 chust stop" 
 
 "An I got to walk home?" 
 
 " Chust so." 
 
 " After paying my fare ? " 
 
 " Well if you d rat er be bio wed up Say," now 
 Chuff was serious, u slie would n t hurt no one if she 
 would blow up. She d jist bust t e strings an wires, 
 an separate." 
 
 Chuff reached the Dunkard by luffing. 
 
 Ill 
 
 FUCKER 
 
 A RED cow sans horns was grazing at the side of the 
 road-bed. She looked up at the train familiarly. 
 
 " Flicker," said Chuff, affectionately. 
 
 " Yes ; nossing like pastur airly for cows," remarked 
 the deaf Dunkard. 
 
 "No!" shouted Chuff. 
 
 "She s fat." 
 
 "As butter." 
 
 " How much ? " 
 
 " Twelve pounds a week." 
 
 It was always easier to join the deaf man s misun 
 derstanding than to correct him. 
 
THE STRIKE ON THE SCHLAFEPLATZ RAILROAD 39 
 
 The Dunkard took out his pencil and figured. 
 
 " Sree sixty a week ! " (Three thirty-two was the 
 correct arithmetic.) " You 11 be rich next you know." 
 
 He looked out of the window. 
 
 " An you git more hay fan you kin feed, I year." 
 
 " Ten tons more." 
 
 The Dunkard figured again. 
 
 " Hunderd an twenty dollers a year." (It was only 
 a hundred and two.) 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Goshens!" 
 
 "Goot hay, too. I don t squirt no steam on t e 
 grass." 
 
 " T e railroad s a goot sing for you." 
 
 " Yes. I got a farm two an a half mile long an 
 sirty-sree feet wide ! " 
 
 The railroad man looked proudly at the haycocks 
 dotting the roadway. 
 
 " An it don cost you nossing to haul it." 
 
 " Not a cent." 
 
 He added : 
 
 " An I cut it by moonlight." 
 
 " Blinsinger s kicking up a fuss, too. Says you re 
 t e only man at s making any money out of t e road." 
 
 At this Chuff only laughed. 
 
 " Well, t ey kin pay me a selery an take t e hay," 
 he said, laughing recklessly. 
 
 The Dunkard, whose name was Eberhard Drouse, 
 now asked : 
 
 " How kin a ingine run itself, while you an me 
 wisit?" 
 
 " Well, she can t. Chust she an me we understand 
 
40 THE STRIKE ON THE SCHLAFEPLATZ RAILROAD 
 
 one anot er. She does what I want. An she s tied 
 wiss a string." 
 
 The engine gave a sigh. 
 
 "What 7 s t at?" 
 
 Chuff said he did n t know, but he did. He has 
 tened to get Chill s ticket. Chill pretended to have 
 mislaid it. Chuff stood stoically by. The engine 
 sighed again. Then there was one long, hopeless 
 sigh, and she stopped. Still Chill searched for his 
 ticket. The train began slowly to run backward 
 down the grade. 
 
 " Gife up your ticket," shouted Chuff, " or I 11 pitch 
 you off ! " 
 
 Chill suddenly gave it up. 
 
 "Mebbe t e string slipped," said the Dunkard, in 
 fear, as Chuff flashed past him. 
 
 Then, in panic, he hurried back to Chill, whom he 
 thought uncannily wise. 
 
 He put one end of his trumpet at his mouth and 
 the other into Chill s ear. 
 
 "What s t e matter?" he shouted. 
 
 Chill shied and gently reversed the machine. 
 
 " Nothing," he said in the proper end. 
 
 The Dunkard kept the trumpet in his own ear now, 
 but hovering perilously about Chill s face. 
 
 " Ain t we going packvard ? " he asked. 
 
 "Yes," said Chill. 
 
 " T at s not nossing ! " 
 
 " Pretty near it. Maybe it s a little less." 
 
 " I got a mind to chump off ! " 
 
 Don t jump," said Chill; "walk." 
 
 "It s no danger?" 
 
THE STRIKE ON THE SCHLAFEPLATZ RAILROAD 41 
 
 Chill laughed odiously. 
 
 " She runs better backward than forward." 
 
 " Young man," said the Dunkard, "do not scoff 
 vhen danger is nigh." 
 
 The thick-waisted woman was standing in the aisle, 
 listening for their wise conclusion of the matter, ready 
 to fly if the Dunkard should. She had forgotten her 
 apples. 
 
 But Chuff had put on the hand-brake and stopped 
 the train. Then he got off and worked for a while 
 at the right piston with a monkey-wrench. Presently 
 the sighing of the escaping steam ceased. The train 
 moved forward. 
 
 " I 11 show Chill a sing or two," said Chuff. " I 11 
 make up efery minute of t at time." 
 
 Not on that up grade, but on the next, the down 
 grade. The momentum of the train was frightful, 
 its rocking perilous. 
 
 The Dunkard again became panicky. Again the 
 thick-waisted woman stood in the aisle, ready to fol 
 low him. 
 
 " Gosh ! " gibed Chill. " He must be making ten" 
 
 " Ten ! " gasped the Dunkard. 
 
 " Ten miles." 
 
 " Ten miles ?" cried the woman, in vague horror. 
 
 "An hour! Don t you know anything? Never 
 mind. It won t be for long. She 11 be off the track 
 in a minute." 
 
 " Off t e track ! " 
 
 The two other passengers cried it together. The 
 Dunkard hurried to his seat, as if safety were there. 
 
42 THE STRIKE ON THE SCHLAFEPLATZ RAILROAD 
 
 He held on desperately with hands and feet. The 
 thick-waisted passenger did precisely the same thing 
 in the seat just behind him. 
 
 But nothing immediately happened. 
 
 "It won t hurt/ shouted Chill. "She does it 
 nearly every day. She s a lobster." 
 
 They did not understand this. The Dunkard 
 chided Chill in a shrill, tragic voice, without looking 
 round at him : 
 
 "Young man, you shall mend your vay. I haf 
 trafeled ofer t e railroad afore, an she has not gone 
 off t e track." 
 
 To show his faith in Chuff and his engine and him 
 self, he relaxed his hold. The woman did likewise. 
 
 " She always does when I travel on her," said Chill, 
 with melancholy. 
 
 "It iss a varning unto you, young man. Mend 
 your vay." 
 
 " Chuff d better mend his. But, when he does, it s 
 on Sunday. That 7 s what 7 s doing it" 
 
 At that moment the engine left the rails. Chill 
 laughed. The Dunkard flew into the seat in front. 
 The apples from the fat woman s basket rolled sud 
 denly forward, then backward, along the aisle. She 
 had heavily subsided to the floor. 
 
 " If he did n t hate me so 1 7 d go out and help to 
 get her on," mused Chill. 
 
 "Why does he hade you?" asked the Dunkard, 
 rearranging his long hair. " You haf told t e truth. 
 It does not hurt." 
 
 The woman remained safely on the floor. 
 
THE STRIKE ON THE SCHLAFEPLATZ RAILROAD 43 
 
 " Because I know more about his old lobster than 
 he does." 
 
 " Twice you haf spoke t at strange word. I under 
 stand it to be a fish. By what similitute do you 
 liken Mr. Chuff s unhappy ingine unto it? Explain 
 these." 
 
 " Oh, she 7 s a lobster that s all. You see, when 
 1 7 in aboard Chuff tries to show off. Then his old 
 crab slips, and he s got to get out an put her on. 
 That s not so hard, though. She never runs a foot 
 after she goes off. She only weighs a ton or so. I 
 could get her on with a fence-rail. Some day she 11 
 fall apart. She s a lobster, you see." 
 
 But even then the Dunkard did not see. 
 
 Chill was looking out of the window at Chuff. He 
 had got the hand- jacks out of the cab, and was put 
 ting the engine on the track with the skill of long 
 experience. 
 
 " If he does get her off he can get her on, too," said 
 Chill, with unwilling admiration. 
 
 The train reached Schlafeplatz without further in 
 cident, and in the evening, at 6 : 46, it started back to 
 Strasburg, reaching there as usual. The distance was 
 two and a half miles. 
 
 IV 
 
 ERMENTRUDE 
 
 THIS was on the 30th of June. On the Fourth of 
 July Chuff had his daughter for a passenger. And 
 
44 THE STRIKE ON THE SCHLAFEPLATZ RAILROAD 
 
 again the melancholy Hetherington Chill bought a 
 ticket. He raised his hat surlily to the girl, and then 
 turned his back on her. 
 
 "I m sorry," said Chuff to his daughter, " that you f e 
 got to haf him for company " 
 
 " Company ! " gasped his daughter. 
 
 Chuff laughed hugely. 
 
 " Oach ! I don mean for no beau," he grinned at 
 the absurdity of it, "chust on t e train. But he 
 alwayss sets on t e hind seat, an you kin set on t e 
 front, an he won t bot er you it 11 be sirty-sree feet 
 between yous chust chust he 11 see t e back of 
 you head. 7 He laughed, and then looked at it him 
 self. " Yit t at s wort looking at not so, Sis ? " 
 
 He got Chill s ticket, which the young man surren 
 dered promptly, to Chuff s disappointment, and then, 
 as he passed on to his engine, said to his daughter : 
 
 " He s a dam sing ! Ain t he, Sis ? " 
 
 " Yes," faintly whispered his daughter. 
 
 " No good whatef er ! " 
 
 "No" faintly. 
 
 But when he was gone she went back to the melan 
 choly young man, and kissed him and said she loved 
 him. And he kissed her and said he loved her. She 
 sat on the arm of his seat, where she could see the cab 
 of the engine. He put his arm around her, watching 
 the cab of the engine. Having done this, he said 
 again : 
 
 " I love you, Sis." 
 
 (But her name was Ermentrude.) 
 
 " More n you lof e Pink ? " 
 
 This was sheer subtlety. 
 
THE STRIKE ON THE SCHLAFEPLATZ RAILROAD 45 
 
 " Yes. I ve loved you more than her ever since" 
 
 He stopped and looked away reminiscently. 
 
 " Efer since I changed my hair/ 7 sighed Ermentrude, 
 happily. 
 
 This referred to the time, the summer before, when 
 Ermentrude had made her first trip to Schlafeplatz, 
 and had seen a young woman at the hotel altogether 
 like the pictures in the newspapers, and had copied 
 her. 
 
 " Poor Pink ! " said Ermentrude. " Mebbe if she d 
 change her hair" 
 
 " Never ! " answered Hetherington Chill, quite as she 
 wished. 
 
 She kissed him again. Then she saw her father 
 coming over the tender. She lingered perilously 
 while he changed his cap. When he arrived, however, 
 Chill was whistling sadly out of the window. Ermen 
 trude was inspecting her finger-tips. 
 
 "Next stop, Schlafeplatz!" said Chuff. "Passen 
 gers change for points nort , east, sout , an 7 west ! " 
 To his daughter he said unofficially : " Sank God ! he 
 ain t got t e little green trunk. If I had to gife him 
 a check to-day I 7 d smack him t e vay he s treated 
 you ! " 
 
 " Yes," she said, and laughed. 
 
 Chuff laughed too. 
 
 And Chill laughed when Chuff was gone. 
 
 " Gosh ! If he had seen my arm" 
 
 " Sh-h-h ! " whispered Ermentrude. 
 
 Chuff changed his cap once more and returned to 
 his engine. 
 
 When they had completely arrived, Chill went one 
 
46 THE STRIKE ON THE SCHLAFEPLATZ RAILROAD 
 
 way and Ermentrude another. But each passed a shop 
 where certain frocks were displayed in the window. 
 Then they met behind the fence of the hotel. 
 
 " The green one/ whispered Chill, watching north 
 ward. 
 
 "Yes, t e green one," agreed Ermentrude, watching 
 southward and eastward. 
 
 The fence was on the west. 
 
 He put his arm around her. She kissed him. 
 
 "If he had n t stopped in t e baggage-place to put 
 on his conductor-cap 77 
 
 Chill laughed sardonically to Ermentrude. 
 
 " We d been ketched." 
 
 This referred to the last exchange of caresses as 
 they had left the train. 
 
 " An you might be dead ! " 
 
 " Mebbe," doubted Chill. 
 
 She kissed him again. Then they flew apart. 
 
 " lie s shut off steam ! " whispered she. 
 
 " He s got to shut off a lot of other things yet. No 
 hurry," answered Chill, bravely. 
 
 But Ermentrude would not take the risk of further 
 delay behind the fence of the hotel. 
 
 She took Chuff to the same store. 
 
 " She gits whatefer she wants, Sis does," said Chuff. 
 "But t is say, can t you make it four ninety- 
 eight?" 
 
 The saleswoman briefly refused to do this. 
 
 Chuff decided to take it. But he did not have the 
 money. He proposed to hypothecate his hay and 
 butter. The saleswoman called in the proprietor. 
 
THE STRIKE ON THE SCHLAFEPLATZ EAILROAD 47 
 
 He looked at the dress. It was faded down the front 
 where the sun had shone on it. 
 
 "I ain t got no money," laughed Chuff, happily, 
 " but I got hay and butter a-plenty. My Sis gits 
 whatefer she wants, efen if" 
 
 " 1 11 take your hay and butter," said the merchant, 
 hastily. 
 
 Chuff gave him a promissory note for it, to be paid 
 in butter and eggs or money. 
 
 Then, since it was so easy, Ermentrude suggested 
 a line of lingerie, and things which, at another time, 
 would have bankrupted Chuff. But to-day it was 
 excessively easy. He bought everything she wished, 
 and gave another and very much larger promissory 
 note. When they left the store Chuff was laughing. 
 
 On the way home Chill whistled very sadly out of the 
 window. Ermentrude looked, smiling happily, at her 
 pink finger-tips. Chuff was thinking. 
 
 " Say," he said to his daughter, " I guess I m a little 
 skeered. I nefer gafe no promissory note afore. 
 It s got to be paid sometime?" 
 
 Ermentrude did not know. 
 
 " An chust suppose Flicker should go dry ? Gosh ! " 
 
 The engine began to slow down, and Chuff, much 
 depressed, hurried over the tender and pulled the lever. 
 
 Ermentrude went and sat on the arm of Chill s seat. 
 
 " Ain t it lof ely ! she said callously. 
 
 Chill sadly kissed her. 
 
 " Oh, but I like t at ! " said the girl. 
 
 "Why?" asked Chill. 
 
 " I mostly got to kiss you" 
 
48 THE STRIKE ON THE SCHLAFEPLATZ RAILROAD 
 
 " Oh ! said ChiU. 
 
 " I got eferysing I wanted." 
 
 " You all ready?" 
 
 " An some sings I did n t ast for." 
 
 " You aU ready f " 
 
 "Oh yes!" 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " An it s too late to make me take em back. I got 
 ; em on t e train ! Yere ! T e note won t git due for 
 sirty days, you know, an afore t at we 11 be She 
 sighed happily. 
 
 " Too late," agreed Chill, happily. 
 
 Now, the Pink of whom Chill and Ermentrude had 
 spoken was a Miss Pestifer to whom Chill s affections 
 had been somewhat engaged before Ermentrude 
 changed her hair. When she heard of the green 
 frock, Pink at first cried, then reflected, then watched. 
 Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. 
 
 BLINSINGER 
 
 ONE day, when the train arrived, Chuff observed some 
 thing posted on the brick part of the barn where the 
 ticket-office was : 
 
 NOTICE 
 
 To THE EMPLOYEE OF THE SCHLAFEPLATZ RAILROAD 
 From this date it is ordered by the President and Board 
 of Directors of the Schlaf eplatz Railroad that no cows or 
 
THE STRIKE ON THE SCHLAFEPLATZ RAILROAD 49 
 
 other domestic cattle shall be allowed to graze on pasture 
 on the road-bed of the said railroad, the said grazing on 
 said pasturing being dangerous to both the said domestic 
 animals and the rolling-stock of the said company. Also 
 that the hay growing thereon is the property of the said 
 company and to be cut, cured, and sold as such, and the 
 receipt therefrom accounted for to the company by its em 
 ployee. By order of the Board, 
 
 B. BLINSINGER, 
 
 President. 
 
 For a moment Chuff was stunned. Then he put on his 
 civilian clothing and went to see President Blinsinger. 
 
 "What in sunder does it mean?" demanded Chuff, 
 savagely. 
 
 "Mean!" 
 
 It was all he asked. 
 
 " Chust what it says," answered Blinsinger, stiffly. 
 
 Chuff did n t believe it, even then. 
 
 " We haf sold t e hay a ready cut. Haul it to Brinker s 
 varehouse to-morrow. You 11 git a selery. You un 
 derstand ? " 
 
 Chuff said lie did, but he did n t. On the way home 
 he said only : 
 
 " T at promissory note ! Sunder! Selery! Light 
 ning ! Hay ! Dam ! " 
 
 That night Chuff, without the assistance of Ermen- 
 trude, who nearly always did what might be called the 
 lighter literary duties that fell to him as the employee 
 of the railroad, composed a letter to the president and 
 board of directors. 
 
 There was no honorary opening or closing. It 
 plunged in the middle : 
 
50 THE STRIKE ON THE SCHLAFEPLATZ RAILROAD 
 
 For thirty-seven year I haf ben the employee you men 
 tion. I took your old goat of a ingine when she was new 
 and growed up with her. I mended the road-bed on Sun 
 days when you went to church and praid. You nefer put 
 a cent in her since. The tracks is held down with stakes 
 and fence-rails which I found an put in myself. The ingine 
 is held together with wires and strings which you nefer paid 
 for. The only selery you efer pay me was the hay an the 
 pastur. The only trouble we efer had was ofer a Canadian 
 ten-cent pice which I tuck in and I made that good with 
 one of my own. Well you kin go to hell. The first man 
 at runs that ingine 11 git blowed up. She wont stand no 
 one but me. An he wont understand the wires an strings. 
 And I wont run her no more till I git the hay and pastur 
 back. I growed up with her he dident. An you kin keep 
 your hay an 111 keep my cow. You are hereby notified that 
 I Hannikin Chuff have struck. 
 
 The next morning the placard of the company had 
 beside it one done in a bolder hand, on stiffer paper : 
 
 STRIKE ON THE SCHLAFEPLATZ RAILROAD!!!!! 
 
 The Community is hereby notified that the Employee of 
 the Schlafeplatz Railroad has Struck ! 
 
 HANNIKIN CHUFF, 
 
 Employee. 
 
 So the train did not leave the next morning; the 
 engine was cold, the ticket-office was closed, the hay 
 rotted in its cocks. And, as the days went by, Stras- 
 burg desperately felt the strike. Eggs could be had 
 for the asking. Butter was not worth the making. 
 Milk was milked and poured out on the ground, for 
 the well-being of the cows. At first Chuff stalked 
 among them like an avenging god ; then he stayed at 
 
THE STRIKE ON THE SCHLAFEPLATZ RAILROAD 51 
 
 home and cut the grass in his yard closer and closer 
 for Flicker. From time to time those who owned 
 cows or chickens (some owned both, and upon these 
 the rigors of the strike fell with greatest severity) 
 would create committees to call upon Chuff with a 
 view to compromising the affair. President Blinsinger 
 was always ready to be approached. Chuff was iron. 
 To all overtures he replied : 
 
 " T e pastur , t e hay, or nossing ! " 
 
 Presently a rumor prevailed that the company had 
 approached Hetherington Chill with a proposition. 
 That night Chuff stuffed the safety-valve with soft 
 paper. 
 
 " It 11 blow him to hell t e first time ! " said Chuff, 
 as he stole away in the darkness. 
 
 And at this Chuff had an unholy thrill j for he hated 
 the wordless Chill. 
 
 But Chill s answer to them who seduced him was : 
 
 " Say, I ain t no blank scab ! " 
 
 It was some time before any one learned what a 
 " blank scab " was. Then they remembered that Chill 
 had been in the railroad strike at Schlaf eplatz, had lost 
 his job, had come to live in retirement at Strasburg. 
 
 Chuff was disappointed. He had hoped that Chill 
 would try to run the engine. He still hoped this as 
 he grew more morbid and savage. Not only did he 
 not remove the soft paper : he put more in, and stuffed 
 it harder. 
 
 Later a collector knocked at Chuff s door. He had 
 the two promissory notes. 
 
 " * Misfortunes nefer come single, " quoted Chuff. 
 
52 THE STRIKE ON THE SCHLAFEPLATZ RAILROAD 
 
 " We thought it was for a wedding/ 7 grinned the col 
 lector, misunderstandingly. 
 
 " What wass for a wedding ? Who ? " 
 
 " Why, the things you bought." 
 
 "What t e tefil you talking about?" 
 
 "Well, were n t they?" 
 
 " T ey wass for my Sis, an none too good for her 
 t en, no matter what s happened since." 
 
 "Did n t she get married in em ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Maybe it is n t the time yet ? " 
 
 " I guess not. You crazy. My Sis don t sink no 
 more about gitting merried fan you do." 
 
 " I m not thinking about it," said the man, smiling. 
 
 "I expect not," sneered Chuff, inhospitably, as if 
 he had said that no woman would have him. 
 
 " I am married." He smiled again. 
 
 Chuff was put out for only an instant. 
 
 " I sorry for t e woman." 
 
 " Oh, I don t know," grinned the amiable collector, 
 ft those are the things we usually sell for brides. I 
 only thought" 
 
 "Stop sinking. Take anysing you kin lay you 
 hands on. I ain t got no money, nor no hay nor 
 butter. T at s what I wass to pay in. I fe mowed 
 t e roots of t e grass out. An I f e struck. You want 
 ol Flicker ? I expected to put t e hay in one end of 
 her an git t e butter out t e ot er. Take her an do 
 it yourself," said Chuff, desperately. 
 
 The collector said he did not want Flicker. He 
 knew nothing about the process of turning hay into 
 butter by putting it through her. 
 
THE STRIKE ON THE SCHLAFEPLATZ RAILROAD 53 
 
 There was some more Chuffing, as it was called in 
 that vicinity, and the collector went away threatening 
 Chuff with jail. 
 
 Chuff said he did n t care. But he did, mightily. 
 Now, also, his memory worked while he slept. He had 
 never been in jail. He fancied it much worse than 
 it is. 
 
 VI 
 
 PINK 
 
 PINK PESTIFER watched her recreant lover. One 
 night she followed him to the lifeless engine. It was 
 opaquely dark, but she could vaguely hear him famil 
 iarizing himself with its machinery. She did not 
 know what it meant. But night after night the 
 strange performance went on. Then, one night, she 
 saw a slender figure in a green dress with him. She 
 crept up and listened. 
 
 She heard Chill ask : 
 
 " Which is the reverser ? It s too dark to" 
 
 "Yere; an t is is t e-" 
 
 So it went on. Hard as it was to believe, Ermen- 
 trude was instructing Chill in the management of the 
 sleeping machine. Ermentrude ! Pink understood 
 the mystery of the green dress now. 
 
 She started for Chuff s house. But it was a mile. 
 
 "Mr. Chuff," she gasped, " Ermentrude Chill" 
 
 Chuff jumped into his clothes. 
 
 "Ermentrude Chill ! " he shouted. 
 
54 THE STRIKE ON THE SCHLAFEPLATZ RAILROAD 
 
 " T at s what she 11 be unless you get t ere sooner n j 
 and Miss Pestifer laughed hysterically. 
 
 Chuff was already in his daughter s room. He 
 lighted a lamp. The bed had not been slept in. Her 
 clothing was gone the dress, all the lingerie he had 
 given his note his more than all for ! 
 
 Pink Pestifer was at his side by this time. 
 
 " Yes," she cried j " it was a trosseau." 
 
 "What s t at?" demanded Chuff, fiercely. "T is 
 is no time to be highf alutin ! " 
 
 " Wedding-sings," said Pink. 
 
 " Oach ! you lie ! " said Chuff. But he remembered 
 what the collector had said. 
 
 " T ey re starting up t e ingine. I saw em. She s 
 showing him how. You showed her" 
 
 But Chuff did not heed her. He had found the note. 
 It said: 
 
 Forgive me, dear father. I love him so. I go from 
 your arms to hisn. 
 
 " You 7 daddy has a horse," cried Chuff. " Git him 
 quick ! " 
 
 As she was going, Chuff said again : 
 " An his army pistol ! " 
 
 She brought the horse, but not the pistol. She did 
 not want Chill killed. 
 
 At parting Chuff said : 
 
 "Say, you keep still about t at t at tros t at 
 trosser. It can t be so. My Sis would n t Gosh-a- 
 mighty ! Trosser ! " 
 
 He was off. 
 
THE STRIKE ON THE SCHLAFEPLATZ RAILROAD 55 
 
 VII 
 
 FINIS 
 
 THE engine was gone. He could neither see nor hear 
 them. He dug both heels into the ribs of Pestifer s 
 surprised horse. The moon rose rapidly dim and 
 full and ominous. After a mile he had them in sight. 
 He heard the sighing of escaping steam that he knew 
 so well and rejoiced in it for the first time. Presently 
 he could see Chill frenziedly at work with the monkey- 
 wrench. Ermentrude, with the sleeves of the green 
 dress recklessly tucked up, was helping, directing, as 
 he himself might have done. 
 
 " Open t e safety- waive ! " 
 
 Chuff shouted it till he was too hoarse to shout any 
 more. But they did not hear him, and saw him only 
 as a menace. And if they should succeed in stopping 
 the escape at the right piston ! 
 
 " It s stuffed ! " he yelled again. 
 
 The sighing of the steam ceased. The engine 
 moved. Chuff groaned. If Chill had learned how to 
 run her he could beat Pestifer s horse, that was cer 
 tain. Especially was this the case with the safety- 
 valve stuffed and the leak in the piston closed. 
 
 And Chill was pleasantly waving his hand as the 
 engine pulled away from him ! 
 
 "Say I don keer! Do whatefer you 7 up to. 
 Chust chust T e safety-waive is stuffed ! She 11 
 bust ! You 11 git killed-mebbe ! " 
 
56 THE STRIKE ON THE SCHLAFEPLATZ EAILROAD 
 
 So it was formulated in his mind ; but lie could not 
 say it. He lacked breath. 
 
 They were on even terms for the next half-mile, and 
 Chuff began to hope. Then they cut off the passenger- 
 car and pulled away from him. Down the next grade 
 they gained, too. But, as he knew, the coming up 
 grade would take all their steam. Again he had them 
 almost within calling distance. They cut the tender. 
 He could see the green dress fluttering in the cab. 
 The moon cleared her face as if to help him. He 
 could see Sis putting their last wood into the furnace. 
 Once more they were gaining, though on the heaviest 
 up-grade on the road. They must be carrying over a 
 hundred pounds of steam. Ninety pounds was the 
 extreme limit. They were disappearing, and Pestif er s 
 horse was done for ! 
 
 Then the end came. There was a sudden wild shriek, 
 woman or engine or both, and Chuff saw the 
 smoke-stack languidly mount the air. 
 
 When Chuff arrived, the engine was still breathing, 
 like some dying thing, through two ragged holes near 
 the place of the smoke-stack. A ruffle of the green 
 dress restrained the reversing-lever, as his twine had 
 been wont to do while he collected the tickets. But 
 Hetherington Chill and Ermentrude Chuff were no 
 where to be seen. 
 
 Chuff searched about madly. There was nothing but 
 that shred of pale green on the reversing-lever. He 
 circled the prone machine for some possible thing 
 which one might drop in a hurried flight through the 
 
THE STRIKE ON THE SCHLAFEPLATZ RAILROAD 57 
 
 air. Nothing. He lengthened the radius of his quest. 
 Pestifer s horse lay weakly down against the nearest 
 fence. 
 
 The rising sun found Chuff a mile from the dead 
 engine, still fruitlessly searching in an ever- widening 
 circle. 
 
tt 
 
 OUR ANCHEL" 
 
"OUR ANCHEL 
 
 DAISY WISHED I WAS A COPPERHEAD 
 
 I DON T know for why t e women took such a in 
 terest in t e war. Pennsylf any women don t bot er 
 much about things outside t e house. Mebbe it wass be- 
 causs they lifed on t e border, where it wass all t e time 
 so much red-hot talk. Of course it wass lots of women 
 t at had no opinion one way or t e ot er, an did n t keer 
 for none chust went t e way t e men-folks of t e family 
 did. But Daisy had an opinion of her own from t e 
 start. Eferybody expected her to be a rebel, account 
 all her folks lifed down in Dixie. An she did n t dis- 
 app int them. All t e ot er girls in town wass Union, an ? 
 when they found out t at Daisy wass a rebel they called 
 her Copperhead an stopped going with her. 
 
 Daisy did n t mind much. All she ast wass t at 
 Harold an me should stick to her she did n t keer 
 for t e rest. Well, it did n t take much persuading for 
 t at. Anyhow, I expect it wass more jealousy than 
 paterotism with t e ot er girls, for Daisy wass enough 
 sight pootier than any of em yes, all of em toget er ! 
 An beaux wass skerce on t e border in 1862. But it 
 
 61 
 
62 "OUR ANCHEL" 
 
 made Daisy a little sorry when it got so bad t at t ey 
 would n t speak to her on t e street no more, you could 
 see t at, for she wass friendly with eferybody, an so 
 she said t at Hal an me must like her all t e more to 
 make up for t e rest. An it did n t require much per 
 suading for t at, neit er. She wass one of them girls 
 t at a feller ken nefer like too much. Not only ac 
 count her beauty, but also her nice affectionate an 
 lifely ways. 
 
 Of course it s some t at don t like such yeller hair, an 
 blue eyes, an white teeth showing all t e time account 
 she wass nearly always laughing. But Hal an me 
 liked it an no mistake. I guess she knowed it, too. 
 
 But when t e war come on, an her Sout ern relations 
 got going in an gitting killed, she did n t show her 
 teeth so much no more, an got a kind of a sad look 
 on her face. 
 
 Hal an me chust kep on courting her, not knowing 
 which wass t e best man an afraid to find out. Daisy 
 thought it wass account of being sorry for one anot er. 
 It wass becauss we wass afraid of one anot er. Yes, 
 we d go toget er an leafe toget er, an watch one 
 anot er like cats, an I don t belief e Daisy knowed her 
 self which she liked best. I got to acknowledge t at 
 Hal wass t e best-looking an had t e best manners, an 
 wass a Copperhead, yit which suited Daisy best of 
 all. But I had knowed her t e longest, an had t e start 
 of Hal a little. Yit if I d a been Daisy I d a liked 
 Hal best, an I nefer blamed her for doing it if she 
 did. / liked him better an any one I ef er knowed. 
 A fact, I did. He wass one them proud, quiet, gen 
 tlemanly kind of fellers with black hair an eyes. Me 
 
"OUR ANCHEL" 63 
 
 I wass chust a rough, Dutch towhead. Lots of em 
 about. Yit I don t like to say it I thought Daisy 
 would a liked me best if I d been a Copperhead. An 7 , 
 be goshens ! I wass so deep in lof e with her t at I d a 
 turned my coat in no time if she d a let me. 
 
 "Bob," she says onct while I wass carrying her 
 acrosst a crick, " I wisht you wass a Copperhead." 
 
 "Why!" last her. 
 
 " Oh, account I like you so much now. 1 d like to 
 like you more." 
 
 " I d do a good bit to be liked a little more by you, 
 Daisy," I says. 
 
 "Would you r ally?" she ast. 
 
 " Yes," I says. " To-morrow you 11 see me with a 
 Copperhead breastpin. I 11 turn my coat to-night 
 soon as it gits dark." 
 
 " For me ? " she ast. 
 
 " Yes, for you," I says, thinking t at would please 
 her. 
 
 " I d hate you then," she says, hard as iorn. " Lem 
 me down." 
 
 " Hate me ? " I says, kind of dizzy. 
 
 " Yes, hate you ! Hal ain t t at kind *a Copper 
 head. He beliefes in it." 
 
 " Daisy" I begun to say. 
 
 " Lem me down ! " she says, twisting out of my arms, 
 turning her back on me, an splashing out of t e crick. 
 
 I did n t see her for about a week. She kep out of 
 my way. An Hal he looked kind of sheepish too. An 
 then when I did see her she wass going to pass me with 
 out a word. I chust naturally stopped her. 
 
 " Daisy, I don t belief e in it, an I ain t a-going to be 
 
64 "OUR ANCHEL" 
 
 no Copperhead. But I beliefe in you. For why you 
 turn your back on me" 
 
 " Yes, yes/ 7 she says, kind of sorrowful. " No matter 
 what you air, we shill alwayss be good friends."., 
 
 It was something funny in her voice. 
 
 " Friends 1 " says I. 
 
 " Friends," says she, with her head hanging. " But 
 oh, such good friends such good friends, dear Bob ! " 
 
 " Yes," I says j " I understand, I expect." 
 
 " Yes," she says uneasy. 
 
 " T at s why you did n t want me for no Copperhead, 
 hah ? You got one an 7 had no use for anot er." 
 
 "No," she says; "it had n t taken place then." 
 
 " Taken place ? " I says. " What you mean ? " 
 
 "I thought you knowed. You said you under 
 stood," she says, gitting pale as t e moon. 
 
 I ketched her by t e arm so rough t at I seen her 
 face show t e pain. 
 
 " Look-a yere," I says j " you don t mean to tell me 
 t at you re ingaged with him an an nefer toP 
 me?" 
 
 She chust hung her head. 
 
 " Well yereafter," I went on, " I want both you an 
 Hal to understand t at it s no quarter with me. I been 
 fair an square all along, but you stabbed me in t e 
 back, both of yous. Yes ! An when my turn comes 
 I 11 do some of t at myself." 
 
 She ketched me by t e arm before I could git away. 
 
 "Bob-Bob-" 
 
 T at was all she could say. But I seen her heart 
 thumping an it wass all over with me onct more. 
 She saw that, too. 
 
"OUR ANCHEL" 65 
 
 "Hal is square; but I I ain t," she says. 
 "Blame me. I ast him to ast me t e day you made 
 me so mad. He did n t want to. He said he ought 
 to tell you first. But I made him. Bob, 1 7 m sorry- 
 sorry you made me mad t at day." 
 
 She begun to cry a little. 
 
 " Nefer mind," says I ; " next to me he ? s tfe best 
 feller in t e whole world." 
 
 " Yes," she says. 
 
 Then I laughed not a funny laugh, I ken tell you. 
 
 " I expect you chust fooling now." 
 
 " Excuse me ; I >m out of it," says I. " Good-by." 
 
 "Bob," she says, ketching holt my arm, "you not 
 mad at me ? " 
 
 "No," says I. "I ought a knowed how it wass 
 going to go. I m nobody ; I got no feelings ! " 
 
 "Bob, if we should git married sometime oh, 
 long after this you won t stay away from me, will 
 you?" 
 
 "Let s talk about something else," says I. "You 
 asting me to haf fun at my own funeral." 
 
 " Yes," she says, an walks away with her han ker- 
 cher to her eyes. 
 
 I kep away from both for a little. You know how 
 things wears off after a while, but t at wass hard work. 
 Both of them wass so lofely ! 
 
 An soon it got pooty much as before. Both of us 
 hanging round Daisy ag in only with me it wass dif 
 ferent now. I wass kind of reckless, an had a grudge 
 against Hal t at I could n t git shut of. 
 
 " Say, why don t you fellers go an fight ? " Daisy says 
 one day. " I ; m tired of sass." 
 
66 "OUK ANCHEL" 
 
 " All right," says I ; " come along, Hal." 
 
 But she looked frightened then, an I seen t at she 
 wass sorry she d said t at. 
 
 " I did n t mean each ot er," she says. 
 
 " Oh ! " says I. 
 
 "I ve been thinking about it," says Hal, kind of 
 ser ous. " I 11 go with you, Bob." 
 
 I could see Daisy trimble. 
 
 " Well, you kin chust stop thinking about it, Hal," 
 says I. Daisy did n t mean you chust mej an I 
 ain t going, an you got a better job." 
 
 " What st aU" Hal ast. 
 
 " Making lofe to a girl I m acquainted of." 
 
 " Oh ! " says Hal, with a nice smile to Daisy. Hal 
 wass n t so quick to see a joke as most people. 
 
 " If you go I 11 take your job. You got fair warn 
 ing," I says. 
 
 " You 11 nefer git Hal s job ! " says Daisy. 
 
 " You too bloodthirsty for me. Talk to Hal. He 11 
 do whatef er you ast him to," says I. 
 
 " Efery man in Maryland t at kin carry a gun is out 
 fighting, they say, an I m chust a-keeping you two 
 yere to to " 
 
 " To what ? " I ast her. " Out with it ! " 
 
 She laughed an slapped me. 
 
 " Chust to have you both about} 1 
 
 u Oh," says I, " is t at all ? I expected something" 
 
 " T e Brenizer girls says you re both af eared or I m 
 af eared or somebody s af eared " 
 
 " Well, you ken tell them for me t at they re right. 
 I ain t anxious to git shot full of holes an have t e 
 wind blowing through an through me when cold 
 
"OUR ANCHEL" 67 
 
 weather comes nossir. Hal, why don t you git up an 
 go, an get yourself wentilated ? " 
 
 Hal chust smiled an said nothing. 
 
 On t e way home I says : 
 
 "Hal, you got to go. She says so, an she owns 
 you ; so git along." 
 
 " Daisy s right," says Hal. " We got to go." 
 
 " We f Like hell ! " says I. " Daisy don t own me 
 not by a long shot." 
 
 "Well," says Hal, "I m going." 
 
 " Well," I says, " go an be durned to you if you 
 got to be a fool for a woman. She 11 forgit you in 
 a month." 
 
 " It s my duty," says he. 
 
 "Who to? Jeff Davis?" 
 
 "Daisy." 
 
 I chust laughed. 
 
 " How do you make t at out ? " I ast him. 
 
 " People s talking about her." 
 
 " I know. But what differ does t at make ? " says I. 
 
 " Mebbe you don t know what it is ? " 
 
 "T at she s a Copperhead? It s chust with her 
 mouth," says I. 
 
 " Is t at all you f e heared ? " ast Hal. 
 
 " Yes," I says ; "an she don t keer, an I don t keer, 
 an you don t need to keer. She s yourn. But I ex 
 pect you will keer account of her like any ot er fool." 
 
 " It s something else," says Hal. " They don t say 
 it to you, I expect." 
 
 "Well," I says, "what t e hell is it? Try an not 
 behafe like a fool, if you air one." 
 
 We walked on awhile, an then he come up clost to 
 
68 "OUR ANCHEL" 
 
 my ear an kind of whispered like lie was af eared to 
 talk out loud : 
 
 " They say t at she s af eared to send one of us un 
 less she sends us both." 
 
 "For why?" I ast him, not understanding. 
 
 " Don t you see ? " 
 
 "No, I don t," says I. 
 
 " She don t know which of us she likes best, they 
 say, an she s af eared to be left alone with t e ot er one 
 for fear" 
 
 I laughed out loud. 
 
 " But you re ingaged to her ! " says I. 
 
 "Yes," says Hal, kind of sheepish; then, "They 
 also say t at we re af eared of each ot er." 
 
 I did n t say a word chust kep on laughing to 
 myself. 
 
 We walked on yit f urt er, an then Hal says : 
 
 "Bob, you going?" 
 
 I laughed out loud ag in. 
 
 " Well, I guess not now? says I. " I m a-going to 
 stay right yere an show em t at she ain t afeared of 
 me an t at I ain t afeared of you." 
 
 I stopped to laugh ag in. 
 
 " Nossir ! I m a-going to stay right yere an show 
 em efery man, woman, an child t at it " 
 
 " Ain t so ? " ast Hal, kind of breathless. 
 
 " T at it s so," says I, still laughing. 
 
 "All right," says Hal, very sorrowful. 
 
 We walked on ag in, an I begun to feel a little 
 mean. 
 
 " Hal," I says, " you better stay at home an pertect 
 your property." 
 
"OUR ANCHEL" 69 
 
 "No," he says; "I m going. 7 
 
 " Oh, well, if you will," says I. " On which side ? n 
 
 He wass kind of looking ahead, an I had to repeat it. 
 
 " Daisy s side Daisy s side," says he. 
 
 " I m talking about war," I yells, " not lofe dam? 
 you ! " 
 
 " Oh," says he, ashamed. " Confederate." 
 
 " U-hu," I says ; " I m sorry." 
 
 " Nefer mind t at," says Hal. 
 
 " Say, if you take t e ot er side I 11 go with you," 
 says I. " Let s see if you Tten disobey Daisy an do 
 t e right thing." 
 
 " I can t do it," says Hal ; " it s a principle at stake 
 an I might as well say good-by. You re not 
 ser ous to-night. I m going airly to-morrow morn 
 ing." 
 
 "An right," I says. 
 
 We stopped an shook hands. 
 
 "Bob," he says, "you 11 play fair?" 
 
 "What you talking about?" says I. "Ain t J 
 always played fair? What business you got to ast 
 t at of me ? I 11 play chust like I please." 
 
 He seemed very umble for a minute or two, an 
 kep on kicking up t e dirt. 
 
 " Well," he says, " mebbe t at wass n t quite fair. 
 She gev me t e chance, an I took it without thinking 
 much about you, Bob ; t at s so. I haf no business 
 to ast you to be fair. Yit I know you will be. She s 
 all I got. I haf not a friend or relation in t e world 
 but chust her. You haf so many friends" 
 
 " Friends," says I. " Hell ! What do I keer for 
 friends ! I want her ! " 
 
70 "OUR ANCHEL" 
 
 "Yes," says Hal, nice an soft. He could talk as 
 soft as a woman if lie tried. " If she wass to you 
 anything like she is to me, I understand." 
 
 " She wass more ! By t e Lord, she is more ! You 
 nef er Jcen keer for her as I do ! It ain t in you," 
 says I. " An you took her from me ! " 
 
 "No," says Hal, chust as soft; "not more not 
 more. T at is impossible. Good night, Bob. Good-by." 
 
 He held out his hand ag in, an 7 I took it an held it. 
 
 " Look yere, Hal," I says ; " don t you go away with 
 t at in your head about playing fair. Don t you go 
 away with t e idea t at Daisy is yourn, an t at I m 
 a-going to stay away from her. By t e Lord, I 11 not 
 do anything of t e kind. You understand ? If I kin 
 git her away from you" 
 
 " I understand," he says, hanging his head. " Still, 
 I know you 11 be fair. But, Bob, if I don t git back" 
 
 " Shut up ! " I says. " You an me air friends in 
 everything but this. In this we air deadly enemies. 
 No quarter is my motto you understand? You re 
 warned." 
 
 " You a little rough sometimes," says Hal, " but no 
 man efer had a better friend. I m not afeared." 
 
 I noticed how he lingered on, though. 
 
 " Bob," he says ag in, " she liked you before I come. 
 She likes you yit. Of course I know she likes me 
 better. But if I wass n t yere mebbe Bob, I 11 
 make a bargain with you" 
 
 " About Daisy ? " says I. 
 
 " Yes," he says. 
 
 " No, you won t ! " says I. " I just tol you it s a 
 fight an no quarter there. I d murder for her ! n 
 
"OUR ANCHEL", 71 
 
 " Then," says he, soft and kind ag in, " I >11 chust 
 tell you something because we re such good friends. 
 If our side loses" 
 
 " I hope it does," says I, hard as iorn. 
 
 " I shill nefer come back. By t at you 11 know t at 
 she s " 
 
 " Shut up ! " says I. 
 
 " Good-by," says Hal. " Bob she s our anchel ! ;; 
 
 II 
 
 BY THE LORD, IT WAS N T HAL! 
 
 WELL, it wass about t e nicest thing t at efer hap 
 pened, for me Hal s going to war. I had Daisy all 
 to myself, an I soon found out t at she needed some 
 one bad. Think of t e temptation efery day an hour 
 almost ! An I did n t waste no time nor chances. An 
 Daisy nicer than efer with t at little sadness in her 
 eyes ! Well, she knowed it as well as I did what wass 
 up, an kep me straight as straight as she could for 
 a while. But efen t at got to be pooty hard to do. 
 She d for git all about Hal now an then women air 
 women all t e world ofer. But one moonlight night 
 Daisy brought me up to t e right about face. I r ally 
 don know chust exsac ly how it happened. I expect 
 I went a little too fast. We took a walk an drifted 
 into a little woods, an t e first thing I knowed I had 
 Daisy s hands, a-holding on to them like they be 
 longed to me. Daisy must a intirely forgot Hal t at 
 
72 "OUR ANCHEL" 
 
 night. She let me pull her head of er on my shoulder. 
 I kissed her. I wass sure I could make her gife Hal 
 up. But chust about t at time somebody laughed a 
 kind of " I-tol -you-so ! " laugh an Sally Brenizer 
 passed us. Daisy jumped up an stood there before 
 me, stiff as a poker. In a minute she knowed what I 
 wass up to all t e time. 
 
 " Bob/ she says, hard an cold, " I want you to go 
 away." 
 
 " What for?" I ast her, like a fool. 
 
 " You know well enough." 
 
 She walked out of t e woods mighty fast. 
 
 " It s not a bit of danger, Daisy," says I ; " you 
 would n t marry me if I wass made of gold." 
 
 She laughed a little. Then her eyes shone. 
 
 " No, I shall nef er marry no golden man," she says. 
 "He s got to be flesh an blood warm an tender, 
 big an brave" 
 
 She stopped as if she d said too much. 
 
 " But-t at s not Hal," says I. " He s little ! " 
 
 " It is ! It is Hal ! " she says, turning on me like 
 a tiger. " An I want you to go ! " 
 
 "All right," I says; "I 11 go right off to war an 
 git killed. But, by t e Lord, t at ain t Hal ! " 
 
 She switched right around an caught my arm. 
 
 " Bob," she says, in a pleading kind of way, " I do 
 not command you to go : I leg you so t at I may be 
 true so t at you may not be a traitor. Go. But come 
 back oh, Bob, come back to we." 
 
 She put her head in her hands an cried like a child. 
 I tried to take her hands, but she got away from me. 
 
 " Bob, for God s sake don t touch me ! " she says. 
 
"OUR ANCHEL" 73 
 
 " You afeared of me ? " I says. 
 
 " Yes," she says, " yes ; I am afeared of you ! Oh, 
 t e Brenizer girls wass right." 
 
 " I won t go for t at, Daisy," says I. 
 
 "No," she says. "But you will go becauss you 
 tempt me efery day efery day to for git to forgit. 
 No, you will not go for t at but for me an 7 an you 
 will come back to me an an Hal." 
 
 " To you," says I. "Not Hal ! 
 
 " You promised to be fair." 
 
 " No, I did n t," I says ; " an I nef er will be ! " 
 
 " Oh, Bob ! " she says. " Please be fair ! " 
 
 But as I looked there wass something in her eyes 
 t at she could not conceal, an it wass gladness 
 gladness by t e Lord ! 
 
 " I will come back to you for you," I says. " After 
 t e war there will be anot er fight. It will be yere. 
 You are my all in all. Without you I do not keer to 
 life. If he keers for you t at much it must be you or 
 or something we can t talk about. After this I will 
 be fair. But there will be no quarter. I would kill 
 him if he-" 
 
 Her head drooped a little. 
 
 "Good-by," I says; "you air mine if I win you 
 his if he does. But no quarter ! " 
 
 She looked up sudden an t e light went out of her 
 face. I held out my hand. 
 
 " Good-by," she whispers back. 
 
 I left her standing there. An when I wass most 
 half a mile away she mofed for t e first time. She 
 wafed her han kercher, an t at wass t e last I seen 
 of her. 
 
74 "OUR ANCHEL" 
 
 III 
 
 GETTYSBURG ! 
 
 WELL, by 1863 we got round to Gettysburg with Han 
 cock, an on July 3d we wass with Ricketts s Battery on 
 Cemetery Eidge. In t e morning it wass quiet enough, 
 considering what wass going on, but things did n t 
 look right. We wass on t e watchout efery minute 
 for trouble. About one o clock t e great artillery fight 
 commenced. You f e heared bout t e whole thing often 
 enough, I expect. But hearing about it is mighty 
 watery kind of business to them at wass it. T e ole 
 earth trimbled like it wass an earthquake, an it look 
 like a flea could n t hardly life in such a place. Efery 
 foot of ground wass plowed up with shot, an it kep 
 a feller busy dodging to keep his head on. An then 
 sometimes a feller d dodge out of one thing right 
 into anot er, an lose it, after all. Well, we did n t let 
 t e rebels make all t e noise, I ken tell you. But soon 
 t e walley in our front got filled with smoke an we 
 could n t see a thing. T e only way to locate Long- 
 street wass by t e flash of his guns. An of course 
 t at s t e way he located us. We could see his shells 
 come tearing through t at curtain of smoke as if it 
 wass made of muslin efery shell leafing a hole. 
 Well, as I said, we wass on t e lookout for t e trouble 
 t e rebs wass cooking up for us behind t at curtain, 
 an soon t e word come along at Gineral Warren had 
 found out what it wass. He had a signal-station on 
 Little Roundtop abofe an back of us, an when t e 
 
"OUR ANCHEL" 75 
 
 smoke d git tore by t e shells he >d take a look through 
 t e hole. Well, under t e cofer of t e smoke Long- 
 street wass massing a whole division for an assault 
 upon our center ! T e artillery wass ordered to stop 
 firing so s t e smoke could clear an 7 gife us a chance 
 to see 7 em. An when we stopped they knowed t at we 
 had found out what they wass up to, an stopped too. 
 It wass quiet as a funeral. An t e rebels did n t make 
 no f urt er secret of their plans ; chust like they wass 
 sure to git us an did n t keer no more. A fact, I 
 think they wass anxious to be seen now so s to 
 frighten us. They nefer had a notion what for kind 
 of men wass behind them stone walls ! Frighten us ! 
 They might a knowed better ! We d had a chance, 
 most of us, to git ofer t at for three years ! Well, ex 
 cuse me, I git a little excited talking about it, when 
 t e smoke cleared, what we saw was worth looking at 
 to a soldier, anyhow. Down in t e walley Pickett s 
 men wass chust mofing out from behind a bunch of red 
 barns about three quarters of a mile away, as gay as 
 if they wass on dress-parade. If I recollect right, 
 they wass singing or cheering, mebbe both. Their 
 arms wass at a right-shoulder shift as if they did n t 
 intend to use them. Both arms an uniforms had 
 been cleaned till they shone an glittered in t e sun. 
 Oh, I ken shut my eyes an see it yit ! An it s forty 
 years ago ! About twenty thousand t e best men in 
 Lee s army walking straight up to our guns no cover, 
 no shade, an grape an canister all ready for em an 7 
 waiting straight on our guns, with laughter on their 
 faces! We chust stood an looked, an let t e guns 
 take keer themself es a little. Who would n t ? Yere 
 
76 "OUR ANCHEL" 
 
 was twenty thousand men, ten thousand of which would 
 be dead in a couple of minutes ! Not a gun had been 
 fired at them yit. Seemed like our artillery was para 
 lyzed ; but our men wass only gitting their batteries 
 posted for them depressing t e guns all t e time, 
 lower an lower as they came on ! We made no change. 
 We wass chust behind a little bunch of trees at which 
 they seemed to be aiming. Chust Hunt sent us a few 
 more guns. Soon eferything wass ready for them 
 solid shot, shell, grape, an 7 canister piled right by each 
 gun. They had passed some trees on this side t e barn 
 an corrected their alinement, an were coming on like 
 a beautiful machine. I nef er seen nothing like t at, an 
 nefer shill, I expect. Not a man out of step or out of 
 line. I had t e lanyard in my hand ready. A shell 
 was in t e gun. Gushing was pointing it. " Fire ! " 
 came t e word j an twenty lanyards clicked an twenty 
 shells tore through the ranks below us. I jumped on 
 t e stone fence a minute to see. A dozen bloody lanes 
 wass cut in their ranks. But they closed up without 
 losing step, an mofed on ag in as fine an sassy as efer. 
 Then it wass " Fire ! " ag in an ag in, with t e same 
 result. Then Longstreet opens on us, eighty or ninety 
 guns. They had come about half a mile under our 
 fire. We could see t at t e ranks wass thinner, an t at 
 there wass a gray trail behind em, where wounded 
 men wass crawling away to shelter. But now they 
 lowered their bayonets an gev their yell an started 
 on a run for our breastworks. " Canister ! " says 
 Gushing, an we let them haf it. Once, twice, thrice. 
 T e ranks wass gitting thinner, t e trail behind 
 thicker. No alinement now, no parade business now, 
 
"OUR ANCHEL" 77 
 
 by t e Lord God ! " Grape to t e muzzle ! " says 
 Gushing, quieter an quieter all t e time. We gev 
 it to them. Once, twice t e second time right in 
 their faces as they swarmed ofer t e stone wall. A 
 shell exploded under t e gun. Gushing wiped his face. 
 We wass all black. " Canister ! " says he, but no one 
 mofed. Efery man of t e crew wass down but him 
 an me an I wass chust crawling up with a piece of 
 shell in me. He understood, and shofed in a canister 
 himself. I shofed in anot er. A dozen rebels jumped 
 on t e gun. But a blast from t e battery on our right 
 turned to enfilade em swept them to hell. " Now," 
 says Gushing, " back her a little ! " We did so, an 
 Gushing pulled t e string. It swept a clean streak 
 through them. " Anot er ! " says Gushing, pulling her 
 back a little more. In went t e canister. I poured on 
 some priming. Gushing reached for t e string. But 
 a bayonet through his breast stopped him forever. 
 Yit he tried to reach it twice as he died. Then I 
 jumped for it, but t e same bayonet stopped me. I d 
 a gev all t at wass left of my life to pull t at string. 
 I tried hard to git it, but it wass no use. T e bayonet 
 wass through my arm, an t e man held me pinned 
 down an how it did hurt when I stopped trying for 
 t e lanyard an remembered ! Then I turned on t e 
 man with t e bayonet ; he pushed me off me trying to 
 git at him. His face wass blacker n a nikker s with 
 powder-smoke, an it wass some blood-smears on. I 
 expect mine wass as black. T e only thing I remember 
 of t at moment is madness madness madness ! Oh ! 
 war is hell ! I thought I wass killed myself, an I 
 wanted to kill kill as many of t e defils as I could 
 
78 "OUR ANCHEL" 
 
 before I died. It all happened in a second or two. 
 Of a suddent I wass strong as a bull. I jerked t e 
 rebel s gun out his hands, got t e bayonet out my 
 arm, an tried to smash him with t e butt. It wass a 
 glancing blow, an he closed in on me. We went down 
 toget er. But he wass under, an I put his own bayonet 
 through him an laughed, laughed in his dam face, 
 he wass so disapp inted ! But t e laugh turned to a 
 shifer. T e gun fell out of my hands. I grabbed t e 
 rebel an pulled his face clost to mine. I could n t 
 see no more j he put his hands on his wound for pain, 
 an opened his eyes a little, an then a little more an 
 more, an I could see in his eyes what he wass seeing 
 in mine. He smiled a little then, an tried to reach 
 my hand, an says chust : 
 
 " Bob ! " 
 
 An I says chust : 
 
 " Hal ! n 
 
 It wass he Hal an a parcel of his men t at had 
 been fighting us about t at battery like defils Hal an 
 a parcel of his men, t e only ones t at efer got acrosst 
 t at stone wall ! 
 
 IV 
 
 IT WAS WAR 
 
 I KNOWED nothing more an I remember nothing more 
 tell I woke up in t e field hospital, an I thank God t at 
 I do not. Soon some one, in a rattling kind of voice, 
 like he wass waiting for me, says : 
 
"OUR ANCHEL" 79 
 
 " Bob ! " 
 
 I looked around, an t e man on t e cot next to me 
 wass holding out his hand. I took it an knowed it 
 wass Hal. 
 
 "Can t talk," he says; "lung." 
 
 He pointed to it, an I remembered, an shifered 
 ag in. 
 
 " Ast em put me yere. Wanted tell you waiting 
 you been out your head did n t know wass you." 
 
 He p inted toward t e battle-field. 
 
 " An I did n t know it wass you," says I, sniffling 
 like a fool. 
 
 "Would n t hurt you for for " 
 
 He had to stop to cough. 
 
 " Nor I you," says I. 
 
 "Forgife?" 
 
 He reached out his hand ag in, like he wass n t 
 quite sure. 
 
 " Forgife ! " says I. 
 
 He squeezed my hand an then tried to take his 
 own back. But I held it. 
 
 " Forgife me" I says. 
 
 He looked as if he did n t exsac ly understand. 
 
 " For t at." I pointed to his breast. 
 
 He nodded an smiled as if it wass nothing. 
 
 " It wass war ! " he says. 
 
 "An for this, too; I wass n t fair." 
 
 I pulled a daguerreotype of Daisy from my bosom, 
 where it wass fast round my neck by a string, an 
 held it up to him. " Take it ! It belongs to you," 
 I says. He smiled, an pulled anot er out of his bosom 
 chust like it. 
 
80 "OUR ANCHEL" 
 
 " I 11 nef er fight ag in," he says. 
 
 "Nor I," says I. 
 
 "Efen if I git well," he smiled. 
 
 " Or if I do," says I. 
 
 We rested awhile, an then he says : 
 
 "Bob you don t mind t at I m yere in your 
 hospital ? " 
 
 " Hal," I says, " I m glad. God bless you ! " 
 
 " I ast em to put me by you." 
 
 He dropped off to sleep then. In ten minutes he 
 woke up an says : 
 
 " Bob think Daisy d come if she knowed?" 
 
 " Yes," I says. " We 11 send for her." 
 
 One day a woman all dressed in black, with t e 
 cross of t e Christian Commission on, came to t e 
 hospital, an says, soft as praying : 
 
 " I haf paper an enf elopes yere, an I will write a 
 letter to any one you wish." 
 
 " Yes," I says, it wass about all I could say at t at 
 time, an she set down an begun. 
 
 " Now, do not hurry," she says yit ; " I haf plenty 
 of time, an I will write efery word you say no mat 
 ter how many." I noticed t at her voice wass soft an ; 
 familiar, kind of German, but I did n t suspect a thing. 
 
 " Well," I says, "begin it Dear Daisy. " 
 
 She wass frightened at t at. 
 
 " l Dear Daisy, did you say ? " she ast me. 
 
 " Yes," I says. " For why you skeered so bout t at ? " 
 
 "Yes I wass a little frightened," she says. "I 
 knowed a Daisy. But there are many of t at name." 
 
 " Yes," I says ; " but there is only one Daisy in this 
 world, anyhow, an you air going to write to her." 
 
"OUR ANCHEL" 81 
 
 "Yes," she says, very soft an nice; "your Daisy 
 I understand." 
 
 " Our Daisy," says I. 
 
 She seemed frightened agfin. 
 
 " Our Daisy did you say ?" 
 
 " Yes," I says ; " it s two of us." 
 
 "Oh two?" 
 
 " Yes," I says ; " go on. I m gitting tired out." 
 
 "Pardon me," she says, an I thought she wass 
 cryin a little. " I am ready." 
 
 " l Dear Daisy, " I begun ag in : " We air in t e hos 
 pital at a place called Gettysburg. Both of us air. 
 We- " 
 
 She dropped on her knees at t e side of my bed. 
 
 " Oh, both of you ! Where where is t e ot er 1 " 
 
 An I knowed she wass crying. 
 
 " Now, don t you worry," says I. " You can t cry so 
 nice for efery wounded soldier. It s too many of us 
 yere. Go on, please." 
 
 " But I must know about t e ot er," she kind of 
 begs. " I -must must know ! " 
 
 I felt her lifting up t e bandage on my face an 
 looking at me a long time. 
 
 "Well, then," I says, "there he is right behind 
 you. Don t wake him up. He sleeps most all t e time. 
 They keep him under t e influence of something ac 
 count his pain. Hal his name s Hal he s my best 
 friend, if he is a rebel. I did n t always think so, but 
 I do now; an Daisy s t e best friend of us both. 
 We re both in lofe with her, an ; we both want to 
 marry her. She she s ingaged to Hal. He s mighty 
 sick. So am I. It don t look like either of us 11 git 
 
82 "OUR ANCHEL" 
 
 t e chance to marry her. I wass n t fair with him 
 no, I wass n t. But I m sorry now. I 11 be fair 
 after this. He he ken marry her, an I 11 go to t e 
 wedding by the Lord ! " 
 
 She wass sobbing right out now like babies do at 
 can t help it. She turned an looked at Hal ; I think, 
 an then says, says she, sobbing : 
 
 " Let us go on with t e letter, please." 
 
 " It wass a fight yere t e last three days," I tells her, " an ? 
 Hal an me wass both wounded. He on t e one side, me on 
 t e ot er fighting. It ain t a pleasant story, an I 11 tell you 
 about it when you come. It 11 take some courage to tell 
 it. But I ken do it. Hal s asleep alongside of me. He s 
 too bad hurt to write. An he s asleep ; t at s why I got to 
 do it. An he must n t be waked up; t e doctor says so. 
 Daisy, can t you come to see him? He is hurt bad, an also 
 his side lost. I pity him. You will, too, when you see him. 
 He ast me t e ot er day if I thought you d come. I says, 
 of course she will if it s a thousand miles, instead of 
 twenty or thirty. So please an come to see your two friends, 
 
 "BOB AN HAL. 
 
 "P.S. An mebbe you d marry him right yere? He d 
 like t at; so so would I 
 
 "HAL, BOB." 
 
 She chust took t e letter an wrote something below. 
 Then she took off my bandage so s I could see, an 
 held it up to my eyes. 
 
 DEAR BOB, DEAR HAL: I haf chust got your letter an 
 am yere. DAISY. 
 
 I can t tell exsac ly what happened in t e next few 
 minutes. I expect I don t know. An if you nefer 
 
"OUR ANCHEL" 83 
 
 wass no wounded soldier an in lofe with Daisy you 
 can t efen imagine it. All at I remember is t at in a 
 little while she wass kneeling between our two cots, 
 with a hand of each in hern, an it seemed like t at 
 healed efery thing. All t e jealousy an heartburning, 
 all t e fighting, all t e trials, all t e fire an blood an 
 waste of life, wass forgot, an chust t at little hand an 
 t at voice remembered. Chust as if it had all been 
 for this, an this one joyous moment an as if it 
 wass all worth this ! 
 
 An happy ! I wass happy myself. But to see Hal s 
 face you d think he wass in heafen. An t at made 
 me happy, too Hal s happiness. 
 
 THE VALLEY OF DEATH 
 
 SHE stayed right there an nursed us as no two 
 soldiers efer wass nursed before. An I kep gitting 
 better all t e time account I wass so happy, an Hal 
 kep gitting worse for t e same reason. You see, he 
 would n t an would n t keep quiet. 
 
 T e doctor toP me he had a chance before Daisy 
 come, but it wass gone now. 
 
 " Well," he says, " what is t e difference 1 He 11 die 
 t e happiest man I efer saw." An he did. 
 
 It came in t e night. Daisy wass sleeping a little, 
 when Hal woke me up. T e torch was dancing in front 
 of t e tent, an I could see t at his face wass shining in 
 a kind of way t at wass almost holy. 
 
84 "OUR ANCHEL" 
 
 " Bob," he says, " call Daisy ." 
 
 I had her there in a minute. She soon seen what 
 wass up. With one great sob she dropped down at 
 Hal s cot an wass quiet, an I dropped down aside of 
 her. We wass all awed an trembly, but Hal he still 
 had t at light in his face, an wass smiling up at us 
 like old times old, old times ! How far away they 
 seemed then ! Oh, but he looked young an pitiful ! 
 An I had killed him ! Down in my breast I cursed 
 t e war an all t e people who had helped to bring this 
 awful thing about. 
 
 " Hal," I says, " I m sorry." 
 
 " Bob," he says, " it wass war." 
 
 " Hal," I says, " God bless you ! " 
 
 He looked from Daisy to me a little, then back 
 ag in, his smile gitting brighter all t e time. 
 
 "He has," Hal says then. "He has gifen me t e 
 two best friends any man efer had. T e two- 
 best friends." His eyes got dim, an he groped with 
 his hands. Daisy put hern in em. 
 
 He understood. 
 
 " T at s right Daisy." 
 
 Then his mind wandered a little : 
 
 " Bob killed me. Did you-know t at Bob killed 
 me? If it had n t been war it would have been 
 murder if it had n t been war strange- 
 war murder " 
 
 We sat there together, without a word, till his 
 hands got cold, and we knowed what had happened. 
 Then I says : 
 
 " Daisy." 
 
 She turns on me with a look I had nefer seen in 
 her eyes, and says : 
 
"OUR ANCHEL" 85 
 
 " Hush ! " 
 
 An so it wass always hush ! until I could n t bear it 
 no more. For I could see it all in her eyes, but could 
 not say a word. An Daisy, what she did for me now 
 wass for duty not love. 
 
 Chust once she spoke about it. 
 
 " Is it true ? " she ast. 
 
 I killed him," I says. But-" 
 
 " Hush ! " says she, with t at look on her face ag in. 
 " Not one word ! " 
 
 One day she led me out for a walk. I don t know 
 how it happened, but we both went right to t e spot. 
 Things had been cleared up a little, but it still looked 
 pretty ragged. We stopped an slowly faced each 
 ot er, an her eyes said, "Where?" I found t e spot, 
 an she stooped an kissed it. I stood tell she got up. 
 Then she took my arm ; but I would n t go. 
 
 " It wass war," I says. 
 
 " It wass murder ! " she says. 
 
 We stood so without a word a long time. 
 
 " T e sweetest an gentlest soul t at efer lifed !" says 
 she. 
 
 " T e sweetest an gentlest soul t at efer lifed," says I. 
 
 Still we stood there. 
 
 " I haf anot er word to say," says I, " an yere s t e 
 place to say it." 
 
 " What is it ? " she ast. 
 
 " Good-by." 
 
 She started a little. 
 
 " Come," she says then, an started to lead me home. 
 " You too weak yit. I haf my order. Come ! " 
 
 I obeyed. 
 
 Back over t e Walley of Death we went, an I saw 
 
86 "OUR ANCHEL" 
 
 it all once more : t e smoke, t e fire, t e blood, t e heat, 
 t e din shouts of wictory, curses of defeat, death. 
 Then it wass war " glorious war," as they call it. 
 But now it wass bitter, bitter murder ! I stopped. 
 
 " We part yere," I says. " I can t stand it." 
 
 She seemed unhappy. 
 
 "Where you going?" she ast me. 
 
 " Back to my rigiment," says I. 
 
 "You you said you wass nefer goin to fight no 
 more ? " 
 
 "Yes I said that," says I, "long ago. But now I 
 got to fight or something. Good-by." 
 
 " Bob-" 
 
 She seemed about to break down, an finally held 
 out her hands. I took an kissed them. She came a 
 little closer an put up her lips chust as if I had 
 forced her. But I shook my head an turned away. 
 
 " Not a murderer," says I. 
 
 VI 
 
 HOME! 
 
 WELL, I went back an fought for two years more 
 fought like a defil, fought to forgit, to be killed. 
 But two things I nefer could f orgit t e paleness of her 
 face an t e coldness of t e lips I did n t need to touch 
 to feel. They tell you t at time cures all things. But 
 t at nefer got better. I could see t at face, feel those 
 lips, an hear t at voice saying it wass murder in battle. 
 
"OUR ANCHEL" 87 
 
 Yes, as I " murdered n ot er rebels, God help me I 
 They were all plainer to me on t e day I wass mustered 
 out than t e day I left her in t e Walley of Death at 
 Gettysburg. 
 
 I walked home from t e grand renew. It wass only 
 about fifty miles, an I wanted to go through Gettys 
 burg once more, see t at spot ag in, an go through t e 
 Walley of Death. It wass harder to find now t e 
 spot; but nothing on earth could keep it from me, 
 an presently I knowed t at I had my lips on t e 
 spot she had kissed. An ; t e saddest tears I efer 
 shed dropped into t e grass where t e blood of both of 
 us had fallen two years before. Our blood an her 
 tears ! all for her lofe ! An then I knowed what I 
 had r ally come for to kiss t e spot she had kissed ! 
 Well, I had done t at. An what now ? Home ? No ! 
 I saw ag in t at in her eyes. No ! I rose an faced 
 south t e way I had come. As I did so a woman stood 
 before me suddenly. I staggered back as if I had seen 
 her ghost, so frail wass she ; yit beautiful beauti 
 ful as an anchel ! Beautiful as t e anchel we use to 
 call her Hal an* me. I thought, somehow, of t e 
 moment I put t e bayonet through Hal. 
 
 She smiled an held out her arms. I did n t mofe. 
 I could n t. She came slowly toward me. I mofed 
 back. She stopped an t e pain I knowed of old came 
 in her eyes. 
 
 "Bob oh, Bob," she whispered, "wass it too much 
 to efer f orgif e ? I knoiv now. You did n t tell me. I 
 would n t let you. I am glad you nef er tried. But I 
 ~know. Yes, it wass war." 
 
 Ag in she came on. I put her away. Something 
 
88 "OUR ANCHEL" 
 
 seemed bursting inside me. For two year I had kept 
 it down. But now it broke out. 
 
 " You haf broke my heart/ I says. 
 
 " Then let me heal it, Bob/ 7 she says. " Oh, Bob/ 
 she begs, " take me take me take me ! I am so tired 
 waiting for you so tired waiting to confess to con 
 fess t at I came to meet you ! " 
 
 " Confess confess what?" I says. 
 
 "Oh, Bob, a woman must confess in some one s 
 arms on some one s breast in some one s heart 
 some one who is brafe enough an strong enough to 
 forgife her when she is is wrong. To lofe her after 
 she has cleaned her heart! I wass a girl then 
 almost a child. I am a woman now, an I oh, Bob 
 I haf suffered. I haf suffered! Yes, I am a 
 woman now. Look at me ! " 
 
 I did. If I had lofed her before I adored her then. 
 She wass a woman t e most splendid to me t at God 
 efer made. I kneeled down an kissed t e hem of her 
 frock. 
 
 " You are our anchel ! " I says. 
 
 An then I don t know how it happened I did n t 
 say a word I could n t I did n t mofe, but she knelt 
 down there, too. An then, somehow, my arms opened 
 ag inst my will, an when she wass in them, an trying 
 to git closer an closer, how could I let her go 1 An 
 her confession? She did n t make it tell long after 
 ward, and it wass this : 
 
 " I wass t e guilty one, becauss I lofed you and 
 pitied him." 
 
 " Bob come home ! " 
 
"OUR ANCHEL" 89 
 
 We turned homeward. But she went back to t e 
 spot we knew. I did not look to see what she done. 
 When she reached me ag in she put her arm in mine 
 an held it close while we crossed onct more t e Walley 
 of Death. 
 
THE LADY AND HER SOUL 
 
THE LADY AND HER SOUL 
 
 THE PLACE WHICH THROBBED 
 
 ON the porches of the Crazy-Quilt House (which is 
 not its name) the ladies who knitted called Gram- 
 mis queer because he chose to reside in his seven- 
 foot sneak-box much more than at the hotel where 
 they knitted. Well I, also, would have chosen as 
 Grammis did ; so there is a pair of us ! Perhaps you 
 will join us and make it three ! 
 
 Fancy, I beg of you, speeding under the stars, or a 
 moon, or in the darkness, upon one s back, with four 
 miles of water on each side of one the sea beyond ! 
 
 Then fancy a hot room, smelling of coal-oil lamps 
 in which women s voices shrieked, while some one 
 played with " magnificent execution." 
 
 Now ! Are there not three of us ? 
 
 And what do you think of Grammis? I like him 
 well. For I, who am not wise, solved Grammis in an 
 hour. He needed a comrade, and presently she came. 
 
 Grammis spent that night on the hotel porch and 
 four ambrosial others. He said very little, and kept 
 his rocker where he might adore her best. 
 
 93 
 
94 THE LADY AND HER SOUL 
 
 Have you seen those busts from Vienna? There 
 will be the head of a woman with dainty lips, long- 
 lashed eyes, and much splendid hair but not a shade 
 of soul ! 
 
 Such was she ! So the ladies who knitted whis 
 pered when they saw Grammis falling in love. 
 
 Suddenly, on that fourth night, she gave Grammis 
 his chance : 
 
 " What have you been doing all these nights while 
 I have chattered ? " 
 
 " There is a place which throbs when you look up 
 ward; it is here " 
 
 Grammis had almost pointed it out to her when 
 he awoke. 
 
 Miss Arras yawned. 
 
 " I suppose it is quite midnight ! " she said. " Good 
 night, Mr. Mr. " 
 
 " Grammis," said Grammis, innocently. 
 
 Miss Arras laughed into her handkerchief, and 
 went to bed. 
 
 Grammis s watch showed him, when he was in a 
 condition to observe it, that the hour was ten. 
 
 Grammis spent the next night on the bay and 
 then many of them. For one had come to the Crazy- 
 Quilt House who was neither silent nor foolish. But 
 then, neither did he observe that she had a spot under 
 her chin which throbbed ! 
 
 She had remembered that. She would tilt her chin 
 at the mirror and be vexed! Then think of the 
 gentleness of Grammis s smile, and think him a fool, 
 and sigh, quite as if she liked him better and better 
 for it. 
 
THE LADY AND HER SOUL 95 
 
 II 
 
 NO SOUL HAS SHE 
 
 GRAMMIS, coming up from the bay one night very late, 
 heard her on the hotel porch telling something to Gar- 
 ran, the new-comer alone. And this was the end of it : 
 
 "And I said, It must be quite midnight, Mr. 
 Mr. I d forgot his name ! " 
 
 " And he told it to you, eh ? " 
 
 They laughed merrily here. 
 
 " And then went off like a shot ? " 
 
 " Like a shot." 
 
 Garran laughed alone. 
 
 "And it was only ten o clock?" 
 
 " It was not yet ten." 
 
 More laughter, but all Garran s. 
 
 Grammis, there below the porch, did not care that 
 the light shone full in his face. And her words quite 
 passed him. She was in evening dress. He could see 
 the place which throbbed. And he had but one ad 
 jective for her glorious ! 
 
 Do you perceive how poor Grammis was in adjec 
 tives ? 
 
 And, somehow, he understood something which 
 differed from her words. It made him warm at the 
 heart ! He did not care for her words ! 
 
 She looked at Grammis. Grammis looked at her. 
 He smiled and passed on. He heard her say : 
 
 "That is he." 
 
 Garran looked over the balustrade. 
 
96 THE LADY AND HER SOUL 
 
 It seemed that Garran found a Waterloo. 
 
 " She has no soul not an atom ! n he said to 
 Grammis. 
 
 Grammis stared at him. It had vast speech that 
 stare of Grammis s ! 
 
 " She said she has never felt an emotion. And I 
 knew it before she told me ! n 
 
 " How ? " asked Grammis. 
 
 " Look at her ! " answered Garran. 
 
 " Look at her ? I have." 
 
 "Wdlt" 
 
 Grammis thought of the place which throbbed, and 
 of that one adjective of his, and was silent. 
 
 " You re a pair ! " said Garran. " Nothing I said 
 made her wink an eyelash. It does n t make you do 
 so. When I was done she said what she did to you 
 l good night ! 
 
 And he went away on the three-o clock train 
 Garran. 
 
 Ill 
 
 GRAMMIS S WEAPON 
 
 That was in Happy June : This, 
 This was in Triste September. 
 
 ONE day, far from that other, he found her on the 
 solitary little pier when he came to loose his boat. 
 
 "You should not sail so much alone. Suppose 
 something should happen to the boat ? " 
 
THE LADY AND HER SOUL 97 
 
 Grammis only smiled and lifted his cap showing 
 the head which was so much better to see than the 
 cap. 
 
 " If there were a few feet more to it I would risk 
 going with you in case you should ask me ! n 
 
 "I wish there were a few feet more to it," said 
 Grammis, dealing lightly with the impossible. 
 
 " For that beautiful saying, I shall go without the 
 additional feet." 
 
 She moved to get in. 
 
 "Mrs. Grundy?" suggested Grammis, with humor, 
 still dealing with the impossible. 
 
 " Does not live here now," said she. " It is Sep 
 tember. You and I are all ! " 
 
 She was standing above him now. His hand was 
 upon the double hitch at her feet. Grammis could 
 have laid his forehead upon them and done it like a 
 knight. They were such beautiful feet ! 
 
 " The builder of this boat did not foresee the possi 
 bility of such felicity. He built it for only one ! " 
 
 " All men are fools," said the lady, irrelevantly. 
 
 " Besides, it is dangerous," replied Grammis. 
 
 "I am going," said Miss Arras, " mainly because 
 you don t want me." 
 
 Grammis did not believe it. 
 
 Her eyes saw this. 
 
 " Your hand, please ? " 
 
 It was her foot he was to give his hand to which 
 he did. 
 
 "Yonder," she said, pointing to the channel, and 
 took the sheet-rope and the tiller before Grammis 
 could reach them. 
 
 7 
 
98 THE LADY AND HER SOUL 
 
 " There is quite a sea on out there/ Grammis 
 warned. 
 
 She pointed for the head of Bonnet Island. 
 
 And the boat is overloaded" 
 
 "I know everything you do" she snapped. 
 
 Gentle Grammis, terrified, looked quickly up. The 
 girl laughed and finished. 
 
 "about this boat and this bay. Stop it! 
 Enjoy yourself ! " 
 
 It was good to be so suddenly happy, and Grammis 
 laughed with her at himself. 
 
 " Take the tiller," she said suddenly-. " I m tired 
 of it, and you bother me ! " 
 
 It was a feat of seamanship to exchange places. 
 He had to hold her hands to steady her all on ac 
 count of the sea which was up to within a half -inch 
 of the wash-boards. But at last he dropped her safely 
 into the small cockpit. To do it he had to take her 
 firmly in his hands at the waist. She laughed at 
 him. But nothing could deny Grammis the know 
 ledge that when he did it her nostrils swelled. It 
 might have been for ecstasy ! Anyhow, Grammis also 
 was very happy. She saw this. 
 
 " Grammis," she said savagely, " don t be a fool." 
 
 Grammis promptly blushed. 
 
 " Grammis," Miss Arras went on, " I have a friend 
 who came out three years ago. She was brought 
 straight from her convent to her first assembly. She 
 thought men gentle, but she found them brutes. She 
 had hope for the next winter. But no. And the next. 
 No. All brutes. Say, Grammis, now she prefers 
 them to be brutes. She can treat them as brutes. 
 Grammis, be a brute." 
 
THE LADY AND HER SOUL 99 
 
 "I m a brute without trying/ 7 laughed happy 
 Grammis. 
 
 " You ! " 
 
 Grammis again hastened to blush. 
 
 " All men are brutes beside such a woman" 
 
 " Ah, such a woman ! Out of the convent ! " 
 
 " You ! " said Grammis, desperately. 
 
 She laughed stridently. But Grammis s honest 
 eyes were suddenly upon her, and she spoke with 
 gentleness : 
 
 " Grammis, do you know what is the most terrible 
 weapon a gentleman can turn against a worldly 
 woman ? " 
 
 " No/ said Grammis. 
 
 " The one you have turned against me." 
 
 Grammis stared. 
 
 " Me f Against you f " 
 
 " His gentleness." 
 
 " Eh T " gasped Grammis. " I ?" 
 
 " You ! " 
 
 She began to sing : 
 
 The twilight lingers on the rose 
 The danger-lamps of love are lit ! 
 
 Gods ! what care I ? My heart outgoes 
 Love s peril for the love of it ! 
 
 IV 
 
 LOVE S DANGER-LAMPS 
 
 IT was Grammis s own song, and she was laughing at 
 him ! And, to Grammis, his songs were very sacred 
 
100 THE LADY AND HER SOUL 
 
 perhaps only because they were melody perhaps 
 because of the place they came from far, far within ! 
 
 Grammis looked uncomfortable hurt. 
 
 Did I tell you that he was a composer ? 
 
 " Stop it ! " she cried. " I knew it and sung it 
 and loved it before I knew you or sailed with 
 you or " Then she laughed. 
 
 Grammis was sure she was guying him. 
 
 " Grammis ! n she cried brutally, " sing, "you you 
 beggar ! Sing your own song for me ! " 
 
 To the astonishment of Grammis, she choked at the 
 last word. And when he looked up she was holding 
 her throat. Her mouth seemed to be laughing at her 
 eyes! 
 
 " The spray ! " she cried, joyously wiping them. 
 " Sing, you beggar ! " 
 
 This time it was an unadulterated laugh. 
 
 Grammis felt that he ought to be offended. But he 
 knew it was impossible. He feared that he should 
 sing if she said it again. 
 
 And she said it again : 
 
 " Sing, you beggar ! Your own song ! forme ! " 
 
 My heart outgoes where danger lies, 
 And you are Captain, dear j 
 
 Its Waterloo is in your eyes 
 It lies in prison there ! 
 
 sang Grammis, with great beauty. 
 
 At the third stanza they sang together and could 
 scarce do it for laughing, which caught in their 
 throats upon something else. Grammis sang a tenor 
 which was extremely personal with emotion. You 
 
THE LADY AND HER .SOUL 1-Ctt 
 
 know how easily music reaches one s soul, if it come 
 from one s soul ! 
 
 Anyhow, before the end, quite, Miss Arras cried 
 out to Grammis, breathlessly : 
 
 " Grammis ! For God s sake stop ! " 
 
 Grammis did not in the least understand. 
 
 " Why ? n he begged to know. 
 
 " Why ? Your voice is horrible ! " said Miss Arras. 
 
 This was what he sang : 
 
 Oh, be a generous victor, and I 11 be a captive true j 
 Give me the heart I need so much, 
 Since I have none and you have two ! 
 
 Yet, as he stared, for he knew that his voice was 
 not horrible, Miss Arras leaned forward and touched 
 him, and said very softly : 
 
 " Grammis oh, Grammis ! " 
 
 But then, when Grammis had dizzily decided that 
 she meant to be kind to him, she added : 
 
 " My feet are all wet ! " 
 
 " And you are all happy to-day," he smiled down 
 at her. 
 
 " l At my expense/ you re adding. But you might 
 be mistaken. I am always willing to pay for what 
 I get." 
 
 Grammis prayed that he might be mistaken. 
 
 And then, with sudden joy : 
 
 " Oh-h-h ! The water has reached my ankles ! " 
 
 Grammis paled and thought of bailing. But how 
 could he ? She filled the boat ! 
 
 She laughed at his distress understood it. 
 
102 THE LADY AND HER SOUL 
 
 " Grammis, it s glorious ! " she cried into his happy 
 face. 
 
 Grammis s one adjective ! In her mouth ! 
 
 " Now my knees ! n 
 
 u Something must be done ! " cried Grammis, sav 
 agely. 
 
 " Yes ! " laughed Miss Arras. 
 
 "REMEMBER THEN WHAT i AM NOW" 
 
 Bur the little pumpkin-seed boat plunged into the 
 channel cut out of the green waters as cleanly as a 
 country road through woods. Spray wet her hair. 
 
 " No ! " she cried out to it. "I hate that ! I want 
 to look my best to-day the best in all my life ! And 
 how can one look one s best with one s hair be 
 draggled ? " 
 
 His eyes questioned. 
 
 "I may drown! And you may survive and see 
 me ! I will have a green complexion ! Look at me 
 look ! Remember then what I am now ! " 
 
 Grammis s one word fled through his fancy, 
 glorious ! and was insufficient now. 
 
 He put an oilskin about her. His face brushed 
 her hair. He kissed it. She detected him. 
 
 " Remember that, too, when you take me out," she 
 laughed, and fought the oilskin for a moment. 
 
THE LADY AND HER SOUL 103 
 
 "I don t want to be dry." Then, suddenly sur 
 rendering, she said : " But I do want to see you but 
 ton it about me ! n 
 
 But at that sort of thing no one could excel Gram- 
 mis. He buttoned it at the very place which throbbed. 
 He had to tilt her chin for room ! 
 
 "Grammis," she cried, "you hurt me hurt me! 
 And oh, I am happy, happy, happy ! " 
 
 She caught his hands madly away from her throat, 
 and held them. Then, with a riotous laugh, she kissed 
 each one and flung it away from her with force ! 
 
 "Grammis!" she laughed. "What a fool you 
 are ! " 
 
 And again : 
 
 " Grammis, I hate you ! And I ought n t to. 
 For you are all that stands between me and a watery 
 graveyard ! " 
 
 Yet again : 
 
 " Grammis you make me shiver ! n 
 
 Once more : 
 
 " I wish I could be a fool ! " 
 
 And then he did what was perilous, and what she 
 did not expect. He drew the hood of the oilskin 
 over her hair and tucked it in under its edge. And 
 his hands touched her face. 
 
 It made her breathless. 
 
 She struck his hands away. She wilfully drew a 
 huge lock forth and let it fly over her face ! 
 
 And the oilskin was new, yellow, the hood was 
 crimson-lined! her hair another yellow. Her face 
 was a flower. 
 
104 THE LADY AND HER SOUL 
 
 VI 
 
 "BECAUSE I LOVE YOU BECAUSE I LOVE YOU" 
 
 " STOP it ! " cried Miss Arras, though there was 
 nothing to stop. " Tenderness in a man is horrid, 
 Grammis. It hurts ! " 
 
 " When it is to a woman ? " asked poor Grammis. 
 
 " I told you men were brutes ! " 
 
 " To you?" 
 
 " Yes I" 
 
 She almost shouted it with savagery. Then : 
 
 " I am that convent girl ! " 
 
 " You ! " 
 
 " Why are you gentle with me, Grammis, when it 
 makes me shiver ? " 
 
 " Do you want an answer ? n 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " An honest one ? " 
 
 " Yes you would n t give any other! You 
 could n t, Grammis! Look into my eyes as you 
 answer ! n 
 
 " Because" he challenged. 
 
 She defied : 
 
 " Because?" 
 
 "I love you." 
 
 He was looking far away over her head. She 
 looked only at him. Something she had fiercely 
 battled against went out in a long sigh. Silence. 
 
 " Grammis, what do you see ? " she asked, rising. 
 "Look at me!" 
 
THE LADY AND HEK SOUL 105 
 
 His hand, strong and gentle, put her back. 
 
 " Don t move. Or we will both get very wet ! " 
 
 The boat tried to dive to the bottom. Grammis 
 flung himself half over the stern, and she stood up. 
 
 But more water came over. 
 
 " Above my knees/ 7 she whispered happily. 
 
 "But one of us can get home in this boat," said Gram- 
 mis. " Keep her head to the swell exactly this way ! " 
 
 He put his knife into the deck where the tiller rested. 
 
 She did not touch the thing. She did riot even 
 stoop to scorn the danger. 
 
 " Grammis," she smiled, " it was my fault." 
 
 " Then God bless you for it! " Grammis smiled 
 back at her. " Good-by. Stick to the boat ! " 
 
 " It was so great a thing it is so great a thing 7 
 
 " Stick to the boat ! 77 cried Grammis. 
 
 " And you ? 77 asked she. 
 
 " Swim," said he. " It is easy. Good-by ! 77 
 
 " Stop ! 77 It was a command, as he was going over, 
 which had to be obeyed; for something for which 
 Grammis s very soul had listened spoke in it. 
 
 " 1 7 m as good a swimmer as you. Grammis, nei 
 ther you nor I can swim those four miles. 77 
 
 And then there Grammis saw in that splendid 
 face what the ladies who knitted had thought im 
 possible. And perhaps Grammis s eyes replied he 
 had no voice. 
 
 For she answered him : 
 
 " Grammis, you and I will go back in this boat 
 together ! Or we will sink with it together ! That 
 is what I came for. That we might be together! 
 Grammis, I love you ! " 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL GRAVEYARD 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL 
 GRAVEYARD 
 
 THE MOGI ROAD 
 
 ON the night of the last day of the Feast of Lan 
 terns, Snowflake went down to the sea. It was 
 six miles. She wished to get there about an hour 
 before the tide would go out. It was a quiet bay 
 between boulders not much larger than the pond in 
 Fuda s garden a little to the north of Mogi toward 
 which she was going. And she chose to walk rather 
 than take a kuruma, because it was more joyous, and 
 she more alone, that way. She was dressed in her 
 most splendid apparel. Her most intimate garment 
 yumoji, it is called was of the softest silk ever woven. 
 Her jiban was a little more splendid. It had plum- 
 blossoms embroidered upon it. Finally, her furisode 
 was splendid enough for a princess. And all were 
 white and new; for all were wedding-garments. 
 Also, her face was exquisitely enameled with oshiroi, 
 and her lips were very red with beni. And her hair 
 had been newly dressed so that it looked like one of 
 those ivory carvings you have seen in the fashion of 
 
 109 
 
110 THE BEAUTIFUL GRAVEYARD 
 
 the hana-yome the flower- wife. In it were superb 
 kushi, nemaki, kanzashi quite as if she were rich. 
 In her left hand she carried a costly branch of shikimi 
 tree of purity, tree of the Blessed Dead. On her 
 right arm she carried a ship. It was woven of barley 
 straw, and was more perfect and beautiful than words 
 of mine can tell. The sails were of that same gossamer 
 silk of her yumoji, and had on them a splendid death- 
 name in scarlet. Its cargo was of fruits, flowers, food, 
 sake", a samisen everything in miniature which a 
 soul coming back to earth might wish. And tucked 
 away in the ship, where he for whom alone they were 
 meant might find them, were glowing love-messages, 
 that the voyager s journey back to the Meido away 
 from her might not be altogether sad. 
 
 The way was long and dark, for the moon just 
 showed herself, as if afraid, above the hills. But 
 Snowflake knew it well. Had she not traveled it seven 
 times thus laden ? So she went on, with her face ever 
 in one direction. Very joyously she walked, holding 
 her garments well out of the dust, that they might be 
 pure when she arrived. 
 
 First were the streets of the labyrinthine City of 
 Hills. Here and there was a dim andon, just aglow, 
 in an upper chamber. Once a strain of music with 
 some laughter. The whine of a dog a solitary 
 guardian was all she remembered until the city was 
 past. She did not like the city. Then the Mogi road. 
 That was better. There was more solitude. It was 
 uphill, past the bamboo grove, the shrine to Binzuru, 
 the little temple of Hoto-Gisu, to the yadoya of the 
 Celestial Summit. There was revelry at the tea-house. 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL GRAVEYARD 111 
 
 Shadows of dancing women and applauding men were 
 moving on the screens. At her approach the tea-girls 
 came hurrying forth with shrill calls of invitation. 
 Snowflake s face did not change, except to smile a little 
 more ecstatically. They knew her, and her errand ; 
 and each understood. So they put their hands rev 
 erently before their faces and retreated to the wistarias, 
 and were very silent until she was long past. 
 
 Thence the road was downhill to the sea. And the 
 moon might have shown Snowflake, even with her 
 grudging light, had she cared to see, things very beau 
 tiful. Below, at her back, was the sleeping, glimmer 
 ing city. Up on the clouds was the pink light of it. 
 Sloping upward, to the right and left, were terraced 
 mountains. Here and there was a shrine which the 
 moon picked out, or a temple gleaming red, or an 
 uplifted tori, or a pagoda man s punctuation of God s 
 page. And all the vast darkness was lit with the lan 
 terns to the Blessed Dead. Like myriads of glow 
 worms they were, transforming the mountain into 
 something inconceivably beautiful. She could have 
 seen where the poor lived, even such as she, for 
 there would be but one lantern, or two, no more. And 
 where the rich lived, for there were glowing bunches 
 and festoons of them, and here and there those of car- 
 ven stone which lined the entrances to estates. These 
 made splendid vistas in the blackness, and the whole 
 of it glowed tenderly to the skies. But her face was 
 turned toward the sea. She saw vaguely only what 
 was before her a canal-like road, hugely walled and 
 patched in the greens of rice and bamboo and barley. 
 Beyond, dimly, were seen the lights of Mogi. She 
 
112 THE BEAUTIFUL GRAVEYARD 
 
 shivered a little as she thought of Mogi. For there 
 once a sei-yo jin a west-ocean man had tempted 
 her, and Ishihari, with a whispered word, had saved 
 her. It was then and there that she had loved him. 
 And when the place of her tryst with him had to be 
 selected, she chose Mogi, that she might pass through 
 it to him in death as she had done in life. This was 
 her penance. And beyond all, a ghostly glimmer, 
 was the beloved sea. Presently she came to Mogi. 
 For the first time she paused a little as her penance 
 approached. Music and laughter were everywhere 
 laughter that jarred. The amado were not up, and 
 lights flashed and gleamed, and would until morning 
 put them out. But there were no lanterns to the 
 Blessed Dead. She remembered that Ishihari had 
 called it, on the day he had saved her, a place of har 
 lots. To-night penance was not joyous. To-night 
 she could not pass through Mogi to Ishihari without 
 a sense of contamination. She flitted as a shadow 
 around the village to the north, and thus came to the 
 houses of the fishermen she knew. These all of 
 them slept after their fishing. But there were lan 
 terns to the dead here. Their little hamlet always 
 slept when she saw it} but always the dead were 
 remembered. 
 
 II 
 
 THE BAY AMONG THE BOULDERS 
 
 AND so she came at last, quite without weariness, 
 to her little bay among the boulders, and, sinking 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL GRAVEYARD 113 
 
 softly to the earth, looked out at the mist upon the 
 sea. For this was her trysting-place with the soul 
 of her dead lover. Together they had chosen it 
 while yet he lived. And the gods had ratified their 
 choice. 
 
 Wistfully she looked, but not doubtfully. It was 
 out there, toward Takaboka, in the green mist, that 
 he was wont to come. This the gods who knew 
 them both had granted. The moon was on the top 
 of the emerald rock, pushing up from the sea, where 
 the Christians were killed so many long years ago 
 Takaboka. But on the one side, and all about where 
 the sea touched, it was dark, with only the ghostly 
 glimmer of a wave now and then. It was there, 
 on the side away from the moon, that the mist 
 always rose. 
 
 Every year she came here at the Feast of the Blessed 
 Dead, on the last day. Every year there was a new 
 and more splendid soul-ship to bear his soul home. 
 Every year her furisode and all her wedding-garments, 
 from the nemaki in her hair to the gaeta on her feet, 
 were new and pure. Every year she came there 
 immaculate as ice. Yet every year she was a little 
 more poor, a little less in love with life. What did she 
 do from year to year with her wedding-garments? 
 She burned them burned up all their splendor. The 
 ashes of each of the seven years which had passed 
 since he died were ranged in a little row in the pretty 
 garden of her house buried in bronze caskets, the 
 most beautiful she could buy. But they were also in 
 her Beautiful Graveyard, and that was in her heart. 
 If you had asked her neighbors about Snowflake, they 
 
114: THE BEAUTIFUL GRAVEYARD 
 
 would have pointed to their heads to tell you that she 
 was gently and honorably insane. But she was quite 
 sane. 
 
 Presently she rose and felt her garments. They 
 were not pure enough in which to receive her ambas 
 sador from heaven. Always it was thus at the last 
 always she fancied that the dust had soiled them and 
 her a little. It was the quiet bay. Not an eye could 
 see, unless the great lantern of the sea-light away 
 below might be an eye. One by one she took the 
 pretty garments off and removed the dust. Then she 
 put them up on a boulder, and the little ship and the 
 branch of shikimi upon the top of them, and shyly, 
 as the spirit bride she was, watching the darkness lest 
 it might spy upon her, slipped into the lapping water. 
 Slowly she sank into it, like some fairy of another age. 
 Then she came forth and poised upon the edge, listen 
 ing again. And, in the blackness, she was like the 
 sudden rebirth of the Dragon King s daughter, wait 
 ing again for the vanished Urashima him to whom 
 four hundred years of joy were but as one day with 
 out joy. 
 
 Then she fancied a noise, and flew to the shadow of 
 the boulder. Thence she emerged presently, clothed 
 again. 
 
 " Perhaps it was he ! " she whispered. " Am I late ? 
 A bride should not be late." 
 
 She bent and looked at the marks of the water on 
 a rock. 
 
 " No," she said ; " I am not late. The tide is still 
 rising." 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL GRAVEYARD 115 
 
 III 
 
 SNOWFLAKE 
 
 SHE lit a candle at the bow of the ship of straw, a 
 tiny bronze censer at the stern, and gently pushed it 
 into the water, mooring it to her own hand by a silken 
 cord. She watched it coquetting with the small waves 
 a moment, then set her face to the mist out on the sea. 
 Presently the smoke of the incense formed a halo 
 about her dainty head which the candle lighted vividly. 
 But all about was darkness. Slowly, as she looked, a 
 clairvoyant change came into her face. The eyes did 
 not close, but they saw nothing on earth. 
 
 "Come!" she whispered, "come! I am here I, 
 Snowflake. Harai-tamai kyome-tamae. I am very 
 clean, and to-night I am again your bride." 
 
 Thus she looked a long while, repeating the invoca 
 tion, whispering the invitation. And presently she 
 saw something out there. 
 
 " Ishihari," she whispered, " it is I, your Snowflake. 
 I am come with my soul full of beautiful thoughts to 
 speak to you. All the year have I thought them. 
 And now, come closer ! Oh, can you not come closer ? 
 Perhaps after a while. But that is strange. See, I 
 hold out my arms for you I, Snowflake. Will you 
 not enter? For to-night we are in the Beautiful 
 Graveyard once more, and there is newness there. 
 That is what we used to call it, even while you lived 
 in the other life on earth. And do you not remem 
 ber the first night you came into my heart and told 
 
116 THE BEAUTIFUL GRAVEYARD 
 
 me about yours ? You were dead then but a little while, 
 and I knew not but that you had already been reborn 
 into another life, a life away from mine. But you 
 came into my heart then, and told me about your 
 Beautiful Graveyard, and that you did not wish to be 
 reborn, that you might keep your tryst with me every 
 year. And afterward you came and went in my heart 
 at will. And that was sweeter than it had been in life. 
 For then you did not always come when I wished. 
 But now you are there always always. That, I think, 
 is your home, dear one is it not? And always you 
 bring joy. Oh, they ask me what it is that shines in 
 my face. And when I tell them it is you, they smile 
 and point to the forehead as if I were mad. But they 
 do not know they do not know. They have no Beau 
 tiful Graveyards they never heard of ours. 
 
 " You have told me everything which is buried in 
 your Beautiful Graveyard everything. It is vastly 
 larger than mine, because everything that was beauti 
 ful for you is dead everything but me. But in my 
 Graveyard every beautiful thing lives. And shall I 
 tell you again what I have in my Beautiful Graveyard ? 
 Yes? Then, first are you not dead, but with a face 
 like a god and a voice like some creature that speaks 
 sweetly in the night. You came there long ago, only 
 I knew it not. You came first as a little boy with a 
 round head and eyes which looked wonderingly out 
 into a world you were not meant for. No ! you with 
 your dreams and your sweetness were the gods before 
 you were born. And that is why you have not been 
 reborn : the gods wish you as you are. And there 
 with you is your mother, beautiful as the goddess of 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL GRAVEYARD 117 
 
 the sun never another was so beautiful as yours; 
 she smiles from her head to her feet. And you are 
 there when you got to be a man, as they told me. 
 With two swords, two souls, and a queue. But you 
 never were a man you were always a god. Perhaps 
 you were as that man they call Christ beyond the west 
 oceanon earth but for the sins of the world. That 
 was in your eyes that look of sadness. So, at least, 
 I have seen it pictured. And I am there now. I have 
 a little timorous smile for you. Alas! I am but a 
 shadow ; so little was I in your life then. But next I 
 have you there with my hands in yours and your eyes 
 in mine. And you are asking me a question I could not 
 answer with my lips, though my soul spoke to yours 
 even then. For have I not told you, and have you 
 not told me, how I went about the world seeking a 
 soul to match mine, and how I found it not till you 
 you came ? And then for the first time in all my life 
 I understood, and likewise you you understood. 
 Then I knew that you were meant to mate with me. 
 For thus it is in this strange world nothing lives 
 alone. 
 
 "For some there must be many souls even as 
 many as the Lord Shaka gives even nine. But for 
 me and for you there was but one. There never could 
 have been, there never can be, another. We knew the 
 moment and the place, as the two metals put side by 
 side will draw together with a power of the gods we 
 call magnetic. 
 
 "I could not go through the city of my penance 
 to-night. But that also is in the Beautiful Graveyard 
 
118 THE BEAUTIFUL GRAVEYAED 
 
 that moment when your whispered word saved my 
 soul, and when I gave it to you, who had long pos 
 sessed it, as your price, and you gave me yours. Then 
 I am there in those garments of white which you 
 know but you are not there. You are not there in 
 your wedding-robes. But there is the messenger of 
 your death and then no more. I wait and wait and 
 wait. And, O Ishihari, I shall always wait. For if 
 you can linger in the dark Meido, deny yourself hea 
 ven, Nirvana, death in life, absorption into the essence 
 of the Lord of Life, just that you may on the last day 
 of the Feast of the Blessed Dead keep your tryst 
 with me if you can do that, surely I can wait here on 
 the earth. But, O Ishihari, sometimes it is scarce 
 to be borne ! Sometimes I catch myself with my finger 
 on that spot in the neck where one can die painlessly. 
 Sometimes but then, O Ishihari, I think of my 
 Beautiful Graveyard and go there. Then do I not 
 wish to die. For you are there with all the joy of life 
 in your face you ! And is there anything better in 
 the heaven you now know ? Is there anything better 
 than the touch of your hands, the sound of your voice, 
 the look of your eyes ? And that is the last and best j 
 for I will not have you there dead. 
 
 "Do you remember how, in your Beautiful Grave 
 yard, you kept the most beautiful place for me oh, 
 the most beautiful of all? You said that because I 
 was snowflake fragile, because I was the most exqui 
 site and evanescent of them all, I should be over and 
 above them all. So have I kept mine for you, because 
 you were bravest most godlike. Oh, but I am 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL GRAVEYARD 119 
 
 there by your side a little widow un wedded, whose 
 hair lies even now upon your own dead knees, except 
 that which the wind blows at the shrine. I saw her 
 come there into my Beautiful Graveyard the little 
 widow, as if I were not she. Sad were her eyes, bowed 
 was her head, slow were her steps. But that is beau 
 tiful, too. Yes, widowhood is very beautiful widow 
 hood like mine. For are not you there ? And can she 
 not close her eyes and feel the grasp of your hands ? 
 Can she not open them and suddenly catch your smile ? 
 And even, when she listens patiently for long, long 
 whiles, may she not hear your voice? And that is 
 most beautiful of all to hear your voice like the 
 temple bells, to hear it speak my name again : * Snow- 
 flake ! Snowflake ! Snowflake ! For you would not 
 have the name my parents gave me, but had it Snow- 
 flake. Ah, do you not remember ? " 
 
 IV 
 
 THE LAST NIGHT OP THE FEAST OF THE BLESSED DEAD 
 
 SHE leaned slowly out over the sea. A sudden and 
 more excessive joy possessed her face. The flame of 
 the little candle flared up as if to light its rapture ; 
 the incense scented all the air anew. 
 
 " I hear it now I listen I hear it now ! Ani-San ! 
 Come into my arms ! Come ! I know that you are 
 out there where the green mist is. But why will you 
 not come ? Am I oh, all the gods ! am I no longer 
 pure enough for you who come back from heaven 
 
120 THE BEAUTIFUL GRAVEYARD 
 
 ah, perhaps from the long Nirvana to keep your tryst 
 with me on earth ? Oh, come into my arms and tell 
 me that my heart must not break that still you keep 
 your tryst, and ever will. I am as worthy of you as 
 I can be. I want to come. But at the last Feast of 
 the Dead, again you told me no, for fear of the vast 
 darkness of the Meido. So I have stayed on earth to 
 keep the tryst with you. And will you not oh, can 
 you not ? I am old, and you are young, for the dead 
 grow no older ; but my soul is all the same. And it 
 was with our souls that we loved, was it not ? True, 
 your eyes were like wells of love. True, your forehead 
 was as a tablet at a shrine. True, your head was 
 crowned as was the godlike soldier Yoshitsune s. I 
 have made a little poem for you. Listen ! 
 
 " love, how wondrous fair 
 Chill death hath wrought in thee ! 
 
 I touch thy cloudlike hair, 
 And in its shadows see 
 A mistlike glimmer, such 
 As, living, never met my happy touch. 
 
 " Come ! I wish to tell you what my Graveyard has 
 gained in the year I have waited. Do you know the 
 pine-tree where your soul comes when the wind is 
 high ? Well, it is there, and the samisen you taught 
 me how to play. The little cage in which once was a 
 bird now dead. Not the bird is there, because it is 
 dead. And another little casket of ashes. Come, let 
 my earthly arms feel you. Ah, you come ! I see you 
 among the mists ! " 
 
 She sank on the sand. The sea lapped upward and 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL GRAVEYARD 121 
 
 made wet her wedding-garments. The waves swept 
 caressingly about her feet. Her arms went out out 
 to their utmost. 
 
 " Oh, come ! I see your eyes shine now ; I hear 
 your step; I feel your breath, your hands. Come 
 come come ! " 
 
 She slowly closed her arms. Her head fell for 
 ward and rested as if upon something within them. 
 Thus she knelt, trance-like, speaking no more, very 
 long she knew not how long. Then the sun shot a 
 single warning javelin above the sea. 
 
 " Not yet," she whispered, " not yet. Yes, when the 
 sea shows pink yonder yes. But give me the utter 
 most moment. Ishihari, I have waited and toiled all 
 the year for this. I shall wait and toil another year 
 and another and another, and ever when the Feast of 
 the Dead comes again, again I will meet you j again 
 my garments will be new and clean and myself pure ; 
 again I will open my arms for you. And, O beloved, 
 again you will come within them will you not ? And 
 so it shall be till I meet you in the Meido. Oh, I shall 
 know you in all its vastness. For you will hold out 
 your hand for mine, will you not ? And you will lead 
 me, will you not ? You who know the way, you will 
 lead me who do not through all the darkness and ter 
 rors into heaven, then to Nirvana, then to the bosom 
 of the Lord of Life. I would die for the chance of 
 coming to you, but that you tell me nay; and that, 
 because you might not see, in the darkness you 
 might miss my hand. Ah, that is right very right. 
 And I shall live till I am old. For here I can be yours 
 and you can be mine on the last night of the Feast of 
 
122 THE BEAUTIFUL GRAVEYARD 
 
 the Blessed Dead. But there you might miss my 
 hand." 
 
 Suddenly she moaned and unwillingly opened her 
 arms. 
 
 "Oh, then farewell, my beloved, farewell! The 
 soul-ship is ready the tide goes out. And is it not 
 more beautiful than the last ? And so it shall be every 
 year more and more beautiful. 
 
 " Frail it is, and its sails are of mere gossamer. 
 But it will bear you back to heaven, and when three 
 hundred and sixty-four days are past it will bring you 
 to me again. Farewell ! oh, farewell, my beloved, 
 but to come again." 
 
 She let the silken cord glide through her fingers, 
 and the soul-ship moved out with the tide. The little 
 light glimmered and danced and coquetted with the 
 waters, returning and then dashing further away each 
 time, until she could see it no more. Only the smell 
 of the incense was left. 
 
 " Ani-San, beloved, are you still there?" 
 
 She strained into the grayness which was lighting 
 from beyond, and something answered her. 
 
 She smiled, looking straight out to sea, smiling still 
 in the face of the risen sun. 
 
LUCKY JIM 
 
LUCKY JIM 
 
 THE CHAIN-GANG 
 
 AS the chain-gang was shuffling past it was stopped 
 -^- by the whipping-boss. Some one was to be 
 flogged. The boss pointed with his "cat" to a spot 
 a little in advance of the line, and said briefly : 
 
 "Lucky Jim!" 
 
 The whole line started with surprise. Jim had 
 never been whipped. There had been no occasion 
 for it. He had never disobeyed an order in the twenty 
 years of his confinement. 
 
 Jim stepped to the spot indicated, and at a motion 
 of the boss s thumb the rest of the gang went on. 
 
 They stood quite silent Jim and the boss till the 
 clanking of the shackles had ceased. Then the 
 boss struck the lash of his whip into the dust at his 
 feet. 
 
 "Er Jim " 
 
 The convict raised his head. The eyes of the two 
 
 125 
 
126 LUCKY JIM 
 
 men met. It was not to be the " cat/ that was plain. 
 But what, then? Jim had grown almost incapable 
 of emotion; but this vague question came into his 
 remnant of a mind. What could it possibly be ? His 
 superior was extracting from his pocket a document. 
 Now, as he unfolded it ; Jim could see a gilt seal in 
 the corner. 
 
 " Er Jim yo pardoned." 
 
 Jim s heart gave a leap. But only because of the 
 mystery with which the boss had invested it all. For 
 he did not understand. The action of his heart made 
 him a trifle dizzy. It had given that breathless leap 
 quite often of late, and once or twice Jim had won 
 dered whether something were not out of order there. 
 He perceived, presently, that the whipping-boss was 
 tendering him the paper. He took it gingerly as 
 one does a thing capable of mischief. 
 
 " What s dat yo says, marster ? " 
 
 " Yo pardoned." 
 
 " Poddoned ? What s dat, marster ? " 
 
 For Jim had been born of slave parents, and had 
 never been to school. 
 
 " Don yo know ? " asked the boss, with a laugh. 
 
 Jim shook his head. The vocabulary of the mine 
 was limited. No one spoke except upon some sort of 
 compulsion. One was likely to suffer if one did it 
 unwisely. Indeed, they did not think much. The 
 places of their minds seemed to become vacant after a 
 while. At first this was hard, but finally it came to 
 be a condition of peace, and Jim had more time to be 
 bestialized than any of the rest. 
 
LUCKY JIM 127 
 
 They were all life convicts. But life was short here 
 to all but Jim j he had outlived all who were in the 
 mine when he came, and most of those who came 
 after he did. The mine had been his home for twenty 
 years and he was only twenty-nine. 
 
 " It means that yo kin go home," the whipping- 
 boss explained. 
 
 " Home home?" repeated Jim, vaguely. "I kin 
 go home, kin I ? " 
 
 " Yes," said the boss ; " git along, now." 
 
 The convict started giddily away. Only a step. 
 The shackles were still on his feet. With a laugh, 
 the boss unlocked them and kicked them off. 
 
 "Now," he repeated, "git along." 
 
 Jim did not stir. 
 
 "Well, why don yo git out?" 
 
 " I guess, marster, ef yo don min , I 11 stay a li P 
 longer jis till I fin out wher t is home, sah." 
 
 " No, yo won ," said his boss. " Yo 11 git out right 
 now. Anythin yo want tek long with yo ? " 
 
 This was a command, and Jim obeyed it. 
 
 " Yassir ef yo please, marster." 
 
 " Well, go an git it, an I 11 show yo the way out." 
 
 Jim went through a mile of the mine to a shelving 
 rock which had served for his bed many years. From 
 some hiding-place he drew a spoon. It was of silver 
 and had on it a crest. Jim never ate with this, but, 
 like the other convicts, ate with his fingers out of a 
 common dish. 
 
 But this spoon had been found upon him when he 
 was brought in, and he kept it as a luck-bringer. He 
 
128 LUCKY JIM 
 
 knew nothing now of its history, whatever he might 
 once have known concerning it. He had been sub 
 jected to a good deal of ridicule about the luck-bring 
 ing capacity of this spoon, but he clung to it, believ 
 ing that some day it would bring him some kind of 
 luck he did not know what. It was for this they 
 called him, in irony, " Lucky Jim." 
 
 The whipping-boss met him where they had parted, 
 and Jim followed him to the shaft. 
 
 As the cage dashed into the sudden light at the 
 top, the convict gave a cry and put his hands over his 
 eyes. He kept them there, for this first burst of the 
 marvelous light of day had blinded him. 
 
 His conductor led him to the door, and flinging his 
 arm outward at the world beyond, as if he might pos 
 sess it all, said : 
 
 " There yo free. That is the way to the station. 
 Three miles. Yo take the train there for the city. I 
 expect yo 11 find yo folks there. Now git along." 
 
 He pushed the negro into the road and closed the 
 door. Jim was quite inert. He had neither heard 
 nor heeded what was said. He was taking his first % 
 look, through his nearly blind eyes, at a world he had 
 utterly forgotten. 
 
 II 
 
 MASTER GOD 
 
 THERE was a patch of resinous wood just beyond, 
 the shade and color of which were grateful to his eyes. 
 
LUCKY JIM 129 
 
 The sun and the brazen heavens were very cruel to 
 them. Presently he could see that the fields also were 
 green, and, stooping down, he found that there were 
 flowers under his feet. He moved so that he would 
 not crush them, then softly caressed them. He dimly 
 renewed a vast love he had once had for flowers and 
 birds. In the mine no one had spoken or thought 
 of flowers. 
 
 During the rest of the day he wandered furtively 
 from one thing to another, touching those he could 
 not see well, but never getting very far away from 
 the shaft-house, careful always of the flowers. When 
 night fell he shuddered at the uninclosed vastness 
 above and about him. He tried to get into the shelter 
 of the shaft-house, but this was denied him. The 
 patch of resinous wood seemed the next best place, 
 and there he lay upon his back and breathlessly 
 watched the forgotten stars come out. And presently 
 he slept then suddenly woke to find the moon peer 
 ing upon him under the trees. 
 
 He had forgotten about the moon, too, and the 
 superstition of the mine made her a demon. He 
 leaped up. The planet appeared to lunge toward 
 him. He tried to move, but his heart was battling 
 madly against his ribs, and he slowly subsided, fight 
 ing, to the ground. Presently he could raise his 
 head a little, and, taking his arm from before his 
 eyes, he looked out. His enemy was still watchfully 
 there. 
 
 Suddenly he thought this must be the God of whom 
 some one who had come to the mine years ago had 
 tried to teach them. For the missionary s God had 
 
130 LUCKY JIM 
 
 been a God of terror. He rose to his knees and 
 stretched out his arms piteously. It was all he had 
 strength to do. 
 
 " Oh, Marster Gord, lem me go ! I am done not in . 
 I ain kill no one deed, Marster Gord, I am . Dey 
 put me in fo it, but, deed, Marster Gord, I ain done 
 it, an I don know who did. Why, Marster Gord, I 
 was jis a chil den jis a chil , Marster Gord ! Don 
 you member?" 
 
 But his prayers availed him nothing. The moon, 
 as she set, more and more redly, appeared to press 
 malevolently upon him. He began to back cautiously 
 away through the wood. Then, as his heart stopped 
 rioting, he turned and ran madly, looking back over 
 his shoulder. His enemy followed him. He ran on, 
 more and more feebly, until, with a plunge downward, 
 the moon disappeared. He stopped then. 
 
 Gradually he understood that there was nothing 
 more to be afraid of. The stars seemed more friendly, 
 and, at all events, they were very far away. But he 
 would not sleep again, though his eyes closed now 
 and then, and he could scarce drag his feet. 
 
 So he kept on along the damp, earthy-smelling 
 road, with more comfort as it grew darker. He liked 
 the darkness best, for he had always rested slept 
 in the mine when they put the lamps out. And he 
 was not so blind at night. The night had been his 
 day down there. Finally he took his arm away from 
 his eyes, and walked on right merrily. 
 
LUCKY JIM 131 
 
 III 
 
 THE SINISTER SUN 
 
 BUT again, suddenly, as lie crossed the sharp brow 
 of a hill, a something more sinister than the moon 
 barred his way. And his heart leaped up again aud 
 choked him so that he could not run. Besides, a 
 wagon coming the other way blocked the narrow road. 
 Jim squeezed himself against the bank at the side to 
 let the wagon go by. 
 
 " What s the matter ? " asked the wagoner. 
 
 " That," said Jim, pointing fearfully at the rising 
 sun. 
 
 " Oh ! " said the man, with a curious look at him, 
 and then a grin. " Where yo go n to 1 n 
 
 " The city," repeated Jim, remembering the whip 
 ping-boss s words. 
 
 " Git in," invited the teamster. 
 
 Jim did, after some hesitation. He was not much 
 acquainted with wheeled vehicles, and he did not quite 
 trust this one. But it was a choice of dangers, and 
 he thought, primitively, that the teamster would not 
 be likely to go into danger. 
 
 Then, as the marvel of daybreak developed, they 
 traveled over and among billows of awesome mist. 
 About him, as far as he could see, was a white, mys 
 terious, shut-in cloudland. Above were a few dim 
 stars. Had they left the earth? Was the teamster, 
 after all, an evil spirit ? If he should leave the wagon 
 would he fall down down to earth ? And what then ? 
 
132 LUCKY JIM 
 
 Terror possessed him again. He looked back. There 
 was a patch of earth discernible in the rear. To his 
 dim eyes it was very far away. But it was better to 
 try to reach this than to go on further into the clouds. 
 He leaped out, and lay shocked and stunned upon the 
 ground. The man laughed and drove on, shaking his 
 head puzzledly. He looked back presently and said : 
 " Crazy, I expect." 
 
 But Jim! Was he wrong about the clouds t As 
 he lay there he seemed to be the center of some vast- 
 ness with illimitable white vapors stretching away 
 everywhere. Was he above the sky ? But at last the 
 mists uplifted and rolled away like phalanges of be 
 lated ghosts, and the wet earth crept out as from 
 some guilty hiding. To Jim it was quite like the 
 morning of creation a new heavens and a new 
 earth until he saw the wagon winding about below 
 him. 
 
 He remembered that the man had said he was 
 going to the city, and he followed him. That was 
 where the boss had told him to go. But very slowly ; 
 for he was conscious of a pain at his heart now whicfl 
 cut his breath into gasps. But thus presently in 
 crossing another hill, he came upon the city. He 
 threw his arm up to his eyes in fresh dismay. The 
 sun was plating its roofs and spires with glittering 
 gold. Was this the city of which the missionary had 
 spoken ? Had it gates of pearl ? 
 
 Then this uplifting and scattering of the night, as 
 if it were slipping out of his fingers without his leave. 
 Who lit up the day ? And why did it come creeping, 
 instead of in one flash, as in the mine? He was not 
 
LUCKY JIM 133 
 
 glad for the day. It made his eyes hurt and his 
 blindness come again. 
 
 IV 
 
 THE CITY OF THE NIGHT 
 
 HE hid until night fell and he could see the city glow 
 upon the clouds. Then he went down into it. 
 
 All night he slunk in and out of the alleys, watch 
 ing for some one in the careless crowd who might be 
 responsible for it all. He looked for some one god 
 like and in flaming apparel one whom he should 
 know at once. Very tall, perhaps, and with the face 
 of a deity. But there appeared to be no one no more 
 than for the rising and setting of the sun. He lin 
 gered in the darkness of his alley until the busy 
 street grew quiet, then quieter, and when there was 
 not a soul in it he came forth. All the night he had 
 the city to himself, and, presently, walked it with an 
 air of possession quite as if it had been given over 
 to him by intention. 
 
 Yes, he liked the night best. And so as the day 
 again came forth and took the city he retreated from 
 it and found a lair under the broken arch of a bridge. 
 
 But night by night he would sally forth and possess 
 the city. 
 
 And one night he saw a whitewashed cabin wedged 
 in between two tall buildings, and stopped. All night 
 he stood opposite the cabin on the other side of the 
 street. Then he began to remember. 
 
 " Useter be er vine" 
 
134 LUCKY JIM 
 
 He could n t see whether there was a vine now or 
 not at that distance, so he crossed over. The vine 
 was there, clambering over a tumble -down porch. 
 
 " Useter be er bu d-nes in de vine," mused Jim, as 
 he approached and put his hand into the foliage. 
 
 With a shrill note a bird flew out. 
 
 " Yo fool niggah, whad yo doin ? " said a sharp old 
 voice behind Jim. "Lena my Jim s bu d alone or 
 I 11-" 
 
 Jim flew round and jerked off his decrepit hat. It 
 was an old negro woman with a pail and scrubbing- 
 brush. For a moment the two eyed each other, Jim 
 shifting his hat diffidently from one hand to the 
 other. The old woman prepared to scrub. 
 
 " Go long, niggah ; I s got wo k ter do I ain go n 
 fool no time wid yo . Go long, now an don yo fool 
 no mo with my Jim s bu d or yo 11 git in trouble wid 
 ; is mudder." 
 
 Jim did not move. Presently 
 
 " Don yo know me, mammy ? " 
 
 The negress looked up. Then she laughed. 
 
 "Don I know you? Well, Gord er-mighty! Yo 
 ; spect me ter know you ? Wha yo come f um ? Gord 
 er-mighty ! Don I know you ? Sich er spiciinen as 
 you ! " She laughed again. 
 
 Jim began to retreat. 
 
 "Well, who is yo , anyhow? Ain yo got no 
 tongue ? " 
 
 " I s Jim," said the convict. 
 
 "Which Jim?" 
 
 "Yo Jim." 
 
 The old woman looked at him an amazed instant, 
 
LUCKY JIM 135 
 
 and then clasped her knees and rolled over in an 
 ecstasy of mirth. 
 
 "Sich er spicimen as you! Mebbe yo my Jim s 
 gran daddy. I s oF myse f ; but you ! Gord er- 
 mighty! I Aspect yo mos er thousan y ars oF ain 
 yo , now ? Sich er spicimen ter call itse f my Jim ! n 
 
 She laughed again and turned to her work. 
 
 Jim had never thought of this. He put his hands 
 up to his scant white hair and turned away. 
 
 " Yassum yassum," he said humbly. 
 
 He was so forlorn that the old woman pitied him. 
 
 " Look-a yere, oF man ; who yo b long to ? Ain yo 
 got no folks?" 
 
 "No m," said Jim ; "no 7 m." 
 
 " Well, yo look right po ly, oP man. Yo oughter 
 have some one tek keer yo ." 
 
 Jim began to shuffle blindly away. 
 
 She was moved by his note of abjectness. 
 
 " Look-a yere," she called after him ; " yo gwine ter 
 come right in dish yere house an git some breakf us , 
 anyhow. Yo ain had nary breakfus fo er week, by 
 de looks ob yer. Dis is my Jim s day, an I don sen 
 no one away hongry on my Jim s day. I spec s him 
 home ter-day, ol man my Jim. Spect him ary 
 minute." 
 
 SUCH A SPECIMEN ! 
 
 SHE pushed him into the house, into a chair, where 
 he had an ambrosial breakfast, though it was only 
 
136 LUCKY JIM 
 
 ham and eggs ; then she pushed him to a bench and 
 bade him sleep, talking all the while about Jim. He 
 could not sleep for this. 
 
 " He gwine ter come now yassir ! In bout a hour ! 
 Aha, ha, ha ! How come yo think yo my Jim ? Out 
 yo head, I Aspect. An yo mos blin , po ol man ! 
 When Jim come yo like fo see my Jim?" 
 
 She brought a photograph of himself and held it 
 close before his eyes. 
 
 " Gre t boy, dat ! Jis twenty-nine ter-day. Always 
 Aspect im on is birthday. Cause I always as de 
 gub ner to poddon him so s e kin git yere on is birth 
 day. So I s always ready fo im on is I s axt 
 ebery gub ner we s had sence e went in to poddon im 
 on is birthday, an dey all dunno bout it tell dish 
 yere las one. But he he ax me er lot er questions, 
 an I guv im mo answers dan he ax f o . Den he say 
 he s er-gwine ter sen f o Jim s ricord an lem me know. 
 Well, he ain lem me know. But he s er-gwine ter 
 poddon him dis time sho s yo bo n fo Jim s ricord s 
 er-gwine ter save him. He ain done no h am my 
 Jim ain , an de gub ner gwine fin dat out soon s he 
 sen fo Jim s ricord." 
 
 Her guest asked a timorous question. He turned 
 his head away as he did it : 
 
 " Yo think yo gwine know him when yo see him ? " 
 
 The old woman turned upon him in specious wrath. 
 
 " Yo axin Jim s mudder ef she s er-gwine know her 
 own Jim ! Her li l baby ! Why, yo ol spicimen, I 
 got a min to put yo out dish yere house ! Jim s 
 mudder not know er Jim ! n 
 
 The convict cowered. 
 
LUCKY JIM 137 
 
 " Twenty y ars " he ventured. 
 
 " Gord er-mighty ! I don keer ef it s er thousan ! 
 I s er-gwine know him de minute my eyes light on him." 
 
 " Yassum," said the humble guest, with finality. 
 
 " I pray de good Gord tell he s jis bleeged ter sen 
 him back ter me." 
 
 " De good Gord ? n questioned the convict. 
 
 " Yas. Don yo know him ? Yo mus be er wicked 
 oP spicimen ef yo don know de good Gord." 
 
 Jim shook his head. 
 
 " Don 1 yo know him ? " 
 
 " No," said Jim ; " not de good Gord." 
 
 " Well, he knows you he does," said his mother. 
 
 Again Jim shook his head. 
 
 There was a noise at the door, and the old woman 
 ran outward. When she returned Jim was guiltily 
 replacing the warped little mirror. 
 
 "Thought I toP yo a lie erbout yo oP mug, hah ? 
 Yo jis wait tell yo ; see my Jim ! He s er man, 
 he is jis twenty-nine ter-day. No sich er spicimen" 
 
 Jim was slowly retreating. She hastened him a little. 
 
 " Yas, git erlong, oP man. I got ter git er dinner 
 fo my Jim git erlong. He ain come yit, but he s 
 er-gwine ter come sho s yo lib. I got ter feelin in 
 my breas ter-day dat he is. Git erlong." 
 
 VI 
 
 THE PAIN AT JIM S HEART 
 
 SHE pushed him out and closed the door. 
 And Jim went quite cheerfully. For it had dawned 
 
138 LUCKY JIM 
 
 upon his slow intellect that it was better thus that 
 she should wait die waiting than that she should 
 learn that such a specimen as he was her Jim. 
 
 Nevertheless his feet had been very light, and his 
 heart had stopped thumping as he had crossed the 
 street and put his hand into the nest that had always 
 been there. And now his feet dragged heavily, and 
 that constricting pain was again at his heart. 
 
 When he had reached an uninhabited space he knew 
 well, he looked furtively about, and, finding no one in 
 sight, sat down upon a stone where he was wont to rest. 
 He sought and found the paper with the gilt seal, and 
 looked at it long and painfully, turning it curiously 
 this way and that (he could not read). Then he began 
 to tear it, but stopped in awe, and finally placed it 
 beneath the stone. 
 
 Later in the day they found him in his lair, uncon 
 scious, with his hand gripping the place of his heart, 
 and terror on his face. They took him to the hospital. 
 
 Toward evening an old negro woman came stormily 
 up the stairs taking one step at a time and talking 
 to Jim as she came. 
 
 " Jim ! Yo fool niggah, I s f oun yo at las , has 1 1 
 Jim ! " It was the shrill treble which dams up tears. 
 " Fo why yo put yo 7 ol mudder to all dat trouble ? 
 Jim ! Yo Jim ! " Terror broke through here. " Fo 
 why yo don answer yo oF mudder ? Fo why yo di n 
 say yo my Jim? I foun de spoon yo dropped an 
 den I gits de gub ner s letter de spoon I got ob little 
 missy. Yo Jim ! Fo why yo don answer me ? " 
 Her voice broke with agony now. 
 
 "Jim Jim Jim! Speak ter me. Jis ter year 
 
LUCKY JIM 139 
 
 yo voice. I don keer, Jim, ef yo is ol ! I don keer 
 ef yo is wrinkle an gray an blin ! I don keer fo 
 not in cep jis at yo s my Jim." She was within a 
 few steps of the bed on which he lay. Her voice 
 softened wondrously as she came now gently, on 
 her toes. " Jim, I s er-gwine tek yo home and nuss 
 you. Oh, I kin do it, Jim. Yo knows dat, ef yo 
 members anything. An we s gwine to lib tergedder 
 all de res Oh, Jim, I wan ter lub yo oncet mo ! 
 Jim, I s waited fo yo waited seems lak my ol a ms 
 is hongry an thirsty fo yo . Jim, yere I is. Jim" 
 
 They had carelessly told her he was up there. As 
 she reached the top of the stairs she stood directly 
 over Jim s cot. 
 
 He was dead. 
 
THE OUTRAGEOUS MISS 
 DAWN-DREAM 
 
THE OUTRAGEOUS MISS 
 DAWN-DREAM 
 
 ABOUT AN INCH PAST SEVEN IN THE MORNING 
 
 1%/TISS DAWN-DREAM was embroidering I do not 
 -*--- know what, exactly. It would belong to a trous 
 seau presently when completed. Perhaps it was a 
 furisode. The shoji were closed for this was secret 
 work, and close at hand were other shoji. 
 
 Just outside was a mite of a cherry-tree, skilfully 
 gnarled to look like much more of a cherry-tree. It 
 had a thousand huge pink blossoms thick-studded on 
 its small branches. But a bird had found standing-room 
 among them. Now he trilled a note which made Miss 
 Dawn-Dream drop the furisode if that is what it was 
 and fly to the shoji. These she opened and bowed 
 to the bird. 
 
 "O august first robin," she whispered, "do you 
 announce the spring ? " 
 
 The bird looked curiously into her apartment. 
 
 Dawn-Dream thought of the furisode. 
 
 " You must not look at that, robin ! " 
 
 143 
 
144 THE OUTRAGEOUS MISS DAWN-DREAM 
 
 She smiled up at him. 
 
 " What can an excellent little bird know about 
 wedding-things ? n 
 
 But the bird looked very wise. 
 
 " Perhaps it is my honorable wedding you an 
 nounce ? " whispered the girl, laughing. 
 
 The bird nodded gravely. 
 
 " But I have something to do before ! " 
 
 The robin pecked at a blossom. He liked Dawn- 
 Dream. Everybody did. 
 
 " You will wait?" 
 
 The bird satisfied her that he would. 
 
 In Japan, you know, birds are people of more con 
 sequence than they are here. 
 
 It was not five feet aross the tiny garden to the other 
 shoji I have mentioned. One of these had also opened. 
 A face had appeared. Then a hand. In this was a 
 brush. The artist also bowed to the bird. Then he 
 saw Miss Dawn-Dream, and began to close his shoji 
 and to pretend that he had not. For he had looked 
 into his fianceVs holy of holies and this was exces 
 sively improper ! Men had been killed for this. 
 
 But Dawn-Dream smiled at him! He halted 
 questioned there was no one to see opened his shoji 
 a little! Dawn-Dream smiled more. Further, the 
 shoji! Until he stood brazenly revealed! Miss 
 Dawn-Dream made a little obeisance. The bird looked 
 unbelievingly from one to the other. 
 
 "It was spring," said the young artist, answering 
 her question to the bird. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Now she should have bowed deeply deeply, and 
 
THE OUTRAGEOUS MISS DAWN-DREAM 145 
 
 closed her shoji, slowly. This the bird expected. But 
 it did not happen. 
 
 " As long as I stand this way he cannot see within 
 the furisode," was her curious excuse to the bird , 
 in whispers so that he, and not the artist, might 
 hear. 
 
 But she did not think how pretty she might be 
 framed by the shoji, like a kakemono freshly unrolled 
 for the young artist until she looked at him again. 
 Then she asked of the things in his face : 
 
 "What, excellent Suishu?" 
 
 " I observe a celestial goddess ! n 
 
 Now certainly she would go ! 
 
 Instead she spoke back to the daring artist : 
 
 " They bloom to-day." 
 
 " Here 1 " He meant goddesses. 
 
 Dawn-Dream looked toward the tree. 
 
 "Here." 
 
 " Here the sun shines augustly always ! " 
 
 Dawn-Dream smiled ecstatically. 
 
 "Always!" 
 
 But the girl meant more than even he did. The 
 bird chirruped her a small note of warning. The artist 
 must have understood a little. He said : 
 
 " Because here is the goddess ! " 
 
 The girl chanted : 
 
 * In the spring 
 It often happens 
 Men to maidens 
 Speak dear things." 
 
 He begged her pardon. Was it possible ? He put 
 
 his hand to his ear. 
 10 
 
146 THE OUTRAGEOUS MISS DAWN-DREAM 
 She answered with another : 
 
 " In the spring 
 A maiden wonders 
 Why she has not 
 
 Nest and 
 
 They laughed together very timorously. I hope, 
 as you see how the ice is breaking, you do not forget 
 how daring all this was in Japan. The bird did not. 
 He was receiving a series of debilitating shocks. Why 
 could not people without feathers behave like people 
 with feathers precisely as they ought ? I hope you 
 do not forget how dull and proper the artist was yet 
 how fascinated j how subtle Miss Dawn-Dream was 
 yet how determined. 
 
 "To-day the cherries should bloom everywhere," 
 said the artist (whose name, it is time you should 
 know, was Mr. Eock-Crystal) ; " it is the day of the 
 garden-party of the Celestial Empress." 
 
 At the name of the Empress both kotowed, and 
 the bird, for the first time, approved their communion. 
 
 "They should bloom yes ! " said Dawn-Dream. 
 
 They bowed to each other and laughed. 
 
 Now this was a cunning saying. The cherries do 
 always bloom on the day of the garden-party of the 
 Empress. But if the cherries are not ready to bloom 
 on that day the party waits ! You do not go, notwith 
 standing your command, until a stentorian messenger 
 bangs at your shoji and informs you that the imperial 
 blossoms condescend to receive the imperial court ! 
 
 " And that day/ sighed the girl, " everybody does 
 daring things ! " 
 
THE OUTRAGEOUS MISS DAWN-DREAM 147 
 
 The dull artist wondered a moment. 
 
 He had apprehended her so instantly that perhaps 
 she would think I am mistaken about his dullness. 
 But wait ! 
 
 " Do you, divine one, wish to do a daring thing ? " 
 
 "Yes!" 
 
 She flung it at him in a way to appal the bird. 
 
 But just then came a mighty rattling of the artist s 
 other shoji. And Miss Dawn-Dream could not help 
 hearing even if she had wished to help it, which I do 
 not believe Mr. Rock-Cry stal being bidden to the 
 Imperial Gardens ! 
 
 Now, again, Dawn-Dream should have closed her 
 shoji and pretended that she had heard nothing and 
 that Rock-Crystal would not return to the shoji he had 
 left open to indicate that he would. But all Dawn- 
 Dream did was to rush back and put the furisode out 
 of sight, and then return and stand just as if she had 
 not moved putting out her tongue a little at the scan 
 dalized bird. 
 
 Rock-Crystal looked guilty. 
 
 " You ! n reproached the girl, " who do not wish to 
 do anything honorably outrageous ! You ! " 
 
 The artist displayed his card nearly a yard square 
 by way of saying that it was a command ! 
 
 "I am honorably obliged to go." 
 
 "I forgot that you were a samurai with swords 
 and a queue and I only a" 
 
 " Goddess ! " smiled her lover. 
 
 "No!" 
 
 Miss Dawn-Dream stamped her foot. 
 
 He repeated his sacrilege. 
 
148 THE OUTRAGEOUS MISS DAWN-DREAM 
 
 " A goddess ! And I have not power to make you" 
 
 " What ? " asked the artist, breathlessly. 
 
 " Take me ! " 
 
 After the shock the artist said : 
 
 " You shall go ! " 
 
 Ifl> 
 
 "If I die for it!" 
 
 " Oh ! " 
 
 Dawn-Dream held up a finger and looked f earsomely 
 backward lest her aunt or Kanzashi-San might 
 have heard. Or was it only a cunning pretense of 
 danger? Peril makes brave men braver. And the 
 young samurai was scowling as all his ancestors did 
 in their armed portraits. 
 
 " You dare not ! n whispered Miss Dawn-Dream, 
 hugely, across the tiny garden. 
 
 " I dare ! " 
 
 Back in a more huge whisper : 
 
 "You-dare?" 
 
 One should have seen Dawn-Dream s eyes then ! 
 
 "Bah!" 
 
 The brave young artist crossed the tiny garden as% 
 if each pebble were an explosive. 
 
 The robin stared and followed him with one out 
 raged eye while he tried to keep the girl in the other. 
 
 " Ssh ! ssh ! ssh ! ssh ! " at each step, like a stage 
 villain. 
 
 Dawn-Dream closed her shoji so that only her nose 
 and one eye could be seen. 
 
 " Listen ! " Rock-Crystal had to come very close. 
 It was treason he was compassing. The furisode was 
 out of sight if that is what it was. But the lovely 
 
THE OUTRAGEOUS MISS DAWN-DREAM 149 
 
 flower-perfume of the room and of the girl too! 
 breathed out through the shoji upon him. "I will 
 change my name to yours. See" He had brought a 
 brush dipped in red. He showed her on the palm 
 of his hand how it could be done by the transposition 
 of a Chinese character. The young artist was very 
 wise in Chinese. 
 
 " And you ? " asked the disappointed girl. 
 
 "Me? I shall paint." 
 
 "The command is for one?" 
 
 " Always for but one." 
 
 " Pardon me ; I do not wish to go like an excellent 
 thief in a graveyard," said the girl, with sudden haugh 
 tiness. 
 
 The artist felt hurt. 
 
 " I am a goddess ! " 
 
 Now the girl laughed. 
 
 " I do not understand." 
 
 This was true. The young artist was very wise in 
 Chinese, but very dull about women precisely as I 
 have told you. He began to retreat backward- 
 dropping the color from his brush like splashes of 
 blood. Then he had a thought. 
 
 " You did not mean you me t " 
 
 The girl nodded saucily. 
 
 It was unbelievable. But he was brave when once 
 lie understood about women. 
 
 " I will take you to-night ! To Mukojima ! " 
 
 Dawn-Dream was interested. 
 
 " Nothing is so augustly divine as the cherries by the 
 light of the vast moon. It is for goddesses ! " 
 
 " And my aunt and Kanzashi-San also ? " 
 
150 THE OUTRAGEOUS MISS DAWN-DREAM 
 
 " Certainly ! Your aunt and Miss Hair-Pin ! " 
 
 " They are not goddesses?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 Such, a dull artist about women when he did not 
 understand ! 
 
 " Pardon me, very excellent Suishu I do not, either, 
 care for the cherries by moonlight with Miss Aunt 
 and Miss Hair-Pin." 
 
 Now did he understand ? 
 
 No ! Such a very dull artist ! 
 
 " Good morning, excellent Suishu." 
 
 She began to close the shoji. 
 
 The bird chirped his satisfaction. 
 
 " I am thinking ! " 
 
 Suishu put up his hand to prevent the closing of the 
 screen. It continued on its way remorselessly. 
 
 " You would not go without them ? You me f " 
 
 Through the last half -inch spoke Mr. Rock-Crystal. 
 
 The shoji opened a little. Miss Dawn-Dream s head 
 nodded. 
 
 " Shaka ! No one has ever" 
 
 The shoji closed. Through the last inch or two 
 again spoke Suishu : 
 
 "Yes!" 
 
 His one word made the shoji open to its full. Oki- 
 Yume dropped to her knees so that their faces were 
 quite on the same plane. She looked backward, then 
 beckoned him a little closer. She had to whisper very 
 softly. The bird peered with shocked eyes under the 
 branch at them. 
 
 " Goo-Goo-San-" 
 
 The artist tried to stop her. The American girl and 
 
THE OUTRAGEOUS MISS DAWN-DREAM 151 
 
 the fearful things she had done, and left undone, 
 according to his code ! 
 
 " I will not stop ! There ! You have given me 
 leave now ! I shall speak anything ! There is no 
 one to hear. There will be no one to see at Muko- 
 jima ! You are shocked ? I shall make eyes at you 
 then ! There ! She taught me ! I can make eyes ! " 
 
 She showed him that she could. 
 
 " She said that she would not be excellently married 
 until she had done something outrageous. She wanted 
 to put her feet on a table and smoke. I do not." 
 
 "What is the outrageous thing you wish to do?" 
 asked the frightened Suishu. 
 
 "Love!" 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
 " This and this and this ! " 
 
 Certain wild movements with her arms, and, at the 
 last, something queer with her lips. 
 
 The artist only stared vastly fascinated, but dull 
 as ever. 
 
 " Oh, no one knows how sweet it is till he tries ! I 
 will show you at Mukojima. Just as she showed me. 
 It is terrible but dear. She is not to be married for 
 many years though she is older than I am. I 
 promised her that I would do the outrageous thing 
 before. So that we would have something to be proud 
 of when we were old to confess, conceal, and smile 
 over, to tell in whispers to women. She has many 
 days for outrageous things I only a few. Suishu ? " 
 
 The young samurai shook his head savagely as if 
 that were the end of it. But it was not. He was 
 certainly not wise concerning women. 
 
152 THE OUTRAGEOUS MISS DAWN-DREAM 
 
 " Then I will not marry you ! She says no husband 
 in America loves his wife like that after he is married. 
 And I mil be loved like that if for only one day 
 before I am married ! Yes ! Else I will not marry 
 you ever! When they come to take me to your 
 house they shall find me in my furisode" yes and the 
 flowers in my hair yes and the veil upon me yes 
 the paint on my cheeks and lips the embroidered 
 
 The expectant bridegroom had never heard anything 
 so desperate. He was sufficiently shocked for her to 
 go on very witchingly now: 
 
 " If you would change the name in red yes I could 
 go toMukojima ! And you might be there ! Or 
 on the way ! There is no law against that ! You 
 alone I. Only the coolies. Well? We might meet \" 
 
 And all the dull artist said was : 
 
 " Also, we might not ! " 
 
 How many things he did not know about women ! 
 
 " We might not," laughed the girl. 
 
 She would take care of that. 
 
 " Your august aunt will think you at the Imperial 
 Gardens ! " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " But you will not be there ! " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " It will be an honorable untruth ! n 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 She said it with the utmost joy. 
 
 " It shall not occur ! " 
 
 " You wish me to be married without having done 
 one honorable outrageous thing? You wish me to 
 
THE OUTRAGEOUS MISS DAWN-DREAM 153 
 
 break my word to Goo-Goo-San ? You wish me to 
 have been as I have always been quite proper? 
 With nothing to conceal confess ? Nothing to be 
 proud of in secret ? Nothing to tell in whispers when 
 I have blackened my teeth to women? Very well! 
 I have always been quite proper. So I shall die 
 unwed. Good morning ! " 
 
 She closed the shoji in the artist s face with shock 
 ing suddenness. 
 
 The bird nodded approvingly. 
 
 The shoji opened a little. 
 
 "What did you say?" asked Dawn-Dream. 
 
 The bird looked vexed. 
 
 Almost the dull artist had blurted out : " Nothing ! " 
 
 But some of the eight hundred thousand demons 
 helped him. He looked at his queer little clock, which 
 ran forward twelve hours, then backward twelve, and 
 said: 
 
 " It is now, divine one, about an inch past seven in 
 the august morning. At eight a messenger will sum 
 mon you to the Imperial Gardens alone. As for 
 me "he seemed to face some calamity coolly " at one 
 in the afternoon I shall be on my way to Mukojima by 
 the road which follows the river rather that than 
 have you honorably dead ! " 
 
 "Yes," beamed the girl. "Rather outrageous and 
 alive a little outrageous than proper very proper 
 and honorably dead ! " 
 
 But the artist hesitated. 
 
 " Say so ! " commanded Dawn-Dream. 
 
 Rock- Crystal obeyed. 
 
154 THE OUTRAGEOUS MISS DAWN-DREAM 
 
 The girl bowed solemnly and closed her shoji. He 
 bowed more solemnly and closed his. 
 
 The bird looked for ten minutes from one to the 
 other, then gave way to despair. 
 
 As Miss Dawn-Dream made her toilet she said to 
 her mirror : 
 
 " He did ! I made him ! Always I shall make him. 
 Thank you, Goo-Goo-San ! " 
 
 But was it Goo-Goo-San she had to thank ? 
 
 Later, as she and Miss Hair-Pin, her maid, leaned 
 upon the porcelain screen and talked gravely, so that 
 one could hardly have fancied her the Dawn-Dream 
 of a few minutes before, some one pounded upon the 
 shoji and summoned her to the Imperial Gardens. 
 
 " You ! " said the maid. 
 
 " Me ? n pouted her mistress. 
 
 "And you must go alone ! " 
 
 " Alone ! " answered Dawn-Dream, heroically. 
 
 II 
 
 AT ONE IN THE AFTERNOON 
 
 So at one in the afternoon a rikisha containing a 
 girl was racing up the river road, trying desperately 
 to keep ahead of another containing a man and not 
 succeeding. 
 
 Did the four girls among the irises themselves like 
 
THE OUTRAGEOUS MISS DAWN-DREAM 155 
 
 irises understand ? Two of them were dull and only 
 wondered. But the two with arms entwined under 
 a pink umbrella they smiled ! 
 
 And as they entered the cherry grove the two 
 racing rikishas a little procession of maidens was 
 leaving it each all alone ! Did they know that Dawn- 
 Dream was not alone? And that she was doing 
 something outrageous ? 
 
 One of them looked back saw nodded. Such is 
 joy ! For I do not know how they managed it they 
 arrived side by side the racing rikishas. And the 
 girl from the one rikisha leaped flying, laughing, 
 chattering into the unwilling arms of the man from 
 the other to the vast scandal of the multitude, who 
 turned their backs and laughed. Such is joy ! 
 
 And there was no aunt to see, now, nor any Miss 
 Hair-Pin to chaperon, and the coolies were to wait at 
 the entrance ! Think of it ! But they were to be 
 married in a month and the furisode* was nearly 
 ready. Still, I am glad the bird was not there. 
 
 To his unwilling arms Dawn-Dream said : 
 
 " But you will like it better and better." 
 
 Well he did. The next of her allures was taken 
 more easily. 
 
 " Do not be discouraged," laughed beautiful Dawn- 
 Dream. 
 
 He laughed with her. Think of it ! And said that 
 he would not be ! His vanquishment was complete in 
 an hour ! 
 
 " Do you like the American way ? " 
 
 "Yes with Japanese constraint." 
 
 Pray fancy the constraint ! 
 
156 THE OUTRAGEOUS MISS DAWN-DREAM 
 
 The first poem they found hanging from the branches 
 was for him so she swore. You know how she 
 swore by the myriad gods by the peace of Shaka ! 
 
 My love has hair 
 Which shades his brow 
 Like leaves 
 Like leaves at midnight 
 When the moon is out 
 And very fair." 
 
 The next as it should be was for her. So he 
 swore you know how. 
 
 " I Ve a maiden 
 With a laugh- 
 Low sweet sure ! 
 Oh! 
 
 " I ve a maiden 
 With a hand- 
 Like this these 
 Oh!" 
 
 The illustration of " this," " these," was one cherry 
 blossom then two. 
 
 " You ! " laughed the artist, fondly. 
 
 "Then there is another?" 
 
 " Yes ! This these ! " 
 
 Not the dull artist now ! He put his lips to each 
 one! 
 
 Dawn-Dream stood off and stared. 
 
 " You are outrageous yourself ! " 
 
THE OUTRAGEOUS MISS DAWN-DREAM 157 
 
 He laughed. She looked at the hands he held. 
 
 There are two." 
 
 "Two! Yes! A thousand all the hands of the 
 world in these ! " 
 
 The girl held her breath in ecstasy. 
 
 " Oh, oh, oh ! You ! A great samurai ! You ! 
 Head of a clan ! You, too, will have something to con 
 ceal! To tell with whispering! To be proud of 
 among men ! Never among women ! Promise ! " 
 
 He laughed her his promise. 
 
 " Oh, how you learn ! At first it was so hard ! " 
 
 She looked witchingly up at him. He looked long 
 ingly down at her. Some clairvoyant temptation came 
 to both of them. 
 
 u In the spring 
 It often happens 
 Men to maidens 
 Say dear things" 
 
 Both looked whimsically about. They were not 
 alone. Both sighed. A woman passed. He reached 
 out for the scroll at his hand. 
 
 " Cherry-blooms are very pink- 
 Yet not so pink as you are. 
 April- wind is melody 
 Yet never such as you are." 
 
 Yume*-San replied with another : 
 
 " My lover is a huge, huge bear! 
 He has a coat of wire 
 Claws ! 
 He embraces me as a bear! 
 
158 THE OUTRAGEOUS MISS DAWN-DREAM 
 
 I cry out! 
 
 He lias a woman s heart- 
 He lets me go ! 
 Ugh! 
 My lover is a huge, huge bear ! " 
 
 They laughed together. 
 
 " You ! " said Miss Dawn-Dream. 
 
 "A bear?" 
 
 " So huge?" 
 
 " So huge." 
 
 "The fur of wire?" 
 
 " Of wire." 
 
 "Claws?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Embracing" 
 
 At that moment they were quite alone. It was a pink- 
 fleeced grotto. She came upon him her head droop 
 ing. He retreated perhaps an inch fighting for 
 some decorum within. 
 
 " In a month we will be married ! " 
 
 She pouted it in whispers. 
 
 The thing within was vanquished. 
 
 His arms opened closed. A policeman poked his 
 head into the grotto. 
 
 " Pardon me," he said hastily. 
 
 " You did not cry out," he whispered joyously, " so" 
 
 " You are a bear ! " 
 
 " You did not cry out, and so you do not cry out 
 now ! " 
 
THE OUTRAGEOUS MISS DAWN-DREAM 159 
 
 "You have not a woman s heart ! " 
 She tore herself from him and ran away laughing 
 back. 
 
 It was quite late in the afternoon no longer in the 
 pink grotto when Miss Dawn-Dream said : 
 
 " Now I know that you adore me." 
 
 " Of course ! " 
 
 But that was too easy. 
 
 " Ask me how I know, please." 
 
 He did so. 
 
 "You gave up the garden-party for this." 
 
 " Oh ! " 
 
 " For me ! " 
 
 As if that would make him regret it ! 
 
 " I got more than I gave ! " 
 
 "No one ever before gave up the garden-party 
 for a woman ! " 
 
 "No?" 
 
 " For anything but death ! " 
 
 " Oh ! " 
 
 " And you are not afraid ? " 
 
 "Of what!" 
 
 " The American things ? " 
 
 He answered her in a fashion better than words 
 since time immemorial. 
 
 " Nor to marry me since I have been outrageous ? " 
 
 The same sort of answer. Then he asked : 
 
 " Are you ready ? " 
 
 " To go ? No. I shall stay here forever ! " 
 
 " To marry me." 
 
 She knew perfectly that he had meant that. 
 
160 THE OUTRAGEOUS MISS DAWN-DREAM 
 
 " Are you ? " 
 
 " My presents rust." 
 
 " In a month." 
 
 "And not to-morrow?" 
 
 Then she thought longingly of the unfinished furi- 
 sode if that is what it was but for which she might 
 have answered yes, but for which she had to repeat : 
 
 " In a month." 
 
 And then they went home Miss Dawn-Dream follow 
 ing, so that the coolies, who saw nothing in the morn 
 ing, might see nothing now. But these coolies could 
 not understand why they had to follow the slow coach 
 before them when they had been urged to speed while 
 it was behind them. For they were wise about jin- 
 rikishas, but not women. 
 
 The sun was setting. On the right a man plowed 
 in his rice-field. The mud had splashed the belly of his 
 ox a pale green. He turned and grinned. The rikisha 
 in front stopped. The other one stopped. 
 
 " Good night," called the man in front to the happy 
 plowman. 
 
 "Good night," returned the man with his smiling 
 eyes on the girl. 
 
 " It is joy," said she, smiling to the farmer. 
 
 Further, a man and his wife were going home from 
 the field. He had on a rain-coat. She carried a tea 
 pot. Again the rikisha in front stopped. Again the 
 one behind. 
 
 " It does not rain ? n 
 
 " It may." 
 
THE OUTRAGEOUS MISS DAWN-DREAM 161 
 
 The wife with the teapot smiled upon her muddy 
 lord. It was a brilliant reply. 
 
 They exchanged good nights with smiles. But the 
 girl in the rear, who was silent, got more. 
 
 " It is joy ! " she said again. " Oh, the world is full 
 of joy ! " 
 
 The rikisha in front turned into the Kiobashi-Dori. 
 The girl in the one behind risked the dislocation of 
 her neck watching it out of sight. Then, when there 
 was no one to outrun, she made her coolies run ! 
 
 Her Miss Aunt commended the glow in Miss Dawn- 
 Dream s cheeks. 
 
 " Was it not exquisite ? " she asked. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Always it is." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " If one did not have to go alone ! " 
 
 Then Miss Dawn-Dream woke up and laughed. 
 
 " What do you augustly dream of ? " 
 
 "A month." 
 
 Such a reply! Her aunt stared. 
 
 " It is such a very long time a month." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " A day is shorter." 
 
 Again her aunt stared. 
 
 " The garden-party ? " 
 
 Again Miss Dawn-Dream remembered and laughed. 
 
 " It was exquisite it was I " 
 
 Well-it was. 
 11 
 
THE LITTLE HOUSE IN THE LITTLE 
 
 STREET WHERE THE SUN 
 
 NEVER CAME 
 
THE LITTLE HOUSE IN THE LITTLE 
 
 STREET WHERE THE SUN 
 
 NEVER CAME 
 
 DEARLY BELOVED : My text this morning is the 
 commandment, " Thou shalt not steal. " 
 
 In the illumination of this theme I shall follow the 
 custom you have so considerately permitted me, of 
 choosing my own best means. I choose this morning 
 to tell you a story. It is not the first time I have 
 done this, and I offer no apology for doing it now. 
 It is the way of the Scriptures, and of the Great 
 Teacher. 
 
 But this is not a parable : it is an experience. I 
 could not invent a parable so well calculated to teach 
 the baleful consequences of evil even though re 
 pented of, even though expiated. My story is of a 
 convict in the county prison. He has long been 
 preaching to you through me. He is a better preacher 
 than I, and has saved more souls. Yet his story is 
 not a pleasant one. 
 
 Did you ever stop to think that there are some 
 things which even God cannot change ? 
 
 He is only a number to the keepers of the prison. 
 His age is twenty-three. His hair is gray, and he 
 stoops ; yet his face is, to me, very beautiful. It is 
 
 165 
 
166 THE LITTLE HOUSE IN THE LITTLE STREET 
 
 pale with the pallor of the prison, but his eyes are 
 very blue in the midst of it, and his mouth is fine and 
 boyish. There are little curls of beard on his face 
 which remind me sometimes of the portraits of John 
 the Baptist. 
 
 A few years ago he was a loafer on Alaska Street, 
 a singer of songs in its saloons. Some of you don t 
 even know where that is. He was a thief. His father 
 was a thief before him. And both were proud of it. 
 It was their heredity, as yours is something else. 
 Remember, it was Alaska Street. At ten he had a 
 title the "baby cracksman." At fourteen he was in 
 the rogues gallery at City Hall another and greater 
 distinction. And yet he had a mother. And she was 
 gentle for Alaska Street. Some one had converted 
 her, and she had tried to convert her husband and son. 
 They laughed at her in good enough nature and 
 remained away from her a little more. 
 
 One day they brought Con that is his name up 
 from the prison to see his mother die. It was only a 
 few minutes they let him remain, but in that little 
 time two things happened : Con discovered that he 
 loved his mother, and I learned to know him. I had 
 heard of him, and was surprised at the laughing, boy 
 ish innocence of his face. 
 
 "Con," said his mother, "I think I m going to 
 heaven." 
 
 " Yes," said Con, who had no doubt of it. 
 
 "And I 11-1 11-" She wanted to fix something 
 in his mind that would lead him to goodness. 
 
 " And I 11 wait for you at the gate." 
 
 It was the refrain of a Sunday-school song. 
 
WHERE THE SUN NEVER CAME 167 
 
 " Did did don t," gasped Con, in terror. He had 
 never dreamed of going to heaven. " It s no use." 
 
 "Promise that you will meet me at the gate!" 
 pleaded the mother. 
 
 Con s eyes appealed to me. 
 
 " Promise ! " I said. 
 
 "You would never break your promise to me," 
 said the mother, putting her hand on Con s. 
 
 " I promise," said Con. 
 
 Con pointed out to me that his mother s face after 
 death was joyous. 
 
 " Because of your promise," I said. 
 
 " Do you think so ? " asked Con, with awe and terror 
 together in his own face. 
 
 "Yes," I said. 
 
 " Then then I 11 have to do it," the boy answered. 
 For a moment his mind flew back and forth over his 
 life, trying to understand what it meant. Then he 
 said with a gasp : 
 
 "Do you think I kin?" 
 
 " I think you can," I said. " I will help you." 
 
 " Give me your hand on it." 
 
 It is not an easy road from the slums to the church 
 from the company of thieves to that of Christians. 
 None of us has ever traveled one so difficult. And 
 then, Con had the misfortune to come first at those 
 terrible passages of denunciation in which the Scrip 
 tures abound. One night I found him prone upon the 
 floor, trying to read by the light of a small candle. 
 
 " What are you doing ? " I asked. 
 
 " Trying to find the way, sir," Con answered. 
 
 " And how do you succeed ? " 
 
163 THE LITTLE HOUSE IN THE LITTLE STREET 
 
 " Can t find it ; there is none for me. Listen : < The 
 wicked shall be turned into hell. * 
 
 I took the book. " Though your sins be as scarlet, 
 they shall be as white as snow/ " I read. 
 
 " Why, where did you find that f " asked Con. 
 
 I showed him. 
 
 " Any more like it 1 " 
 
 I showed him other passages of that kind. 
 
 But then I thought it best to let him search the 
 Scriptures himself. And he did. When I came again 
 he had found the story of the atonement. 
 
 "I understand now," Con said, "and it s all 
 right." 
 
 I finally secured him employment in the stables of 
 the City Traction Company. It was the meanest and 
 lowest thing they had to do. But Con was glad to get 
 it. He said he liked the work in the stable. And 
 when I asked him why, he answered : 
 
 " Somebody was born in a stable." 
 
 By slow stages he worked upward until he became 
 a conductor. Often I rode with him. Often I 
 watched him. He was handling the money which had % 
 tempted him down there in Alaska Street. One day I 
 noticed that he rung up certain fares which did not 
 appear to have been paid. I took him to the back 
 platform and demanded an explanation. 
 
 " It takes a long time to git a character," sighed Con. 
 
 I pressed my inquiry. 
 
 "How many people in the car?" he asked. 
 
 " Twenty-two," I counted. 
 
 " How many on the dial ? " 
 
 " Twenty-two," I said again. 
 
WHERE THE SUN NEVER CAME 169 
 
 He pulled the receipts out of his pocket. " Should 
 be a dollar ten," he said as we counted. 
 
 " A dollar fifteen," he laughed j " a mistake in favor 
 of the company." 
 
 Still I was not satisfied. 
 
 " Then, Con," I said, " it looks as if some one paid 
 and got off and you did not ring up." 
 
 Then Con became serious. 
 
 " I am a little careless about my own money some 
 times, but not about that of the company. Some 
 times" he hesitated, but I made him go on "some 
 times, when some poor washerwoman gits on, I pay 
 her fare. My mother was a washerwoman. And the 
 little poor kids sometimes I pay the fares for the 
 little poor kids the kind that look as if they did n t 
 git enough to eat." 
 
 But a strange thing happened from this. Con s car 
 came to be patronized by washerwomen and poor 
 children almost exclusively, and well-dressed people 
 avoided it and complained to the company. And the 
 receipts fell to almost nothing. We did not think at 
 the time of the danger of this. Indeed, to Con it was 
 a very joyous fact. The people he liked best and who 
 liked him best were his passengers. 
 
 Suddenly Con was transferred from the day to the 
 night line. It was at about the time that I began 
 my service at the Midnight Mission in Spruce Street. 
 I therefore used to ride home with Con several nights 
 a week. On my first night Con stopped at a large 
 printing-house on Market Street and waited. It was 
 his first up trip a quarter past twelve. I asked him 
 what he was waiting for. 
 
170 THE LITTLE HOUSE IN THE LITTLE STREET 
 
 " You 11 see in a minute," he laughed. 
 
 Presently a girl came hurrying from the printing- 
 house and into the car. 
 
 After this had happened a number of times I asked 
 Con if he knew the girl. 
 
 " No," he said ; " but I like to be kind to her. They 
 took my washerwomen and kids from me, and I Ve 
 got to be kind to some one." 
 
 " Con," I asked, " have you ever been in love ? " 
 
 Con laughed and shook his head. 
 
 " Would n t know it if I saw it," he said. 
 
 However, the waiting continued, and presently Con 
 took courage to say, when she approached : 
 
 " Going up?" 
 
 Perhaps the girl suspected that it was only a clumsy 
 device for conversation, for at first she would only 
 smile. 
 
 But one night she answered him with a soft " Yes." 
 She seemed ashamed to have been betrayed by his use 
 less question at last, but after that she always gave 
 him a " Yes " for his " Going up ! " 
 
 For a long time that was all. But then, on a cold 
 night, Con got down and helped her on. He remarked 
 as he did so : 
 
 Cold ! " 
 
 "Yes it is cold," answered the surprised girl. 
 
 On another night Con said: "You walk like you 
 was tired to-night." 
 
 " Yes," confessed the girl, with a flush j " I am tired. 
 Don t you never git tired ? " 
 
 " Y yes," said Con, confused by so much gracious- 
 ness j " bib bib but never on this trip ! " 
 
WHERE THE SUN NEVER CAME 171 
 
 Then he fled to me on the platform. 
 
 The girl s eyes followed Con out in some wonder of 
 him ; then we could see her pull her thin wrap about 
 her and gently fall asleep. And somehow, as she slept, 
 the hollows in her cheeks disappeared and they became 
 rosy. I was surprised at her wan and pathetic beauty. 
 Con saw as much of this as I did perhaps more. 
 
 " She s handsome," said he. 
 
 " She s beautiful," said I. 
 
 " But that cough" said Con. " Do you think she d 
 mind if I sneaked in and put my overcoat on her ? " 
 
 " It would keep her warm," I said. 
 
 He did it, and came happily back to me. 
 
 "Don t catch cold yourself," I admonished. "Go 
 inside." 
 
 Con caught my arm as I was about to precede him. 
 
 " You 11 wake her," he said. 
 
 We saw an added glow come into the tired face, 
 and unconsciously she pulled the coat closer. 
 
 Con was in ecstasy. He told the motorman to go 
 carefully at the curves and over switches. 
 
 As we approached the little street where she lived 
 he stole in and recovered his overcoat. Then he 
 retreated to the platform and called officially the name 
 of the street. 
 
 " I I must a 7 slep ," smiled the girl, as she came 
 forth. "I feel rested and warm." 
 
 " Mind the car," whispered Con j " I m going up the 
 little street with her." 
 
 The girl was inclined to be rebellious, but Con drew 
 her arm within his own and carried her off like a 
 conqueror. 
 
172 THE LITTLE HOUSE IN THE LITTLE STREET 
 
 One night, when we three were again alone, Con left 
 me, as he mysteriously said, to go inside to tend to 
 his lamps. I did not see how they could be brought 
 to greater brightness. But on his way out he sat down 
 for a moment beside the girl, and I understood what 
 " tending to the lamps " meant. 
 
 " You re not very strong," began Con. 
 
 " No," confessed the girl. 
 
 " You ought n t to work so hard anyhow, at night." 
 
 " I got to," sighed the girl. 
 
 " Why you got to?" 
 
 The girl looked up in mild surprise. Con was 
 noting the bones at her thin wrists. He repeated his 
 question doggedly. 
 
 " Mother s a cripple," said the girl. 
 
 " Don t your father earn nothing ? " 
 
 Shame flew into the girl s thin face. Her head 
 drooped. She was silent. 
 
 " Say what does your father" 
 
 Con s voice rose angrily, and the girl gasped. He 
 repeated his question. 
 
 "I never had no father," she said then. 
 
 Con s face grew white. I saw his hands grip each 
 other. The girl s head went a little lower. Con rose 
 to his feet. 
 
 "Say," he said hoarsely, "I I like you." 
 
 The girl slowly shook her head. 
 
 " I like you ! " repeated Con. 
 
 The girl made no motion, and he came to me on the 
 platform. 
 
 " Say, you ast me once if I was ever in love j well, 
 I m in love now, I expect. Ain t it love when you d 
 die for for her?" 
 
WHERE THE SUN NEVER CAME 173 
 
 He pointed into the car. 
 
 " Yes, Con, that is love," I said ; " and I ; m glad of it." 
 
 That night he took her up the little street again. 
 And she did not object to it. 
 
 One night Mary (that was her name) did not appear 
 at a quarter after twelve. It was in the early spring. 
 We waited five minutes. Then I insisted that Con 
 should go on. 
 
 " You will be reported for such unusual delay," I 
 said. 
 
 He was immovable. 
 
 At last I volunteered to go in and see what was the 
 matter. She had not been there that day. 
 
 "Will you do me a favor?" Con asked. "Come 
 along to the little house and see whether she s she s 
 sick." 
 
 I hurt Con by refusing to go that night, but 
 promised to go on the third night following if she did 
 not appear. I kept away from him in the meantime. 
 When I got on his car he was in a state of great excite 
 ment. He had not seen the girl. 
 
 We went to the little house. 
 
 A small, lame woman opened the door to us. She 
 stared a moment with the tired eyes of the watcher, 
 and then said : 
 
 "Good evening." 
 
 There was something deprecatingly pretty about her. 
 
 Con spoke up avidly : " I jist got off duty ma am 
 a little while I m on the night line now and I 
 missed her, ma am, I missed her and I d like to 
 know if she s if there 7 s anything the matter I 
 because I missed her." 
 
 " Mary ? " asked the little woman, warily. 
 
174 THE LITTLE HOUSE IN THE LITTLE STREET 
 
 
 " Yes yessum Mary." 
 
 " She is sick." 
 
 Con swayed unsteadily upon the door-step. The 
 little watcher began cautiously to close the door. 
 
 "Wait, wait jist a minute," begged Con, holding 
 the door open. " This is Mr. Burton. He s a minis 
 ter. And I ; m on. She J s told you about us, I 
 expect ? " 
 
 The little woman said, " No." 
 
 " Ain t she told you about me f " 
 
 Another negative. 
 
 I interposed with an explanation for Con, and the 
 request that he be permitted to see her 
 
 " I am very sorry," said the mother, " but she must 
 not see anybody. That is the doctor s orders." 
 
 " But, ma am, I must see her must ! " cried Con "I 
 kin make her well I kin I " 
 
 Con was growing vociferous in his grief. He did 
 not seem likely to gain admittance that way. 
 
 " Madam," I said, " I think it will do your daughter 
 good to see Con. I am sure it will do her no harm. 
 Kindly ask her if she will see us. If she will not, w% 
 will go away at once." 
 
 Con grasped that hope. 
 
 "Yes," he whispered; "ast her jist ast her!" 
 
 Of course she would see us ! I heard her explain 
 ing in the next room that she did not think either of 
 us cared. And then while we waited I heard them 
 make her pretty for us. And I fancied the little 
 pink changes in the delicate face I had learned to 
 know. And when presently the mother returned with 
 lightened feet, I prayed that love might enter to her 
 
WHERE THE SUN NEVER CAME 175 
 
 daughter as he had once entered to her and that he 
 might not depart so quickly. 
 
 Mary held out her wasted hands to Con, and he took 
 them greedily, gasping: 
 
 "Mary oh, Mary I missed you sol " 
 
 And it had been only three days ! 
 
 With a woman s intuition she understood it all, and 
 pulled him down and kissed him. 
 
 Con was taken by surprise and bolted. 
 
 " Why, I thought once you said you liked me and 
 then you missed me and you came here I thought " 
 
 She thought no more. For "Con swooped upon her 
 and kissed her eyes and hair and mouth. 
 
 " Con," confessed the girl, hoarsely, " I wished you d 
 miss me. Wishing makes things happen, you know." 
 
 " I missed you without that," said Con. 
 
 "That makes me glad," breathed the girl, "but" 
 
 She stopped and compassionately stroked his face. 
 
 " When 11 you be ready to go up with us again ? " 
 asked Con. 
 
 " Poor Con ! " She put her arms about his neck 
 longingly. 
 
 Con understood. He staggered chokingly up. The 
 parcel he had carried all the way uncovered. 
 
 " Look here ! " 
 
 He shouted it in the high treble of agony as he 
 thrust them upon her two dozen costly roses. 
 
 The sick girl gave a moan of pleasure as she buried 
 her face in them. " Oh, Con ! " was all she could say. 
 And as she plunged her face again and again into them, 
 taking their fragrance with rapturous breaths, that 
 was all she could repeat : " Oh, Con ! " 
 
176 THE LITTLE HOUSE IN THE LITTLE STREET 
 
 But the choking had passed from Con, and he was 
 a man again. 
 
 " Con," said the girl, presently, " I d rather have 
 these than anything you could bring me. Mine all 
 died, you know." 
 
 Con whimsically pretended to want them back. 
 
 " There was something else I wanted to give you. 
 But if you d rather have those than anything " 
 
 "Something else? But what? Why, these must 
 have cost" 
 
 She paused, appalled. 
 
 " A month s wages," laughed Con. " But the other 
 thing did n t cost or at least ain t worth a cent and 
 you don t want it ! " 
 
 "What is it, Con?" asked the wondering girl. 
 " Let me have it. Yes, I want it." 
 
 " It s myself." 
 
 For a moment the girl only stared. Then she rose 
 on her elbow in the bed. 
 
 "But, Con-" 
 
 Con half put an arm about her. 
 
 " I 11 be spending my money all the time for f ool-% 
 ishness if you don t let me use it to take keer of your 
 ma and you." 
 
 " But, Con" said Mary, again, with that fierce light 
 of unbelieving joy in her eyes. 
 
 " Oh, I could do it," Con went on misunderstand- 
 ingly. " We would n t be to say rich. But you M be 
 comfortable and I d be happy mighty happy." 
 
 Mary crept upon his arm. 
 
 " Con, Con, do you mean that you want to marry 
 me?" 
 
WHERE THE SUN NEVER CAME 177 
 
 " Yes ; I m in love with you. Ain t I in love with 
 her ? " he asked me. 
 
 " But oh, Con, 1 m dying ! " 
 
 Con conquered the choking and enveloped her with 
 his arms. " No," he said strongly and calmly. " God 
 won t take you from me. He never gave me much, 
 and he 11 give me you. Won t he, Mr. Burton ? " 
 
 " I believe he will, Con," I said. 
 
 " I believe it, too, Con," said the girl. " Somehow 
 I feel it inside." 
 
 I married them that night. 
 
 Mary was always fragile. But with the Sundays in 
 the park, sufficient food and clothing, rest, content, 
 she seemed to be getting better all the time. But, I 
 think, she was only happier. They planned hungrily 
 for their happiness, as if otherwise some moment of it 
 might be overlooked and lost. But the most curious 
 of their plans were for its ending. 
 
 " I want to die first, Con," said Mary. " I would n t 
 want to live without you." 
 
 "Well, how about me living without you?" Con 
 would object. 
 
 "Oh, you re bigger n me, Con," his wife would 
 laugh. " Anyway, I 11 be ugly when I git old. Then 
 you d stop liking me." 
 
 " You d feel kind of strange up there without no 
 parents or friends. I 11 go first and stand at the gate 
 with my mother and watch for you," urged her hus 
 band. 
 
 " I d know your mother, Con, from you ; and I 11 
 look out for her. Then we could wait for you! 
 
 Would n t that be nice ? " She leaned over and whis- 
 12 
 
178 THE LITTLE HOUSE IN THE LITTLE STREET 
 
 pered so that I might not hear. " Con, if we have 
 when we have the baby, I 11 leave you that for com 
 fort, Con!" 
 
 Con gathered her into his arms with rapture. 
 
 " All nonsense," he chided. " We both goin to be 
 old old old ! Then God s going to let us go 
 together. That often happens to very old people. 
 Sh ! I m a-goin to sing you to sleep ! " 
 
 And then his marvelous voice would rise in 
 
 Jesus, lover of my soul, 
 Let me to thy bosom fly ! 
 
 For it was that nearly always. 
 
 Then I missed Con from his car, and at the com 
 pany s office they told me he was in prison for stealing. 
 I went to the prison. 
 
 " Con," I said, " I want only your word. Tell me 
 whether you have done anything wrong?" 
 
 " Will you take my word 1 " asked the boy. " They 
 would n t." 
 
 " I want nothing but your word," I said. 
 
 " I have done nothing wrong since my mother died. 
 
 I believed him. I do still. 
 
 " Tell Mary," he begged, " that I am innocent. They 
 can t convict an innocent man. I will soon be home 
 tell her that ! " 
 
 " She does not need to be told that you are inno 
 cent," I said ; " but I will go and comfort her." 
 
 But I did not tell her that Con would soon be home. 
 
 And again there was that light in the upper window 
 of the little house in the little street where the sun 
 
WHEEE THE SUN NEVER CAME 179 
 
 never came. Again there was watching there now 
 for him who was to come no more. 
 
 You will scarcely understand how grim and brief 
 and passionless was his trial. It seemed impossible 
 that the judges should not know that the tragedy of 
 this young life was going on before them to a hopeless 
 end nay, that the tragedy of those other lives in the 
 little sunless house was going on to a hopeless end. 
 
 Hell itself is not more grim and implacable than the 
 thing we have created and called law than the men 
 we have set over us and called judges ! Sometimes 
 we even call them justices who do injustice. Oh, 
 better indeed that a thousand guilty escape than that 
 one suffer innocently ! For with him humanity the 
 world suffers, and justice, which is of God alone, 
 becomes a lie ! Ah, perhaps it is true that laws 
 are made for the poor and law for the rich. For Con 
 there was not even an advocate. Alas! we both 
 thought that innocence needed none ! 
 
 " Con," I said, " be not afraid. He careth for you." 
 
 The boy lifted up from his travail a face almost 
 glorified. 
 
 "I am not," he answered with a wan smile. "I 
 have my mother s Book in my breast here." 
 
 And, indeed, it did not seem as if he need to be 
 afraid. There stood an array of his washerwomen 
 all his friends. There were the children he loved and 
 who loved him. 
 
 But the former were made to tell that they paid no 
 fares, and the latter that the good conductor gave them 
 money out of the pocket where the much money was. 
 
 The jury laughed here, and the trial might have 
 
180 THE LITTLE HOUSE IN THE LITTLE STREET 
 
 ended. But the children were cajoled into telling 
 with their little raptures about the lovely lady who 
 lived up the alley. 
 
 " Of course," smiled the district attorney to the jury ; 
 "always a confederate." 
 
 " Used to work, did n t she ? And gave up her work 
 after she met the conductor ? " 
 
 Yes, the little children said, and told, besides, about 
 her beautiful clothes afterward. 
 
 Again the jury and the prosecutor exchanged smiles. 
 
 Then came the informers who had traveled with my 
 poor Con and noted all his acts of kindness but to 
 make of them crimes. Oh, I did not know till then 
 that kindness and mercy and sweetness could be so 
 perilous ! 
 
 And even I who tried to help him was made to tell 
 of that life in Alaska Street, but not permitted to tell 
 of the other. 
 
 I said that Con was married to Mary. It made them 
 laugh I do not know why. To be married to her 
 seemed all the worse for him. I said that Con paid the 
 fares of the washerwomen and children unknown to^ 
 them. 
 
 " Did you ever see him do it ? " asked the prosecutor. 
 
 I had to say that I never had, but that Con told 
 me so and I believed him. 
 
 " You, a minister of the gospel, believed an often- 
 convicted thief, whose picture is in the rogues 
 gallery?" 
 
 " Yes," I answered ; " I, knowing all that better than 
 you, yet believe every word he said ! " 
 
 "Why?" smiled the officer of the law. 
 
WHERE THE SUN NEVER CAME 181 
 
 " Because he is a servant of the Most High God/ 7 1 
 answered. 
 
 And they laughed ! 
 
 Then came Con s story in his own behalf. And 
 what a broken, pitiable, discreditable story it was! 
 Every little fact about that other life he told with 
 fearful truth. But about his new life they made him 
 stand mute. 
 
 The jury found him guilty without leaving their 
 seats, and the court sentenced him and turned with 
 relief to other business. 
 
 So Con was taken back to the prison he had said, 
 with God s help, he would enter no more. The kind 
 warden remembered that, and when he came he put 
 his arm caressingly over the boy s shoulder and said : 
 
 " They ought to have given you a chance, Con." 
 
 To me the warden said : 
 
 " There is something different in his face this time. 
 We learn to read faces here. There is something dif 
 ferent in his face." 
 
 "And in his heart," said I. "We learn to read 
 hearts, and there is something different in his heart. 
 Be kind to the boy, and God will be kind to you. For 
 he ought not to have come here this time." 
 
 As the iron door clanged to behind him Con said : 
 
 "Tell Mary I ? m I m disappointed." 
 
 Those two words characterized the grim tragedy of 
 his young life. His quivering face spoke the rest. 
 Always it will speak to me when I am impatient with 
 wrong. 
 
 Con languished in that prison where before he had 
 grown fat. He made shoes, and they tefi me they 
 
182 THE LITTLE HOUSE IN THE LITTLE STREET 
 
 were good shoes as was everything else he did good. 
 But after a while a strange and solemn peace came and 
 dwelt in his face ; and not a soul in the prison but 
 loved the boy. At first I did not understand it. But 
 one day Con told me. He knew now, he said, why God 
 had let that jury convict him. There was a work for 
 him to do in the prison. And I was only too glad to 
 say yes yes yes ! 
 
 He began his work with that marvelous voice. And 
 that, too, like his changed face, grew richly and 
 divinely sweet and caressing. It seems to me that I 
 have never heard its equal. It was something more 
 than human. I cannot describe it. It sang of that 
 past of the slums of his vain redemption, of the little 
 sunless house, and yet of hope, of promise, of God 
 and heaven ! 
 
 First he sang one night when the prison slept. The 
 warden tiptoed to his door to say that it was against 
 the rules. But he also said he was sorry and the 
 rule was broken. For the warden told the in 
 spectors that when Con sang the prison needed no 
 guards. So every night he sang when the lights were^ 
 taken away. And this was all the gentleness some of 
 the prisoners had ever known. 
 
 Later they brought him out to stand on the high 
 bridge between the tiers of cells and sing at the Sun 
 day services. 
 
 It was not strange to me that Con came to minister 
 to them, after a while, in a fashion the chaplain could 
 not. For he was one of them. He had sinned and 
 suffered as they had. He understood, they said. And 
 they loved him. Truly he bore their griefs and carried 
 
WHERE THE SUN NEVER CAME 183 
 
 their sorrows, even to the grim scaffold which stood 
 now and then in the lower corridor, veiled from the 
 world. 
 
 Last Monday Mary sent for me. She was dying. 
 
 " And Con, even if he were here, could not save me 
 now" she smiled up at me. 
 
 I sent a mounted officer galloping with a note to 
 the kind warden, and the officer brought Con up with 
 him. 
 
 Mary heard the noise at the door, and understood. 
 She reached out and pressed my hand. 
 
 "Yes," I said; "it is Con." 
 
 "Yes God bless you" 
 
 And then Con entered. But not the impetuous Con 
 who had come at such a crisis before. There was 
 something of the saint in his bearing, yet something 
 infinitely more like a lover than before. He put him 
 self within Mary s outstretched arms and looked long 
 and silently into her face. She looked into his. They 
 needed nothing more. They had not met for nearly 
 a year. 
 
 " Con," whispered Mary, " last night I dreamed that 
 you stopped for me and said in the old, old way: 
 Going up ? " 
 
 " Yes," whispered Con. 
 
 " Do you remember ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You can t save me now, Con not even your love 
 can." 
 
 "No," said Con. 
 
 " And I m so glad ! that I am going first, you know. 
 < Going up ? Oh, how happy we were ! It is enough 
 
184 THE LITTLE HOUSE IN THE LITTLE STREET 
 
 to be happy most a year, don t you think? Poor 
 Con ! You won t be here when I go up ; they 11 take 
 you back back " 
 
 " To the prison." 
 
 She would not say it, but Con did. 
 
 " Poor Con ! Poor old Con ! Darling I I have 
 been so happy! I m not afraid, Con dear, for 
 you won t be long. I can see it by your dear 
 face. How strange and beautiful it has become! 
 I always thought you beautiful, but now what is it, 
 Con?" 
 
 "God s love," said Con. 
 
 " God s love ! " she whispered to herself. " I 11 wait 
 for you with the baby and both the mothers by 
 the gate, Con right by the gate. Don t pass us by. 
 Con darling, kiss me yes, that-a-way. We 11 never 
 git tired of waiting. But don t be long. It can t be 
 quite heaven without you. Con, there are no jails up 
 there. Nor any wrong or mistakes God is there! 
 and he understands ! Kiss me again and again 
 and again darling ! Con your head is white your 
 face shines. Con good-by good-by till we meet* 
 by the gate" 
 
 For the officer had come to take Con back to the 
 prison. 
 
 And then yesterday they brought Con up again to 
 the little house in the little street where you know 
 there was no sunshine, to stand for the last time by the 
 side of his wife and baby. He stooped within the 
 coffin to whisper something, as if they could hear. 
 Tli en he kissed the roses on the coffin-lid and knelt 
 there gazing into the face of his wife while I read 
 
WHERE THE SUN NEVER CAME 185 
 
 those compassionate Scriptures for the living whose 
 loved have died : 
 
 " Man that is born of a woman 
 Is of few days, and full of trouble. 
 He cometh forth like a flower, and is cut down : 
 He fleeth also as a shadow, and continueth not. 
 Man is like to vanity : 
 
 His days are as a shadow that passeth away. 
 His days are as grass ; 
 As a flower of the field, so he perisheth. 
 For the wind passeth over it, and it is gone ; 
 And the place thereof shall know it no more. 
 He hath not dealt with us after our sins, 
 Nor rewarded us according to our iniquities. 
 For he knoweth our frame ; 
 He remembereth that we are dust." 
 
 Some trembling voice began to sing : 
 
 Jesus, lover of my soul, 
 Let me to thy bosom fly ! 
 
 The old song ! 
 
 The hearse drove noisily to the door. They took up 
 the coffin. With a mighty sob Con snatched a rose. 
 They stopped pityingly that he might look once more, 
 that he might kiss the black cabinet which held her 
 dust who had given him all the brief happiness he 
 had known, and then they went their separate ways : 
 Con to the prison Mary and her babe to the grave. 
 
 Dearly beloved, receive the benediction: May the 
 grace of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ ~be upon you, 
 and abide with you, now and evermore. Amen. 
 
THE ATONEMENT 
 
THE ATONEMENT 
 
 "AFTER TAKING" 
 
 WHEN, finally, he woke from the trance of ill 
 ness, he fancied that the strange girl at his 
 bedside knew all about it, and took up the affair with 
 the specious gaiety which is pitiful in that it never 
 deceives. It did not deceive her. She knew at once 
 that he had been deeply hurt. She admitted promptly 
 that she knew. But it was not with his lightness. 
 There was a look out of a pair of marvelous young 
 eyes straight into his own which shamed him. He 
 tried to be aJittle less oblique about it. But it was 
 embarrassing. What attitude, he asked himself, 
 whimsically, is a rejected suitor to take ? Especially 
 when circumstances have made both the fact that he 
 has been rejected, and that it has hurt, public 1 
 
 Later the girl with the great gray eyes placed in 
 his hands a little volume of clippings relating to the 
 affair of the rescue. They were carefully gummed 
 between illuminated borders. The front cover fanci 
 fully illustrated the fire, and the back was gay with a 
 
 189 
 
190 THE ATONEMENT 
 
 bunch of poppies. Facing the clippings there was a 
 newspaper portrait of him, washed in with water- 
 colors. It was so evidently the work of some one 
 who had not yet been entirely rescued from things 
 childish that he expected her to smile when she handed 
 it to him. But she did not. When he looked up there 
 was the same straight look from the eyes with a 
 little questioning in them now. Suddenly it occurred 
 to him that she had done it. Then, after another look 
 upward, he was sure she had. He meant to go on 
 with her as if he understood that. He pointed to the 
 apocryphal portrait and said smilingly : 
 
 " As I ought to be, I suppose, not as I am." 
 
 Now, as he looked up, the gray eyes were veiled by 
 their lids. 
 
 " No," she said, " not as you are. But they told me 
 it was quite like you before. And I was glad of that j 
 I preferred to have it as you were before." 
 
 " Thanks," said the sick man ; " so should I." 
 
 His tones were as full of irony as a sick man s 
 may be. 
 
 " Are you angry ? " asked the girl. ^ 
 
 She looked quickly up, and he caught the alarm in 
 her voice felt its little vibrations. She perceived this, 
 and the red shot from her throat to her forehead. 
 
 " Who was so good as to tell you that ? " he asked. 
 
 " Miss Hilliard," answered the girl. 
 
 " Her opinion is of the greatest value." 
 
 The girl did not understand that this was mere 
 bitterness. 
 
 " Yes," she said quite simply. 
 
 The man smiled. 
 
THE ATONEMENT 191 
 
 " Here is the < Before Taking. Now will you not 
 give me the l After Taking ? " 
 
 She did not understand. He tapped the volume on 
 the bed. 
 
 "Why do I not look like that now?" 
 
 She examined him a moment. 
 
 "I do not know exactly. But there is a great 
 scar across your forehead. There are a number of 
 smaller ones. And your hair has not yet grown. But 
 there is something else. I think it is something spir 
 itual. It is as if you had learned afterward to mock 
 at things. It is difficult to explain how that shows in 
 a face or a portrait. But I see it. The scars will not 
 make much difference. When they are healed you 
 will look quite like my portrait if it were not for 
 that. And " she waited an appreciable instant 
 before she concluded, and then she did so haltingly 
 "and I hope that will pass away." 
 
 He could not see her eyes then, and her voice had 
 sunk almost to a whisper. And he was surprised to 
 find something queer rising in his throat. With a 
 boyish impulse he reached out and caught her hand. 
 It was a very pretty hand he could feel that much. 
 But she shyly withdrew it. 
 
 "You are a serious little person and a shy one," 
 he laughed ruefully. 
 
 He saw at once that he had struck a false 
 note. She turned her back and walked to the win 
 dow. He pursued her with his mood of half -bitter 
 ness again : 
 
 " You have n t told me a thing. Yet I know that 
 you have been very good to me." 
 
192 THE ATONEMENT 
 
 "How do you know that?" she asked, with her 
 slender back still toward him. 
 
 " I should otherwise be dead." 
 
 She faced him quickly. Something between anger 
 and reproach dyed her face. But then it resumed its 
 paleness, and she turned back to the window. 
 
 " But I am going to reward you" the man went on. 
 
 " I do not wish to be rewarded," she broke in as he 
 paused. 
 
 " By getting well very quickly and going away," he 
 finished. 
 
 The girl said nothing ; but presently he could see 
 her put her handkerchief surreptitiously to her eyes. 
 
 "I am a brute," he said savagely. "Pardon me. 
 And will you not come here ? " 
 
 She did not turn. 
 
 " I am going to leave you alone for a little while, if 
 you don t mind." 
 
 " Yes. But first tell me who you are." 
 
 "I would rather not just now," begged the girl. 
 
 He hesitated a moment surprised again to find the 
 troublesome lump in his throat. Then, when he spoke, 
 his voice betrayed him. 
 
 " All right. I do not deserve it." 
 
 She instantly turned and came toward the bed. He 
 could see the moisture still in her eyes. 
 
 " I am Helen Vernon," she said. 
 
 " Miss Hilliard s cousin ! " 
 
 " Yes," said the girl. 
 
 " I see," said the sick man, turning away. 
 
 " She did not send me," the girl defended. " I came 
 myself. You needed some one who who cared." 
 
THE ATONEMENT 193 
 
 Though she faltered she said it bravely. 
 
 " And you cared ? " 
 
 The girl hesitated. Then she said quietly : 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "But why?" 
 
 Again she hesitated ; and her distress was more 
 evident. 
 
 "I don t know." 
 
 "She suggested it in atonement?" 
 
 "It was against her wishes." 
 
 " But it was in atonement 1 " 
 
 " I must leave you now," she said busily. 
 
 " Don t be cruel j be frank." 
 
 He caught her hand as she endeavored to pass. 
 
 "That would be cruel very," she said, looking at 
 him straightly. 
 
 He suddenly and spiritlessly let her hand go. It 
 dropped nervelessly at her side. She lingered now, 
 in a state of some embarrassment. 
 
 " You do not understand," the girl ventured. 
 
 He looked up with a half-smile. 
 
 " It was not as you think. You were cruel to her. 
 It was for pity of her I came." 
 
 "Me! Cruel! To her!" 
 
 II 
 
 HOW HEROES ARE MADE IN THE NEWSPAPERS 
 
 His amazement brought him upright in the bed. 
 " You would not permit her to come near you." 
 
 13 
 
194 THE ATONEMENT 
 
 " Di-did she try ? " gasped the sick man. 
 
 "Yes very hard," breathed the girl. "It was 
 pitiful ! She was so sorry and she wished to oh, 
 do you not understand ? " 
 
 " No," said the sick man, hoarsely, relapsing upon 
 the pillows. " I was I must have been delirious." 
 
 " Yes," said the girl, quietly, " or you could not 
 have been so cruel. You cursed her ! You said you 
 never wished to see her face again." 
 
 " And then she " 
 
 " She stopped trying." 
 
 " I don t remember," he repeated ; " I was I must 
 have been" 
 
 " Yes, you were delirious. But you knew it was 
 she." 
 
 The sick man s hands gripped each other under the 
 covers. 
 
 " When is she to be married?" he asked. 
 
 The girl hesitated before delivering the blow. 
 
 11 She is married." 
 
 The sick man gulped pitifully upon something in 
 his throat. The hands clenched a little tighter. % 
 
 " That s all right," he said. 
 
 The girl completed what she seemed to think he 
 ought to know rapidly. 
 
 " She, too, was ill afterward. They were married 
 at once and went abroad. They are in Paris now. 
 You have been ill longer than you think." 
 
 " Yes," said the man, trying to smile up at her. 
 Then, to make her think, if he could, that he had dis 
 missed the matter : " Will you kindly read me the 
 most nattering of those clippings ? I should like ta 
 
THE ATONEMENT 195 
 
 know what I did to deserve such fame. Ah, but par 
 don me ; you must go, I think you said." 
 
 The girl flushed. Then the strange, serious look 
 which seemed so much too old for her face came back. 
 
 " I should like to read the clippings," she said very 
 softly. 
 
 " Thank you," said the sick man. 
 
 And the word said so much more than print can ex 
 press ! He wanted her to stay, and wanted her so 
 much more than he thought she could fancy. He was 
 reaching out to her out of a vast chaos of emptiness 
 and hopelessness which had suddenly opened about 
 him when her words had swept the comfort of cyni 
 cism away. She seemed all there was in the world 
 just then of kindness and goodness. But for her he 
 felt shudderingly alone and outcast. He looked at her 
 as she read for him. Only a little girl ! But if she 
 chose to be sympathetic kind should he refuse, 
 no matter what the motive ? She was very pretty as 
 she read. With her head bent that way he could see 
 the top of her head with its crown of brown hair. 
 Her eyes looked as if they were closed at that angle. 
 The lashes swept luxuriantly over her cheeks. All 
 the face was rounded with the charm of adolescence. 
 And her voice was what an older woman s should be 
 he could easily fancy what it would be a little later. 
 
 She closed the book and looked up. Something 
 still in his face, dreamily, hopelessly, longingly, made 
 her flush again and suddenly rise. 
 
 " What a fraud you have all permitted me to be 
 come ! " he laughed presently. 
 
 The girl quickly returned to him. 
 
196 THE ATONEMENT 
 
 4 1 Is it not true ? " she questioned. 
 
 " Do I look like a hero?" 
 
 " No/ said the girl, with a half -sigh ; " the mockery 
 has come back to your face." 
 
 The man laughed. There was a certain comforting 
 bravado in the fact. 
 
 " No man is hero to his nurse. I wish very much 
 to retain your regard. If I assume that role now I 
 could not live up to it later. Then" 
 
 The girl stirred uneasily, and he had the conscious 
 ness that she was resenting this. Curiously, he was 
 glad that he could give her pain. He went on with 
 a queer grimness : 
 
 " It is quite true that I proposed to your cousin on 
 1 the fatal night/ to speak by the book, and that my 
 successful rival is Mr. Haney, the brewer. It is not 
 true, as you know, I believe, that he is illiterate and 
 vulgar. Your cousin would never choose such a man 
 under even more trying circumstances. Haney is a 
 gentleman, a college grad, and an altogether good 
 fellow. He is a much better fellow than I. There 
 fore the wisdom of your cousin s choice is apparent. 
 I heartily approve of it. The rest is better guessing. 
 I was sleeping when the knowledge somehow reached 
 me that my neighbor s house was afire. I dressed, 
 and descended the scuttle of the said house, with the 
 sole idea of being useful. I had the good fortune to 
 stumble over your cousin, and carried her out. I had 
 to get out myself, and it would have been excessively 
 impolite to leave her behind. That was all." 
 
 " Not all," said the girl, following the clippings. 
 " You said you would save her or die with her." 
 
THE ATONEMENT 197 
 
 The sick man smiled and shook his head. 
 
 "But did you?" asked the girl, with some vehe 
 mence. 
 
 " I did not," said the man. 
 
 She read a little further, then said : 
 
 " But you did take off your own coat and wrap it 
 around her head to save her hair ? " 
 
 " It was a blanket from the servant s bed," he 
 laughed again, " and it was to save her head." 
 
 " But this is true. It was seen to have occurred. 
 Her arms were found to be so closely locked about 
 him that it was only with the greatest difficulty 
 they were separated. And when this was accom 
 plished she moaned pitifully and begged to go back 
 to him. " 
 
 " I have no recollection of any such theatrical per 
 formance." 
 
 " Of course not," said the girl 5 " you were uncon 
 scious." 
 
 "Oh, was I?" 
 
 He took the book from her, and, for a moment, 
 examined the pretty hands. 
 
 "Why do you wish to go away?" asked the girl, 
 shyly. 
 
 " Don t you think that it is better?" he challenged. 
 
 " No ; I should think you would wish to be with 
 your friends at such a time." 
 
 " What kind of a time ? " 
 
 Her face grew furiously red. 
 
 " At a time of of misfortune." 
 
 " That s why I wish to go." 
 
 She looked up misunderstandingly. 
 
198 THE ATONEMENT 
 
 " Do you want me to remain longer a subject for 
 pity?- 
 
 It was a long time before she spoke. 
 
 " No," she said then ; "pity is odious ! " 
 
 She passed softly out and closed the door. 
 
 But the getting away was more easy in theory than 
 in practice. He had overestimated his strength, and 
 had a relapse. When he spoke of going again, the 
 girl leaned over him winningly and said : 
 
 " Don t try again, please, till you are quite sure 
 until the doctor" 
 
 She smiled the rest, and his eyes followed her 
 glance out of the window. 
 
 " What is it you always see out there after I have 
 been brutal to you ? " 
 
 She turned upon him, still smiling, but showing 
 some surprise. 
 
 " Nothing ! " 
 
 And then she laughed. 
 
 "Nothing?" questioned the invalid. 
 
 " I don t think I know exactly what is over there/ 
 the girl admitted. % 
 
 " Why," complained the sick man, " it s a brick 
 wall ! " 
 
 " Yes, I believe it is," consented the nurse. 
 
 " I am glad we have become better friends," said 
 the invalid. 
 
 " Yes," breathed the girl, with emotion. 
 
 But presently the day came to say good-by. And 
 he was suddenly conscious how awkwardly he was 
 doing it and how much better she was. 
 
 "Why, hang it all!" he laughed suddenly, "I I 
 
THE ATONEMENT 199 
 
 believe I m going to cry. Hurry or it will be too late 
 to save me ! Yes may I kiss you ? " 
 
 She put up her lips and closed her eyes. But her 
 face was shudderingly cold when he touched it. 
 
 He held her a moment. 
 
 " You are cold," he said softly. 
 
 She swayed toward him and then suddenly back. 
 In a moment she stiffened and opened her eyes. They 
 had in them a strange wild look of agony. 
 
 " I wish you a safe journey/ 7 she said. 
 
 She began steadily, but her voice broke a little at 
 the end. 
 
 Something leaped up in the breast of the man, and 
 he came toward her. 
 
 " Nell," he began, " shall I stay here?" 
 
 But she turned and ran from him. 
 
 " Came near being an ass," said the man, bitterly, 
 turning away. 
 
 Ill 
 
 THE BLOND CAPILLARIES 
 
 HE had some further medical assistance in London, 
 and later he met an acquaintance who recognized him 
 quite readily, and who assured him that his scars had 
 nearly disappeared. 
 
 " They do some clever skin-grafting over here," 
 said his friend. 
 
 That was done in America." 
 
 " Oh ! Well, they were good enough to give you a 
 
200 THE ATONEMENT 
 
 better skin than you had before." He came close 
 and inspected it. " Much finer." Then he pulled out 
 a pocket microscope and put it on the scar. He 
 laughed. " But, I say, the person who supplied the 
 fresh tissue was blond. It will never be a matter of 
 any consequence, but the capillaries in the new skin 
 are blond, while yours are dark ! " 
 
 When Garford got home he looked at the scar 
 carefully. It was on the forehead, just under his 
 own hair. What his medical friend had said was 
 true. The down on the transplanted skin was quite 
 blond. However, it would never show, and he laughed 
 a little, and thought how he would revile the doctor 
 about it when he got back to America. And then 
 suddenly, with the word, an immense nostalgia seized 
 him. America ! It was overpowering. He tried to 
 sleep it off, but without the least success. And the 
 next day the girl he had found at his bedside got into 
 his head once more, somehow, and stayed there. He 
 raised the hair from his forehead and looked at his 
 scar in the glass. 
 
 " I have been going about the world thinking that| 
 nobody in it cares for me. Yet here is some one who 
 has cared for me sufficiently to suffer physical pain 
 for me. And I have never had the grace to ask who 
 it was ! Some poor devil of a hospital attendant, no 
 doubt, who has never had a dollar for it. Well, the 
 moment I reach America I shall inquire who it was 
 and then" He looked a little closer. " It is finer 
 than my own skin. I wonder who ? Good God, it 
 may have been a child a child from the slums ! I Ve 
 heard of such things." He shuddered. " After all, 
 
THE ATONEMENT 201 
 
 it 7 s uncanny to think that you have a part of some 
 one else s body patched upon your own ! I wonder I 
 never thought of it before ! 1 m going home to find 
 out. It s horrible ! Yet, stop ! What would be the 
 good of finding out ? It could not be undone. And 
 I might find the person unclean." 
 
 He strode up and down the room for the next ten 
 minutes. " Better stay away/ he ended. 
 
 And he fought the nostalgia and the demon of the 
 scar for another year. But then it had grown too 
 strong for him. 
 
 " I have got to go and find him. I must see him, at 
 least. There is no use in going on in this way. I 
 must know something about him." 
 
 IV 
 
 WHAT RENT SHOULD ONE PAY FOR A PATCH OF SKIN? 
 
 HE went straight to the house of Nell Vernon. He 
 meant to despatch the whole matter in a few words. 
 But she staggered him when he saw her. She was a 
 woman now. 
 
 " And a royal one ! " he thought as she approached 
 him down the stairway. 
 
 She welcomed him with a charming self-possession, 
 yet with something quite as unworldly as if she had 
 not " grown up." 
 
 " I came to see you first," he said, with an abashed 
 irrelevancy which surprised him. 
 
202 THE ATONEMENT 
 
 " Of course," smiled Nell. " Did n t you promise 
 when you went away " 
 
 " Before I went away/ he corrected. 
 
 " Yes ! " laughed Nell. " When you went we did n t 
 have much to say. Do you remember it ? " 
 
 " Yes ! " said he, with curious savagery. 
 
 " So do I." 
 
 " Is that all you remember?" he asked. 
 
 " Y-es," she said, turning to the window. Thence 
 she returned in a moment with that curiously straight 
 look in her eyes. 
 
 " I came to find out," he said then, abruptly, " who 
 supplied the skin which was grafted here." 
 
 He raised the hair and exposed the scar. 
 
 The girl s eyes drooped a little. 
 
 " Why ? " she asked then. 
 
 " I I want to pay him. It is bad enough to be 
 carrying about with you a patch of somebody else s 
 body, let alone to be owing a couple of years rent for 
 it. Who was it ? I was under the influence of ether. 
 But you know." 
 
 " I I am not sure," faltered the girl, " that I know. 
 Was was it a man ? " 
 
 "No. I think it must have been a child. That 
 makes it all the more horrible to owe one s life to a 
 child. That a child should be crippled in that way 
 to save my worthless carcass ! " 
 
 Nell had grown pale. 
 
 " Look ! Don t you think it must have been the 
 skin of a child?" 
 
 She shrank away. 
 
 " I I cannot look at it please " 
 
THE ATONEMENT 203 
 
 " Pardon me," he said more easily. " I really did 
 not think how brutal that was. Ill see the doctor 
 about it." 
 
 A sudden alarm energized the girl. 
 
 " No, no j I do not think he knows. I ; m sure he 
 does not. I got got the person. I think I can 
 find out who it was. I 1 11 try and then then you 
 can give me the money to to pay him." 
 
 " Money cannot pay him. But he is to have that, 
 since I can give him nothing else ! " 
 
 To his surprise, she suddenly sobbed. 
 
 She looked up presently and said : 
 
 " I m very sorry but at the mere thought my 
 my nerves" She tried to smile then through her 
 wet eyelashes, and Garford fled from them. It was 
 the nurse all over again. And, even as it was, he saw 
 that smile for days. He was too frightened to go 
 again at once, but every day or two would send some 
 message. But something in him wanted to go there 
 after all, and finally he drifted back. And then 
 After that they were always together. But their in 
 timacy did not grow. He had built up somewhere a 
 stone wall against it. 
 
 V 
 
 SHE SENT HIM TO NELL THEN SOBBED! 
 
 HE took lodgings in one of the tall apartment- 
 houses which had been built in his absence, and re 
 sumed such of his intimacies as he considered un- 
 
204 THE ATONEMENT 
 
 broken. There were few enough of these. But 
 among them, for some reason not quite plain to him, 
 he had chosen to consider those concerning the man 
 whom Miss Hilliard had married. He told him 
 self that it was only because he was a thoroughly 
 good fellow; but he could not have been sure that 
 this was the only reason. 
 
 " Wants to see how hard he was hit," remarked a 
 clubman. 
 
 " Or see how badly she s hit," answered another. 
 
 " Simply a new style of revenge," said a third. 
 
 " To see whether they are living happily ever after," 
 added a fourth. 
 
 At all events, it resulted in a new and surprisingly 
 pleasant friendship with the woman who had jilted 
 him. G-arford was amazed to find how impersonal 
 and frank their intimacy at once became. 
 
 " I guess neither of us was badly hurt," he said to 
 himself, guiltily, as he went home one night. 
 
 " Do you know," she said, with her frank smile, as 
 she sat on the other side of the tea-table one after 
 noon and leaned her elbows prettily on it, "that l\ 
 have been wondering ever since you came back what 
 you thought of me " 
 
 " Madam, I thought you knew," said her guest, 
 " before I went away." 
 
 " Oh, if it s going to be sir and madam Will 
 you have some more tea ? " 
 
 " No," he laughed ; " I don t deserve it." 
 
 " I meant, you know," she said, putting the pot 
 back on its hook, " whether you found me changed 
 much." 
 
THE ATONEMENT 205 
 
 " Not much a little older/ 7 he said. 
 
 " The same to you, ungallant sir ! " she retorted. 
 
 " No," he said, " not the same. I am very much 
 older." 
 
 " Oh ! " she repented softly. But she did not 
 deny it. 
 
 " You see, I am gray at the temples." 
 
 " Yes," she said, with an entire change of manner. 
 She was looking down and twisting a curious ring 
 around her finger. 
 
 " Clever workmanship," he said. 
 
 She looked quickly up. 
 
 " The ring." 
 
 Something fled across her face, and she hid the 
 hand. 
 
 " Oh," he laughed, "is it as bad as that?" 
 
 " I see you recognize it," she said. 
 
 " I ? No. I never saw it before. I was only ad 
 miring the cunning of the artificer who made it." 
 
 Yes," she said ; " it was a cunning artificer." 
 
 "Who was it?" 
 
 " Fire," she answered, looking straightly at him. 
 
 " Ah ! then it is Truth, not Fiction ? " 
 
 " You ought to know," said the woman, rising. 
 
 Suddenly he understood. It was the ring he had 
 offered her the night of the fire. It had been partially 
 melted. She saw that he knew. 
 
 " Are you displeased that I wear it ? " 
 
 " Not I," he said lightly. " I suppose you mortify 
 your soul with it when you are naughty. You are 
 naughty sometimes ? " 
 
 " Yes," she answered humbly. 
 
206 THE ATONEMENT 
 
 He felt a sudden aversion to the incident, and took 
 up his hat to go. But she was plainly unwilling that 
 he should do this. 
 
 " Do do you wish it back ? " 
 
 He stared. 
 
 " The ring." 
 
 " Not I," he laughed. " I have no use for such a 
 thing nowadays." 
 
 " I wish you would not say that," the woman mur 
 mured. 
 
 " Oh ! Well, then, I won t." 
 
 But his laughter was unpleasant. 
 
 Again he tried to go, but she detained him. 
 
 " Oh," she suddenly pleaded, " do not make it so 
 hard for me ! " 
 
 " Hard hard? " he said bewilderedly. " I do not 
 understand." 
 
 " No ! " She closed her teeth and went on : " Men 
 never do. I sent for you to-day to tell you tell you 
 that the happiness of another so dear so very dear 
 to me! depends upon whether you understand or 
 not. And you are making it so hard so hard for 
 me ! Have you no mercy ? " 
 
 The man staggered away in some sort of fear to the 
 door-post. 
 
 "No; don t do that don t look at me that way. 
 We are friends now friends. And yet it is so hard 
 to speak plainly. Can you not guess what I would 
 say? No!" 
 
 She suddenly dropped her arms at her side. Then, 
 as suddenly : 
 
 " May I look at the scar on your forehead? " 
 
THE ATONEMENT 207 
 
 He nodded ; and she led him to the light and lifted 
 the hair. 
 
 " Yes," she smiled ; " I can tell you now. Where 
 one has suffered for another" 
 
 Suddenly he understood. 
 
 " Who who," he cried, " has suffered for me? I 
 came home to find him. Who who is he ? Nothing 
 I can give shall be too much. I didn t know I 
 did n t know till they told me on the other side. Who 
 has given part of his very body crippling it that 
 mine might be whole ? " 
 
 " No ! Men are so blind ! I made you so unhappy 
 once oh, so unhappy ! And happiness is so sweet 
 and so rare that you will, I think, pardon me for hav 
 ing sought this opportunity to make you happy. 
 
 " I see you with Nell always, always and know 
 that you do not even guess how it all is. Can you not 
 see that, if she was a child when you went away, she 
 is a woman now ? And oh, there is no one in all the 
 world like her ! She has tenderness and sweetness in 
 finiteand it is all for you. She has lived and mod 
 eled herself as she thinks you would have her. And 
 she has waited for you to come for her. She has 
 never doubted that you would until you did. She 
 has kept for you the lips you never even asked her to 
 keep. Because you kissed them last. You might 
 have kissed them when you came. But, instead, you 
 gave her nothing but your hands! She suffered to 
 patch that scar, as you say. It was agony, but she 
 did it for you. The scar is there now under her hair 
 at her neck and she is very proud of it ! She has 
 thought you a demigod. That was all wrong ; for I 
 
208 THE ATONEMENT 
 
 knew you to be only a man. But she is a woman 
 now, as I was then, and you are breaking her heart. 
 She loves you and you are her first love ! Think of 
 that. All that sweet heart" 
 
 Garford had sunk into a chair. 
 
 " But," the woman went on softly, " I knew I un 
 derstood. You see, I am so much older and wiser 
 now. And I sent for you that I might tell you. Men 
 are so blind so blind ! " 
 
 Garford slowly rose. He tried to smile, but his 
 eyes were suffused. 
 
 " Yes," he said, " you have found me out ; I thought 
 I had it all so well concealed. I thought it too im 
 possible even to dream of. I knew that she was very 
 kind; but I fancied it was still her pity she used to 
 pity me." 
 
 " Pity ! She never pitied you ! She loved you 
 then. She has always loved you even when I" 
 
 She suddenly halted. 
 
 "What shall I do?" asked Garford, taking the 
 hands she let fall. 
 
 11 Go now now and ask her to be your wife. 
 And tell her tell her that /that I sent you ! " 
 
 He was going. 
 
 " And God bless you ! " she said after him. 
 
 And then when he was quite gone she buried 
 her face in the pillow of the couch and suddenly 
 sobbed. 
 
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