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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Copy-Cat and Other Stories, by 
+Mary E. Wilkins Freeman
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Copy-Cat and Other Stories
+
+Author: Mary E. Wilkins Freeman
+
+Release Date: April, 1999  [Etext #1716]
+Posting Date: November 20, 2009
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE COPY-CAT AND OTHER STORIES ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Judy Boss
+
+
+
+
+
+THE COPY-CAT
+
+AND OTHER STORIES
+
+By Mary E. Wilkins Freeman
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+     THE COPY-CAT
+
+     THE COCK OF THE WALK
+
+     JOHNNY-IN-THE-WOODS
+
+     DANIEL AND LITTLE DAN'L
+
+     BIG SISTER SOLLY
+
+     LITTLE LUCY ROSE
+
+     NOBLESSE
+
+     CORONATION
+
+     THE AMETHYST COMB
+
+     THE UMBRELLA MAN
+
+     THE BALKING OF CHRISTOPHER
+
+     DEAR ANNIE
+
+
+
+
+THE COPY-CAT
+
+THAT affair of Jim Simmons's cats never became known. Two little boys
+and a little girl can keep a secret--that is, sometimes. The two little
+boys had the advantage of the little girl because they could talk over
+the affair together, and the little girl, Lily Jennings, had no intimate
+girl friend to tempt her to confidence. She had only little Amelia
+Wheeler, commonly called by the pupils of Madame's school "The
+Copy-Cat."
+
+Amelia was an odd little girl--that is, everybody called her odd. She
+was that rather unusual creature, a child with a definite ideal; and
+that ideal was Lily Jennings. However, nobody knew that. If Amelia's
+mother, who was a woman of strong character, had suspected, she would
+have taken strenuous measures to prevent such a peculiar state of
+affairs; the more so because she herself did not in the least approve of
+Lily Jennings. Mrs. Diantha Wheeler (Amelia's father had died when she
+was a baby) often remarked to her own mother, Mrs. Stark, and to her
+mother-in-law, Mrs. Samuel Wheeler, that she did not feel that Mrs.
+Jennings was bringing up Lily exactly as she should. "That child thinks
+entirely too much of her looks," said Mrs. Diantha. "When she walks past
+here she switches those ridiculous frilled frocks of hers as if she were
+entering a ballroom, and she tosses her head and looks about to see if
+anybody is watching her. If I were to see Amelia doing such things I
+should be very firm with her."
+
+"Lily Jennings is a very pretty child," said Mother-in-law Wheeler, with
+an under-meaning, and Mrs. Diantha flushed. Amelia did not in the least
+resemble the Wheelers, who were a handsome set. She looked remarkably
+like her mother, who was a plain woman, only little Amelia did not have
+a square chin. Her chin was pretty and round, with a little dimple in
+it. In fact, Amelia's chin was the prettiest feature she had. Her hair
+was phenomenally straight. It would not even yield to hot curling-irons,
+which her grandmother Wheeler had tried surreptitiously several times
+when there was a little girls' party. "I never saw such hair as that
+poor child has in all my life," she told the other grandmother, Mrs.
+Stark. "Have the Starks always had such very straight hair?"
+
+Mrs. Stark stiffened her chin. Her own hair was very straight. "I don't
+know," said she, "that the Starks have had any straighter hair than
+other people. If Amelia does not have anything worse to contend with
+than straight hair I rather think she will get along in the world as
+well as most people."
+
+"It's thin, too," said Grandmother Wheeler, with a sigh, "and it hasn't
+a mite of color. Oh, well, Amelia is a good child, and beauty isn't
+everything." Grandmother Wheeler said that as if beauty were a great
+deal, and Grandmother Stark arose and shook out her black silk skirts.
+She had money, and loved to dress in rich black silks and laces.
+
+"It is very little, very little indeed," said she, and she eyed
+Grandmother Wheeler's lovely old face, like a wrinkled old rose as to
+color, faultless as to feature, and swept about by the loveliest waves
+of shining silver hair.
+
+Then she went out of the room, and Grandmother Wheeler, left alone,
+smiled. She knew the worth of beauty for those who possess it and those
+who do not. She had never been quite reconciled to her son's marrying
+such a plain girl as Diantha Stark, although she had money. She
+considered beauty on the whole as a more valuable asset than mere gold.
+She regretted always that poor little Amelia, her only grandchild, was
+so very plain-looking. She always knew that Amelia was very plain, and
+yet sometimes the child puzzled her. She seemed to see reflections
+of beauty, if not beauty itself, in the little colorless face, in the
+figure, with its too-large joints and utter absence of curves. She
+sometimes even wondered privately if some subtle resemblance to the
+handsome Wheelers might not be in the child and yet appear. But she was
+mistaken. What she saw was pure mimicry of a beautiful ideal.
+
+Little Amelia tried to stand like Lily Jennings; she tried to walk like
+her; she tried to smile like her; she made endeavors, very often
+futile, to dress like her. Mrs. Wheeler did not in the least approve
+of furbelows for children. Poor little Amelia went clad in severe
+simplicity; durable woolen frocks in winter, and washable, unfadable,
+and non-soil-showing frocks in summer. She, although her mother had
+perhaps more money wherewith to dress her than had any of the other
+mothers, was the plainest-clad little girl in school. Amelia, moreover,
+never tore a frock, and, as she did not grow rapidly, one lasted several
+seasons. Lily Jennings was destructive, although dainty. Her pretty
+clothes were renewed every year. Amelia was helpless before that
+problem. For a little girl burning with aspirations to be and look like
+another little girl who was beautiful and wore beautiful clothes, to be
+obliged to set forth for Madame's on a lovely spring morning, when thin
+attire was in evidence, dressed in dark-blue-andwhite-checked gingham,
+which she had worn for three summers, and with sleeves which, even to
+childish eyes, were anachronisms, was a trial. Then to see Lily flutter
+in a frock like a perfectly new white flower was torture; not because
+of jealousy--Amelia was not jealous; but she so admired the other little
+girl, and so loved her, and so wanted to be like her.
+
+As for Lily, she hardly ever noticed Amelia. She was not aware that
+she herself was an object of adoration; for she was a little girl who
+searched for admiration in the eyes of little boys rather than little
+girls, although very innocently. She always glanced slyly at Johnny
+Trumbull when she wore a pretty new frock, to see if he noticed. He
+never did, and she was sharp enough to know it. She was also child
+enough not to care a bit, but to take a queer pleasure in the sensation
+of scorn which she felt in consequence. She would eye Johnny from head
+to foot, his boy's clothing somewhat spotted, his bulging pockets, his
+always dusty shoes, and when he twisted uneasily, not understanding why,
+she had a thrill of purely feminine delight. It was on one such occasion
+that she first noticed Amelia Wheeler particularly.
+
+It was a lovely warm morning in May, and Lily was a darling to
+behold--in a big hat with a wreath of blue flowers, her hair tied
+with enormous blue silk bows, her short skirts frilled with eyelet
+embroidery, her slender silk legs, her little white sandals. Madame's
+maid had not yet struck the Japanese gong, and all the pupils were out
+on the lawn, Amelia, in her clean, ugly gingham and her serviceable
+brown sailor hat, hovering near Lily, as usual, like a common, very
+plain butterfly near a particularly resplendent blossom. Lily really
+noticed her. She spoke to her confidentially; she recognized her fully
+as another of her own sex, and presumably of similar opinions.
+
+"Ain't boys ugly, anyway?" inquired Lily of Amelia, and a wonderful
+change came over Amelia. Her sallow cheeks bloomed; her eyes showed blue
+glitters; her little skinny figure became instinct with nervous life.
+She smiled charmingly, with such eagerness that it smote with pathos and
+bewitched.
+
+"Oh yes, oh yes," she agreed, in a voice like a quick flute obbligato.
+"Boys are ugly."
+
+"Such clothes!" said Lily.
+
+"Yes, such clothes!" said Amelia.
+
+"Always spotted," said Lily.
+
+"Always covered all over with spots," said Amelia.
+
+"And their pockets always full of horrid things," said Lily.
+
+"Yes," said Amelia.
+
+Amelia glanced openly at Johnny Trumbull; Lily with a sidewise effect.
+
+Johnny had heard every word. Suddenly he arose to action and knocked
+down Lee Westminster, and sat on him.
+
+"Lemme up!" said Lee.
+
+Johnny had no quarrel whatever with Lee. He grinned, but he sat still.
+Lee, the sat-upon, was a sharp little boy. "Showing off before the
+gals!" he said, in a thin whisper.
+
+"Hush up!" returned Johnny.
+
+"Will you give me a writing-pad--I lost mine, and mother said I couldn't
+have another for a week if I did--if I don't holler?" inquired Lee.
+
+"Yes. Hush up!"
+
+Lee lay still, and Johnny continued to sit upon his prostrate form.
+Both were out of sight of Madame's windows, behind a clump of the cedars
+which graced her lawn.
+
+"Always fighting," said Lily, with a fine crescendo of scorn. She lifted
+her chin high, and also her nose.
+
+"Always fighting," said Amelia, and also lifted her chin and nose.
+Amelia was a born mimic. She actually looked like Lily, and she spoke
+like her.
+
+Then Lily did a wonderful thing. She doubled her soft little arm into an
+inviting loop for Amelia's little claw of a hand.
+
+"Come along, Amelia Wheeler," said she. "We don't want to stay near
+horrid, fighting boys. We will go by ourselves."
+
+And they went. Madame had a headache that morning, and the Japanese
+gong did not ring for fifteen minutes longer. During that time Lily and
+Amelia sat together on a little rustic bench under a twinkling poplar,
+and they talked, and a sort of miniature sun-and-satellite relation was
+established between them, although neither was aware of it. Lily, being
+on the whole a very normal little girl, and not disposed to even a full
+estimate of herself as compared with others of her own sex, did not
+dream of Amelia's adoration, and Amelia, being rarely destitute of
+self-consciousness, did not understand the whole scope of her own
+sentiments. It was quite sufficient that she was seated close to this
+wonderful Lily, and agreeing with her to the verge of immolation.
+
+"Of course," said Lily, "girls are pretty, and boys are just as ugly as
+they can be."
+
+"Oh yes," said Amelia, fervently.
+
+"But," said Lily, thoughtfully, "it is queer how Johnny Trumbull always
+comes out ahead in a fight, and he is not so very large, either."
+
+"Yes," said Amelia, but she realized a pang of jealousy. "Girls could
+fight, I suppose," said she.
+
+"Oh yes, and get their clothes all torn and messy," said Lily.
+
+"I shouldn't care," said Amelia. Then she added, with a little toss, "I
+almost know I could fight." The thought even floated through her wicked
+little mind that fighting might be a method of wearing out obnoxious and
+durable clothes.
+
+"You!" said Lily, and the scorn in her voice wilted Amelia.
+
+"Maybe I couldn't," said she.
+
+"Of course you couldn't, and if you could, what a sight you'd be. Of
+course it wouldn't hurt your clothes as much as some, because your
+mother dresses you in strong things, but you'd be sure to get black and
+blue, and what would be the use, anyway? You couldn't be a boy, if you
+did fight."
+
+"No. I know I couldn't."
+
+"Then what is the use? We are a good deal prettier than boys, and
+cleaner, and have nicer manners, and we must be satisfied."
+
+"You are prettier," said Amelia, with a look of worshipful admiration at
+Lily's sweet little face.
+
+"You are prettier," said Lily. Then she added, equivocally, "Even the
+very homeliest girl is prettier than a boy."
+
+Poor Amelia, it was a good deal for her to be called prettier than a
+very dusty boy in a fight. She fairly dimpled with delight, and again
+she smiled charmingly. Lily eyed her critically.
+
+"You aren't so very homely, after all, Amelia," she said. "You needn't
+think you are."
+
+Amelia smiled again.
+
+"When you look like you do now you are real pretty," said Lily, not
+knowing or even suspecting the truth, that she was regarding in the face
+of this little ardent soul her own, as in a mirror.
+
+However, it was after that episode that Amelia Wheeler was called
+"Copy-Cat." The two little girls entered Madame's select school arm in
+arm, when the musical gong sounded, and behind them came Lee Westminster
+and Johnny Trumbull, surreptitiously dusting their garments, and ever
+after the fact of Amelia's adoration and imitation of Lily Jennings was
+evident to all. Even Madame became aware of it, and held conferences
+with two of the under teachers.
+
+"It is not at all healthy for one child to model herself so entirely
+upon the pattern of another," said Miss Parmalee.
+
+"Most certainly it is not," agreed Miss Acton, the music-teacher.
+
+"Why, that poor little Amelia Wheeler had the rudiments of a fairly good
+contralto. I had begun to wonder if the poor child might not be able at
+least to sing a little, and so make up for--other things; and now she
+tries to sing high like Lily Jennings, and I simply cannot prevent it.
+She has heard Lily play, too, and has lost her own touch, and now it is
+neither one thing nor the other."
+
+"I might speak to her mother," said Madame, thoughtfully. Madame was
+American born, but she married a French gentleman, long since deceased,
+and his name sounded well on her circulars. She and her two under
+teachers were drinking tea in her library.
+
+Miss Parmalee, who was a true lover of her pupils, gasped at Madame's
+proposition. "Whatever you do, please do not tell that poor child's
+mother," said she.
+
+"I do not think it would be quite wise, if I may venture to express an
+opinion," said Miss Acton, who was a timid soul, and always inclined to
+shy at her own ideas.
+
+"But why?" asked Madame.
+
+"Her mother," said Miss Parmalee, "is a quite remarkable woman, with
+great strength of character, but she would utterly fail to grasp the
+situation."
+
+"I must confess," said Madame, sipping her tea, "that I fail to
+understand it. Why any child not an absolute idiot should so lose her
+own identity in another's absolutely bewilders me. I never heard of such
+a case."
+
+Miss Parmalee, who had a sense of humor, laughed a little. "It is
+bewildering," she admitted. "And now the other children see how it is,
+and call her 'Copy-Cat' to her face, but she does not mind. I doubt if
+she understands, and neither does Lily, for that matter. Lily Jennings
+is full of mischief, but she moves in straight lines; she is not
+conceited or self-conscious, and she really likes Amelia, without
+knowing why."
+
+"I fear Lily will lead Amelia into mischief," said Madame, "and Amelia
+has always been such a good child."
+
+"Lily will never MEAN to lead Amelia into mischief," said loyal Miss
+Parmalee.
+
+"But she will," said Madame.
+
+"If Lily goes, I cannot answer for Amelia's not following," admitted
+Miss Parmalee.
+
+"I regret it all very much indeed," sighed Madame, "but it does seem to
+me still that Amelia's mother--"
+
+"Amelia's mother would not even believe it, in the first place," said
+Miss Parmalee.
+
+"Well, there is something in that," admitted Madame. "I myself could not
+even imagine such a situation. I would not know of it now, if you and
+Miss Acton had not told me."
+
+"There is not the slightest use in telling Amelia not to imitate
+Lily, because she does not know that she is imitating her," said Miss
+Parmalee. "If she were to be punished for it, she could never comprehend
+the reason."
+
+"That is true," said Miss Acton. "I realize that when the poor child
+squeaks instead of singing. All I could think of this morning was a
+little mouse caught in a trap which she could not see. She does actually
+squeak!--and some of her low notes, although, of course, she is only a
+child, and has never attempted much, promised to be very good."
+
+"She will have to squeak, for all I can see," said Miss Parmalee. "It
+looks to me like one of those situations that no human being can change
+for better or worse."
+
+"I suppose you are right," said Madame, "but it is most unfortunate, and
+Mrs. Wheeler is such a superior woman, and Amelia is her only child,
+and this is such a very subtle and regrettable affair. Well, we have to
+leave a great deal to Providence."
+
+"If," said Miss Parmalee, "she could only get angry when she is called
+'Copy-Cat.'" Miss Parmalee laughed, and so did Miss Acton. Then all the
+ladies had their cups refilled, and left Providence to look out for poor
+little Amelia Wheeler, in her mad pursuit of her ideal in the shape of
+another little girl possessed of the exterior graces which she had not.
+
+Meantime the little "Copy-Cat" had never been so happy. She began to
+improve in her looks also. Her grandmother Wheeler noticed it first, and
+spoke of it to Grandmother Stark. "That child may not be so plain,
+after all," said she. "I looked at her this morning when she started
+for school, and I thought for the first time that there was a little
+resemblance to the Wheelers."
+
+Grandmother Stark sniffed, but she looked gratified. "I have been
+noticing it for some time," said she, "but as for looking like the
+Wheelers, I thought this morning for a minute that I actually saw my
+poor dear husband looking at me out of that blessed child's eyes."
+
+Grandmother Wheeler smiled her little, aggravating, curved, pink smile.
+
+But even Mrs. Diantha began to notice the change for the better in
+Amelia. She, however, attributed it to an increase of appetite and a
+system of deep breathing which she had herself taken up and enjoined
+Amelia to follow. Amelia was following Lily Jennings instead, but that
+her mother did not know. Still, she was gratified to see Amelia's little
+sallow cheeks taking on pretty curves and a soft bloom, and she was more
+inclined to listen when Grandmother Wheeler ventured to approach the
+subject of Amelia's attire.
+
+"Amelia would not be so bad-looking if she were better dressed,
+Diantha," said she.
+
+Diantha lifted her chin, but she paid heed. "Why, does not Amelia dress
+perfectly well, mother?" she inquired.
+
+"She dresses well enough, but she needs more ribbons and ruffles."
+
+"I do not approve of so many ribbons and ruffles," said Mrs. Diantha.
+"Amelia has perfectly neat, fresh black or brown ribbons for her hair,
+and ruffles are not sanitary."
+
+"Ruffles are pretty," said Grandmother Wheeler, "and blue and pink are
+pretty colors. Now, that Jennings girl looks like a little picture."
+
+But that last speech of Grandmother Wheeler's undid all the previous
+good. Mrs. Diantha had an unacknowledged--even to herself--disapproval
+of Mrs. Jennings which dated far back in the past, for a reason which
+was quite unworthy of her and of her strong mind. When she and Lily's
+mother had been girls, she had seen Mrs. Jennings look like a picture,
+and had been perfectly well aware that she herself fell far short of
+an artist's ideal. Perhaps if Mrs. Stark had believed in ruffles and
+ribbons, her daughter might have had a different mind when Grandmother
+Wheeler had finished her little speech.
+
+As it was, Mrs. Diantha surveyed her small, pretty mother-in-law with
+dignified serenity, which savored only delicately of a snub. "I do not
+myself approve of the way in which Mrs. Jennings dresses her daughter,"
+said she, "and I do not consider that the child presents to a practical
+observer as good an appearance as my Amelia."
+
+Grandmother Wheeler had a temper. It was a childish temper and soon
+over--still, a temper. "Lord," said she, "if you mean to say that
+you think your poor little snipe of a daughter, dressed like a little
+maid-of-all-work, can compare with that lovely little Lily Jennings, who
+is dressed like a doll!--"
+
+"I do not wish that my daughter should be dressed like a doll," said
+Mrs. Diantha, coolly.
+
+"Well, she certainly isn't," said Grandmother Wheeler. "Nobody would
+ever take her for a doll as far as looks or dress are concerned. She may
+be GOOD enough. I don't deny that Amelia is a good little girl, but her
+looks could be improved on."
+
+"Looks matter very little," said Mrs. Diantha.
+
+"They matter very much," said Grandmother Wheeler, pugnaciously, her
+blue eyes taking on a peculiar opaque glint, as always when she lost
+her temper, "very much indeed. But looks can't be helped. If poor little
+Amelia wasn't born with pretty looks, she wasn't. But she wasn't born
+with such ugly clothes. She might be better dressed."
+
+"I dress my daughter as I consider best," said Mrs. Diantha. Then she
+left the room.
+
+Grandmother Wheeler sat for a few minutes, her blue eyes opaque, her
+little pink lips a straight line; then suddenly her eyes lit, and she
+smiled. "Poor Diantha," said she, "I remember how Henry used to like
+Lily Jennings's mother before he married Diantha. Sour grapes hang
+high." But Grandmother Wheeler's beautiful old face was quite soft and
+gentle. From her heart she pitied the reacher after those high-hanging
+sour grapes, for Mrs. Diantha had been very good to her.
+
+Then Grandmother Wheeler, who had a mild persistency not evident to a
+casual observer, began to make plans and lay plots. She was resolved,
+Diantha or not, that her granddaughter, her son's child, should have
+some fine feathers. The little conference had taken place in her own
+room, a large, sunny one, with a little storeroom opening from it.
+Presently Grandmother Wheeler rose, entered the storeroom, and began
+rummaging in some old trunks. Then followed days of secret work.
+Grandmother Wheeler had been noted as a fine needlewoman, and her
+hand had not yet lost its cunning. She had one of Amelia's ugly little
+ginghams, purloined from a closet, for size, and she worked two or
+three dainty wonders. She took Grandmother Stark into her confidence.
+Sometimes the two ladies, by reason of their age, found it possible to
+combine with good results.
+
+"Your daughter Diantha is one woman in a thousand," said Grandmother
+Wheeler, diplomatically, one day, "but she never did care much for
+clothes."
+
+"Diantha," returned Grandmother Stark, with a suspicious glance, "always
+realized that clothes were not the things that mattered."
+
+"And, of course, she is right," said Grandmother Wheeler, piously.
+"Your Diantha is one woman in a thousand. If she cared as much for fine
+clothes as some women, I don't know where we should all be. It would
+spoil poor little Amelia."
+
+"Yes, it would," assented Grandmother Stark. "Nothing spoils a little
+girl more than always to be thinking about her clothes."
+
+"Yes, I was looking at Amelia the other day, and thinking how much more
+sensible she appeared in her plain gingham than Lily Jennings in all her
+ruffles and ribbons. Even if people were all noticing Lily, and praising
+her, thinks I to myself, 'How little difference such things really make.
+Even if our dear Amelia does stand to one side, and nobody notices her,
+what real matter is it?'" Grandmother Wheeler was inwardly chuckling as
+she spoke.
+
+Grandmother Stark was at once alert. "Do you mean to say that Amelia is
+really not taken so much notice of because she dresses plainly?" said
+she.
+
+"You don't mean that you don't know it, as observant as you are?"
+replied Grandmother Wheeler.
+
+"Diantha ought not to let it go as far as that," said Grandmother Stark.
+Grandmother Wheeler looked at her queerly. "Why do you look at me like
+that?"
+
+"Well, I did something I feared I ought not to have done. And I didn't
+know what to do, but your speaking so makes me wonder--"
+
+"Wonder what?"
+
+Then Grandmother Wheeler went to her little storeroom and emerged
+bearing a box. She displayed the contents--three charming little white
+frocks fluffy with lace and embroidery.
+
+"Did you make them?"
+
+"Yes, I did. I couldn't help it. I thought if the dear child never wore
+them, it would be some comfort to know they were in the house."
+
+"That one needs a broad blue sash," said Grandmother Stark.
+
+Grandmother Wheeler laughed. She took her impecuniosity easily. "I had
+to use what I had," said she.
+
+"I will get a blue sash for that one," said Grandmother Stark, "and a
+pink sash for that, and a flowered one for that."
+
+"Of course they will make all the difference," said Grandmother Wheeler.
+"Those beautiful sashes will really make the dresses."
+
+"I will get them," said Grandmother Stark, with decision. "I will go
+right down to Mann Brothers' store now and get them."
+
+"Then I will make the bows, and sew them on," replied Grandmother
+Wheeler, happily.
+
+It thus happened that little Amelia Wheeler was possessed of three
+beautiful dresses, although she did not know it.
+
+For a long time neither of the two conspiring grandmothers dared divulge
+the secret. Mrs. Diantha was a very determined woman, and even her own
+mother stood somewhat in awe of her. Therefore, little Amelia went to
+school during the spring term soberly clad as ever, and even on the
+festive last day wore nothing better than a new blue gingham, made
+too long, to allow for shrinkage, and new blue hair-ribbons. The two
+grandmothers almost wept in secret conclave over the lovely frocks which
+were not worn.
+
+"I respect Diantha," said Grandmother Wheeler. "You know that. She is
+one woman in a thousand, but I do hate to have that poor child go to
+school to-day with so many to look at her, and she dressed so unlike all
+the other little girls."
+
+"Diantha has got so much sense, it makes her blind and deaf," declared
+Grandmother Stark. "I call it a shame, if she is my daughter."
+
+"Then you don't venture--"
+
+Grandmother Stark reddened. She did not like to own to awe of her
+daughter. "I VENTURE, if that is all," said she, tartly. "You don't
+suppose I am afraid of Diantha?--but she would not let Amelia wear one
+of the dresses, anyway, and I don't want the child made any unhappier
+than she is."
+
+"Well, I will admit," replied Grandmother Wheeler, "if poor Amelia knew
+she had these beautiful dresses and could not wear them she might feel
+worse about wearing that homely gingham."
+
+"Gingham!" fairly snorted Grandmother Stark. "I cannot see why Diantha
+thinks so much of gingham. It shrinks, anyway."
+
+Poor little Amelia did undoubtedly suffer on that last day, when she sat
+among the others gaily clad, and looked down at her own common little
+skirts. She was very glad, however, that she had not been chosen to do
+any of the special things which would have necessitated her appearance
+upon the little flower-decorated platform. She did not know of the
+conversation between Madame and her two assistants.
+
+"I would have Amelia recite a little verse or two," said Madame, "but
+how can I?" Madame adored dress, and had a lovely new one of sheer
+dull-blue stuff, with touches of silver, for the last day.
+
+"Yes," agreed Miss Parmalee, "that poor child is sensitive, and for her
+to stand on the platform in one of those plain ginghams would be too
+cruel."
+
+"Then, too," said Miss Acton, "she would recite her verses exactly like
+Lily Jennings. She can make her voice exactly like Lily's now. Then
+everybody would laugh, and Amelia would not know why. She would think
+they were laughing at her dress, and that would be dreadful."
+
+If Amelia's mother could have heard that conversation everything would
+have been different, although it is puzzling to decide in what way.
+
+It was the last of the summer vacation in early September, just before
+school began, that a climax came to Amelia's idolatry and imitation of
+Lily. The Jenningses had not gone away that summer, so the two little
+girls had been thrown together a good deal. Mrs. Diantha never went away
+during a summer. She considered it her duty to remain at home, and she
+was quite pitiless to herself when it came to a matter of duty.
+
+However, as a result she was quite ill during the last of August and the
+first of September. The season had been unusually hot, and Mrs. Diantha
+had not spared herself from her duty on account of the heat. She
+would have scorned herself if she had done so. But she could not,
+strong-minded as she was, avert something like a heat prostration after
+a long walk under a burning sun, nor weeks of confinement and idleness
+in her room afterward.
+
+When September came, and a night or two of comparative coolness, she
+felt stronger; still she was compelled by most unusual weakness to
+refrain from her energetic trot in her duty-path; and then it was that
+something happened.
+
+One afternoon Lily fluttered over to Amelia's, and Amelia, ever on the
+watch, spied her.
+
+"May I go out and see Lily?" she asked Grandmother Stark.
+
+"Yes, but don't talk under the windows; your mother is asleep."
+
+Amelia ran out.
+
+"I declare," said Grandmother Stark to Grandmother Wheeler, "I was half
+a mind to tell that child to wait a minute and slip on one of those
+pretty dresses. I hate to have her go on the street in that old gingham,
+with that Jennings girl dressed up like a wax doll."
+
+"I know it."
+
+"And now poor Diantha is so weak--and asleep--it would not have annoyed
+her."
+
+"I know it."
+
+Grandmother Stark looked at Grandmother Wheeler. Of the two she
+possessed a greater share of original sin compared with the size of
+her soul. Moreover, she felt herself at liberty to circumvent her
+own daughter. Whispering, she unfolded a daring scheme to the other
+grandmother, who stared at her aghast a second out of her lovely blue
+eyes, then laughed softly.
+
+"Very well," said she, "if you dare."
+
+"I rather think I dare!" said Grandmother Stark. "Isn't Diantha Wheeler
+my own daughter?" Grandmother Stark had grown much bolder since Mrs.
+Diantha had been ill.
+
+Meantime Lily and Amelia walked down the street until they came to a
+certain vacant lot intersected by a foot-path between tall, feathery
+grasses and goldenrod and asters and milkweed. They entered the
+foot-path, and swarms of little butterflies rose around them, and once
+in a while a protesting bumblebee.
+
+"I am afraid we will be stung by the bees," said Amelia.
+
+"Bumblebees never sting," said Lily; and Amelia believed her.
+
+When the foot-path ended, there was the riverbank. The two little girls
+sat down under a clump of brook willows and talked, while the river,
+full of green and blue and golden lights, slipped past them and never
+stopped.
+
+Then Lily proceeded to unfold a plan, which was not philosophical,
+but naughtily ingenious. By this time Lily knew very well that Amelia
+admired her, and imitated her as successfully as possible, considering
+the drawback of dress and looks.
+
+When she had finished Amelia was quite pale. "I am afraid, I am afraid,
+Lily," said she.
+
+"What of?"
+
+"My mother will find out; besides, I am afraid it isn't right."
+
+"Who ever told you it was wrong?"
+
+"Nobody ever did," admitted Amelia.
+
+"Well, then you haven't any reason to think it is," said Lily,
+triumphantly. "And how is your mother ever going to find it out?"
+
+"I don't know."
+
+"Isn't she ill in her room? And does she ever come to kiss you good
+night, the way my mother does, when she is well?"
+
+"No," admitted Amelia.
+
+"And neither of your grandmothers?"
+
+"Grandmother Stark would think it was silly, like mother, and
+Grandmother Wheeler can't go up and down stairs very well."
+
+"I can't see but you are perfectly safe. I am the only one that runs any
+risk at all. I run a great deal of risk, but I am willing to take it,"
+said Lily with a virtuous air. Lily had a small but rather involved
+scheme simply for her own ends, which did not seem to call for much
+virtue, but rather the contrary.
+
+Lily had overheard Arnold Carruth and Johnny Trumbull and Lee
+Westminster and another boy, Jim Patterson, planning a most delightful
+affair, which even in the cases of the boys was fraught with danger,
+secrecy, and doubtful rectitude. Not one of the four boys had had a
+vacation from the village that summer, and their young minds had become
+charged, as it were, with the seeds of revolution and rebellion. Jim
+Patterson, the son of the rector, and of them all the most venturesome,
+had planned to take--he called it "take"; he meant to pay for it,
+anyway, he said, as soon as he could shake enough money out of his
+nickel savings-bank--one of his father's Plymouth Rock chickens and have
+a chickenroast in the woods back of Dr. Trumbull's. He had planned for
+Johnny to take some ears of corn suitable for roasting from his father's
+garden; for Lee to take some cookies out of a stone jar in his mother's
+pantry; and for Arnold to take some potatoes. Then they four would steal
+forth under cover of night, build a camp-fire, roast their spoils, and
+feast.
+
+Lily had resolved to be of the party. She resorted to no open methods;
+the stones of the fighting suffragettes were not for her, little
+honey-sweet, curled, and ruffled darling; rather the time-worn, if not
+time-sanctified, weapons of her sex, little instruments of wiles, and
+tiny dodges, and tiny subterfuges, which would serve her best.
+
+"You know," she said to Amelia, "you don't look like me. Of course you
+know that, and that can't be helped; but you do walk like me, and talk
+like me, you know that, because they call you 'CopyCat.'"
+
+"Yes, I know," said poor Amelia.
+
+"I don't mind if they do call you 'Copy-Cat,'" said Lily, magnanimously.
+"I don't mind a bit. But, you see, my mother always comes up-stairs to
+kiss me good night after I have gone to bed, and tomorrow night she has
+a dinner-party, and she will surely be a little late, and I can't manage
+unless you help me. I will get one of my white dresses for you, and all
+you have to do is to climb out of your window into that cedar-tree--you
+know you can climb down that, because you are so afraid of burglars
+climbing up--and you can slip on my dress; you had better throw it out
+of the window and not try to climb in it, because my dresses tear awful
+easy, and we might get caught that way. Then you just sneak down to our
+house, and I shall be outdoors; and when you go up-stairs, if the doors
+should be open, and anybody should call, you can answer just like me;
+and I have found that light curly wig Aunt Laura wore when she had her
+head shaved after she had a fever, and you just put that on and go to
+bed, and mother will never know when she kisses you good night. Then
+after the roast I will go to your house, and climb up that tree, and
+go to bed in your room. And I will have one of your gingham dresses to
+wear, and very early in the morning I will get up, and you get up, and
+we both of us can get down the back stairs without being seen, and run
+home."
+
+Amelia was almost weeping. It was her worshiped Lily's plan, but she was
+horribly scared. "I don't know," she faltered.
+
+"Don't know! You've got to! You don't love me one single bit or you
+wouldn't stop to think about whether you didn't know." It was the
+world-old argument which floors love. Amelia succumbed.
+
+The next evening a frightened little girl clad in one of Lily Jennings's
+white embroidered frocks was racing to the Jenningses' house, and
+another little girl, not at all frightened, but enjoying the stimulus of
+mischief and unwontedness, was racing to the wood behind Dr. Trumbull's
+house, and that little girl was clad in one of Amelia Wheeler's
+ginghams. But the plan went all awry.
+
+Lily waited, snuggled up behind an alder-bush, and the boys came, one by
+one, and she heard this whispered, although there was no necessity for
+whispering, "Jim Patterson, where's that hen?"
+
+"Couldn't get her. Grabbed her, and all her tail-feathers came out in a
+bunch right in my hand, and she squawked so, father heard. He was in his
+study writing his sermon, and he came out, and if I hadn't hid behind
+the chicken-coop and then run I couldn't have got here. But I can't see
+as you've got any corn, Johnny Trumbull."
+
+"Couldn't. Every single ear was cooked for dinner."
+
+"I couldn't bring any cookies, either," said Lee Westminster; "there
+weren't any cookies in the jar."
+
+"And I couldn't bring the potatoes, because the outside cellar door was
+locked," said Arnold Carruth. "I had to go down the back stairs and out
+the south door, and the inside cellar door opens out of our dining-room,
+and I daren't go in there."
+
+"Then we might as well go home," said Johnny Trumbull. "If I had
+been you, Jim Patterson, I would have brought that old hen if her
+tail-feathers had come out. Seems to me you scare awful easy."
+
+"Guess if you had heard her squawk!" said Jim, resentfully. "If you want
+to try to lick me, come on, Johnny Trumbull. Guess you don't darse call
+me scared again."
+
+Johnny eyed him standing there in the gloom. Jim was not large, but
+very wiry, and the ground was not suited for combat. Johnny, although a
+victor, would probably go home considerably the worse in appearance; and
+he could anticipate the consequences were his father to encounter him.
+
+"Shucks!" said Johnny Trumbull, of the fine old Trumbull family and
+Madame's exclusive school. "Shucks! who wants your old hen? We had
+chicken for dinner, anyway."
+
+"So did we," said Arnold Carruth.
+
+"We did, and corn," said Lee.
+
+"We did," said Jim.
+
+Lily stepped forth from the alder-bush. "If," said she, "I were a
+boy, and had started to have a chicken-roast, I would have HAD a
+chicken-roast."
+
+But every boy, even the valiant Johnny Trumbull, was gone in a mad
+scutter. This sudden apparition of a girl was too much for their nerves.
+They never even knew who the girl was, although little Arnold Carruth
+said she had looked to him like "Copy-Cat," but the others scouted the
+idea.
+
+Lily Jennings made the best of her way out of the wood across lots to
+the road. She was not in a particularly enviable case. Amelia Wheeler
+was presumably in her bed, and she saw nothing for it but to take the
+difficult way to Amelia's.
+
+Lily tore a great rent in the gingham going up the cedar-tree, but that
+was nothing to what followed. She entered through Amelia's window, her
+prim little room, to find herself confronted by Amelia's mother in a
+wrapper, and her two grandmothers. Grandmother Stark had over her arm
+a beautiful white embroidered dress. The two old ladies had entered the
+room in order to lay the white dress on a chair and take away Amelia's
+gingham, and there was no Amelia. Mrs. Diantha had heard the commotion,
+and had risen, thrown on her wrapper, and come. Her mother had turned
+upon her.
+
+"It is all your fault, Diantha," she had declared.
+
+"My fault?" echoed Mrs. Diantha, bewildered. "Where is Amelia?"
+
+"We don't know," said Grandmother Stark, "but you have probably driven
+her away from home by your cruelty."
+
+"Cruelty?"
+
+"Yes, cruelty. What right had you to make that poor child look like a
+fright, so people laughed at her? We have made her some dresses that
+look decent, and had come here to leave them, and to take away those
+old gingham things that look as if she lived in the almshouse, and leave
+these, so she would either have to wear them or go without, when we
+found she had gone."
+
+It was at that crucial moment that Lily entered by way of the window.
+
+"Here she is now," shrieked Grandmother Stark. "Amelia, where--" Then
+she stopped short.
+
+Everybody stared at Lily's beautiful face suddenly gone white. For once
+Lily was frightened. She lost all self-control. She began to sob. She
+could scarcely tell the absurd story for sobs, but she told, every word.
+
+Then, with a sudden boldness, she too turned on Mrs. Diantha. "They call
+poor Amelia 'CopyCat,'" said she, "and I don't believe she would ever
+have tried so hard to look like me only my mother dresses me so I look
+nice, and you send Amelia to school looking awfully." Then Lily sobbed
+again.
+
+"My Amelia is at your house, as I understand?" said Mrs. Diantha, in an
+awful voice.
+
+"Ye-es, ma-am."
+
+"Let me go," said Mrs. Diantha, violently, to Grandmother Stark, who
+tried to restrain her. Mrs. Diantha dressed herself and marched down the
+street, dragging Lily after her. The little girl had to trot to keep up
+with the tall woman's strides, and all the way she wept.
+
+It was to Lily's mother's everlasting discredit, in Mrs. Diantha's
+opinion, but to Lily's wonderful relief, that when she heard the story,
+standing in the hall in her lovely dinner dress, with the strains of
+music floating from the drawing-room, and cigar smoke floating from the
+dining-room, she laughed. When Lily said, "And there wasn't even any
+chickenroast, mother," she nearly had hysterics.
+
+"If you think this is a laughing matter, Mrs. Jennings, I do not," said
+Mrs. Diantha, and again her dislike and sorrow at the sight of that
+sweet, mirthful face was over her. It was a face to be loved, and hers
+was not.
+
+"Why, I went up-stairs and kissed the child good night, and never
+suspected," laughed Lily's mother.
+
+"I got Aunt Laura's curly, light wig for her," explained Lily, and Mrs.
+Jennings laughed again.
+
+It was not long before Amelia, in her gingham, went home, led by her
+mother--her mother, who was trembling with weakness now. Mrs. Diantha
+did not scold. She did not speak, but Amelia felt with wonder her little
+hand held very tenderly by her mother's long fingers.
+
+When at last she was undressed and in bed, Mrs. Diantha, looking very
+pale, kissed her, and so did both grandmothers.
+
+Amelia, being very young and very tired, went to sleep. She did not know
+that that night was to mark a sharp turn in her whole life. Thereafter
+she went to school "dressed like the best," and her mother petted her as
+nobody had ever known her mother could pet.
+
+It was not so very long afterward that Amelia, out of her own
+improvement in appearance, developed a little stamp of individuality.
+
+One day Lily wore a white frock with blue ribbons, and Amelia wore one
+with coral pink. It was a particular day in school; there was company,
+and tea was served.
+
+"I told you I was going to wear blue ribbons," Lily whispered to Amelia.
+Amelia smiled lovingly back at her.
+
+"Yes, I know, but I thought I would wear pink."
+
+
+
+
+THE COCK OF THE WALK
+
+DOWN the road, kicking up the dust until he marched, soldier-wise, in a
+cloud of it, that rose and grimed his moist face and added to the heavy,
+brown powder upon the wayside weeds and flowers, whistling a queer,
+tuneless thing, which yet contained definite sequences--the whistle of
+a bird rather than a boy--approached Johnny Trumbull, aged ten, small of
+his age, but accounted by his mates mighty.
+
+Johnny came of the best and oldest family in the village, but it was
+in some respects an undesirable family for a boy. In it survived, as
+fossils survive in ancient nooks and crannies of the earth, old traits
+of race, unchanged by time and environment. Living in a house lighted
+by electricity, the mental conception of it was to the Trumbulls as the
+conception of candles; with telephones at hand, they unconsciously still
+conceived of messages delivered with the old saying, "Ride, ride,"
+etc., and relays of post-horses. They locked their doors, but still had
+latch-strings in mind. Johnny's father was a physician, adopting modern
+methods of surgery and prescription, yet his mind harked back to cupping
+and calomel, and now and then he swerved aside from his path across the
+field of the present into the future and plunged headlong, as if for
+fresh air, into the traditional past, and often with brilliant results.
+
+Johnny's mother was a college graduate. She was the president of the
+woman's club. She read papers savoring of such feminine leaps ahead that
+they were like gymnastics, but she walked homeward with the gait of her
+great-grandmother, and inwardly regarded her husband as her lord and
+master. She minced genteelly, lifting her quite fashionable skirts high
+above very slender ankles, which were hereditary. Not a woman of her
+race had ever gone home on thick ankles, and they had all gone home.
+They had all been at home, even if abroad--at home in the truest sense.
+At the club, reading her inflammatory paper, Cora Trumbull's real
+self remained at home intent upon her mending, her dusting, her house
+economics. It was something remarkably like her astral body which
+presided at the club.
+
+As for her unmarried sister Janet, who was older and had graduated from
+a young ladies' seminary instead of a college, whose early fancy had
+been guided into the lady-like ways of antimacassars and pincushions
+and wax flowers under glass shades, she was a straighter proposition. No
+astral pretensions had Janet. She stayed, body and soul together, in
+the old ways, and did not even project her shadow out of them. There is
+seldom room enough for one's shadow in one's earliest way of life, but
+there was plenty for Janet's. There had been a Janet unmarried in every
+Trumbull family for generations. That in some subtle fashion accounted
+for her remaining single. There had also been an unmarried Jonathan
+Trumbull, and that accounted for Johnny's old bachelor uncle Jonathan.
+Jonathan was a retired clergyman. He had retired before he had preached
+long, because of doctrinal doubts, which were hereditary. He had
+a little, dark study in Johnny's father's house, which was the old
+Trumbull homestead, and he passed much of his time there, debating
+within himself that matter of doctrines.
+
+Presently Johnny, assiduously kicking up dust, met his uncle Jonathan,
+who passed without the slightest notice. Johnny did not mind at all. He
+was used to it. Presently his own father appeared, driving along in
+his buggy the bay mare at a steady jog, with the next professional call
+quite clearly upon her equine mind. And Johnny's father did not see him.
+Johnny did not mind that, either. He expected nothing different.
+
+Then Johnny saw his mother approaching. She was coming from the club
+meeting. She held up her silk skirts high, as usual, and carried a
+nice little parcel of papers tied with ribbon. She also did not notice
+Johnny, who, however, out of sweet respect for his mother's nice silk
+dress, stopped kicking up dust. Mrs. Trumbull on the village street was
+really at home preparing a shortcake for supper.
+
+Johnny eyed his mother's faded but rather beautiful face under the
+rose-trimmed bonnet with admiration and entire absence of resentment.
+Then he walked on and kicked up the dust again. He loved to kick up the
+dust in summer, the fallen leaves in autumn, and the snow in winter.
+Johnny was not a typical Trumbull. None of them had ever cared for
+simple amusements like that. Looking back for generations on his
+father's and mother's side (both had been Trumbulls, but very distantly
+related), none could be discovered who in the least resembled Johnny. No
+dim blue eye of retrospection and reflection had Johnny; no tendency to
+tall slenderness which would later bow beneath the greater weight of the
+soul. Johnny was small, but wiry of build, and looked able to bear any
+amount of mental development without a lasting bend of his physical
+shoulders. Johnny had, at the early age of ten, whopped nearly every
+boy in school, but that was a secret of honor. It was well known in the
+school that, once the Trumbulls heard of it, Johnny could never whop
+again. "You fellows know," Johnny had declared once, standing over his
+prostrate and whimpering foe, "that I don't mind getting whopped at
+home, but they might send me away to another school, and then I could
+never whop any of you fellows."
+
+Johnny Trumbull kicking up the dust, himself dust-covered, his shoes,
+his little queerly fitting dun suit, his cropped head, all thickly
+powdered, loved it. He sniffed in that dust like a grateful incense. He
+did not stop dust-kicking when he saw his aunt Janet coming, for, as he
+considered, her old black gown was not worth the sacrifice. It was true
+that she might see him. She sometimes did, if she were not reading a
+book as she walked. It had always been a habit with the Janet Trumbulls
+to read improving books when they walked abroad. To-day Johnny saw, with
+a quick glance of those sharp, black eyes, so unlike the Trumbulls',
+that his aunt Janet was reading. He therefore expected her to pass him
+without recognition, and marched on kicking up the dust. But suddenly,
+as he grew nearer the spry little figure, he was aware of a pair of gray
+eyes, before which waved protectingly a hand clad in a black silk
+glove with dangling finger-tips, because it was too long, and it dawned
+swiftly upon him that Aunt Janet was trying to shield her face from the
+moving column of brown motes. He stopped kicking, but it was too late.
+Aunt Janet had him by the collar and was vigorously shaking him with
+nervous strength.
+
+"You are a very naughty little boy," declared Aunt Janet. "You should
+know better than to walk along the street raising so much dust. No
+well-brought-up child ever does such things. Who are your parents, little
+boy?"
+
+Johnny perceived that Aunt Janet did not recognize him, which was easily
+explained. She wore her reading-spectacles and not her far-seeing ones;
+besides, her reading spectacles were obscured by dust and her nephew's
+face was nearly obliterated. Also as she shook him his face was not much
+in evidence. Johnny disliked, naturally, to tell his aunt Janet that her
+own sister and brother-in-law were the parents of such a wicked little
+boy. He therefore kept quiet and submitted to the shaking, making
+himself as limp as a rag. This, however, exasperated Aunt Janet, who
+found herself encumbered by a dead weight of a little boy to be shaken,
+and suddenly Johnny Trumbull, the fighting champion of the town, the
+cock of the walk of the school, found himself being ignominiously
+spanked. That was too much. Johnny's fighting blood was up. He lost all
+consideration for circumstances, he forgot that Aunt Janet was not a
+boy, that she was quite near being an old lady. She had overstepped the
+bounds of privilege of age and sex, and an alarming state of equality
+ensued. Quickly the tables were turned. The boy became far from limp. He
+stiffened, then bounded and rebounded like wire. He butted, he parried,
+he observed all his famous tactics of battle, and poor Aunt Janet sat
+down in the dust, black dress, bonnet, glasses (but the glasses were
+off and lost), little improving book, black silk gloves, and all; and
+Johnny, hopeless, awful, irreverent, sat upon his Aunt Janet's plunging
+knees, which seemed the most lively part of her. He kept his face
+twisted away from her, but it was not from cowardice. Johnny was afraid
+lest Aunt Janet should be too much overcome by the discovery of his
+identity. He felt that it was his duty to spare her that. So he sat
+still, triumphant but inwardly aghast.
+
+It was fast dawning upon him that his aunt was not a little boy. He was
+not afraid of any punishment which might be meted out to him, but he was
+simply horrified. He himself had violated all the honorable conditions
+of warfare. He felt a little dizzy and ill, and he felt worse when
+he ventured a hurried glance at Aunt Janet's face. She was very pale
+through the dust, and her eyes were closed. Johnny thought then that he
+had killed her.
+
+He got up--the nervous knees were no longer plunging; then he heard a
+voice, a little-girl voice, always shrill, but now high pitched to a
+squeak with terror. It was the voice of Lily Jennings. She stood near
+and yet aloof, a lovely little flower of a girl, all white-scalloped
+frills and ribbons, with a big white-frilled hat shading a pale little
+face and covering the top of a head decorated with wonderful yellow
+curls. She stood behind a big baby-carriage with a pink-lined muslin
+canopy and containing a nest of pink and white, but an empty nest.
+Lily's little brother's carriage had a spring broken, and she had been
+to borrow her aunt's baby-carriage, so that nurse could wheel little
+brother up and down the veranda. Nurse had a headache, and the
+maids were busy, and Lily, who was a kind little soul and, moreover,
+imaginative, and who liked the idea of pushing an empty baby-carriage,
+had volunteered to go for it. All the way she had been dreaming of what
+was not in the carriage. She had come directly out of a dream of doll
+twins when she chanced upon the tragedy in the road.
+
+"What have you been doing now, Johnny Trumbull?" said she. She was
+tremulous, white with horror, but she stood her ground. It was curious,
+but Johnny Trumbull, with all his bravery, was always cowed before Lily.
+Once she had turned and stared at him when he had emerged triumphant
+but with bleeding nose from a fight; then she had sniffed delicately and
+gone her way. It had only taken a second, but in that second the victor
+had met moral defeat.
+
+He looked now at her pale, really scared face, and his own was as pale.
+He stood and kicked the dust until the swirling column of it reached his
+head.
+
+"That's right," said Lily; "stand and kick up dust all over me. WHAT
+have you been doing?"
+
+Johnny was trembling so he could hardly stand. He stopped kicking dust.
+
+"Have you killed your aunt?" demanded Lily. It was monstrous, but she
+had a very dramatic imagination, and there was a faint hint of enjoyment
+in her tragic voice.
+
+"Guess she's just choked by dust," volunteered Johnny, hoarsely. He
+kicked the dust again.
+
+"That's right," said Lily. "If she's choked to death by dust, stand
+there and choke her some more. You are a murderer, Johnny Trumbull, and
+my mamma will never allow me to speak to you again, and Madame will not
+allow you to come to school. AND--I see your papa driving up the street,
+and there is the chief policeman's buggy just behind." Lily acquiesced
+entirely in the extraordinary coincidence of the father and the chief of
+police appearing upon the scene. The unlikely seemed to her the likely.
+"NOW," said she, cheerfully, "you will be put in state prison and locked
+up, and then you will be put to death by a very strong telephone."
+
+Johnny's father was leaning out of his buggy, looking back at the chief
+of police in his, and the mare was jogging very slowly in a perfect reek
+of dust. Lily, who was, in spite of her terrific imagination, human and
+a girl, rose suddenly to heights of pity and succor. "They shall never
+take you, Johnny Trumbull," said she. "I will save you."
+
+Johnny by this time was utterly forgetful of his high status as champion
+(behind her back) of Madame's very select school for select children of
+a somewhat select village. He was forgetful of the fact that a champion
+never cries. He cried; he blubbered; tears rolled over his dusty cheeks,
+making furrows like plowshares of grief. He feared lest he might have
+killed his aunt Janet. Women, and not very young women, might presumably
+be unable to survive such rough usage as very tough and at the same time
+very limber little boys, and he loved his poor aunt Janet. He
+grieved because of his aunt, his parents, his uncle, and rather more
+particularly because of himself. He was quite sure that the policeman
+was coming for him. Logic had no place in his frenzied conclusions. He
+did not consider how the tragedy had taken place entirely out of sight
+of a house, that Lily Jennings was the only person who had any knowledge
+of it. He looked at the masterful, fair-haired little girl like a baby.
+"How?" sniffed he.
+
+For answer, Lily pointed to the empty baby-carriage. "Get right in," she
+ordered.
+
+Even in this dire extremity Johnny hesitated. "Can't."
+
+"Yes, you can. It is extra large. Aunt Laura's baby was a twin when
+he first came; now he's just an ordinary baby, but his carriage is big
+enough for two. There's plenty of room. Besides, you're a very small
+boy, very small of your age, even if you do knock all the other boys
+down and have murdered your aunt. Get in. In a minute they will see
+you."
+
+There was in reality no time to lose. Johnny did get in. In spite of the
+provisions for twins, there was none too much room.
+
+Lily covered him up with the fluffy pink-and-lace things, and scowled.
+"You hump up awfully," she muttered. Then she reached beneath him and
+snatched out the pillow on which he lay, the baby's little bed. She gave
+it a swift toss over the fringe of wayside bushes into a field. "Aunt
+Laura's nice embroidered pillow," said she. "Make yourself just as flat
+as you can, Johnny Trumbull."
+
+Johnny obeyed, but he was obliged to double himself up like a
+jack-knife. However, there was no sign of him visible when the two
+buggies drew up. There stood a pale and frightened little girl, with a
+baby-carriage canopied with rose and lace and heaped up with rosy and
+lacy coverlets, presumably sheltering a sleeping infant. Lily was a very
+keen little girl. She had sense enough not to run. The two men, at the
+sight of Aunt Janet prostrate in the road, leaped out of their buggies.
+The doctor's horse stood still; the policeman's trotted away, to Lily's
+great relief. She could not imagine Johnny's own father haling him away
+to state prison and the stern Arm of Justice. She stood the fire of
+bewildered questions in the best and safest fashion. She wept bitterly,
+and her tears were not assumed. Poor little Lily was all of a sudden
+crushed under the weight of facts. There was Aunt Janet, she had no
+doubt, killed by her own nephew, and she was hiding the guilty murderer.
+She had visions of state prison for herself. She watched fearfully
+while the two men bent over the prostrate woman, who very soon began to
+sputter and gasp and try to sit up.
+
+"What on earth is the matter, Janet?" inquired Dr. Trumbull, who was
+paler than his sister-inlaw. In fact, she was unable to look very pale
+on account of dust.
+
+"Ow!" sputtered Aunt Janet, coughing violently, "get me up out of this
+dust, John. Ow!"
+
+"What was the matter?"
+
+"Yes, what has happened, madam?" demanded the chief of police, sternly.
+
+"Nothing," replied Aunt Janet, to Lily's and Johnny's amazement. "What
+do you think has happened? I fell down in all this nasty dust. Ow!"
+
+"What did you eat for luncheon, Janet?" inquired Dr. Trumbull, as he
+assisted his sister-inlaw to her feet.
+
+"What I was a fool to eat," replied Janet Trumbull, promptly. "Cucumber
+salad and lemon jelly with whipped cream."
+
+"Enough to make anybody have indigestion," said Dr. Trumbull. "You have
+had one of these attacks before, too, Janet. You remember the time you
+ate strawberry shortcake and ice-cream?"
+
+Janet nodded meekly. Then she coughed again. "Ow, this dust!" gasped
+she. "For goodness' sake, John, get me home where I can get some water
+and take off these dusty clothes or I shall choke to death."
+
+"How does your stomach feel?" inquired Dr. Trumbull.
+
+"Stomach is all right now, but I am just choking to death with the
+dust." Janet turned sharply toward the policeman. "You have sense enough
+to keep still, I hope," said she. "I don't want the whole town ringing
+with my being such an idiot as to eat cucumbers and cream together and
+being found this way." Janet looked like an animated creation of dust as
+she faced the chief of police.
+
+"Yes, ma'am," he replied, bowing and scraping one foot and raising more
+dust.
+
+He and Dr. Trumbull assisted Aunt Janet into the buggy, and they drove
+off. Then the chief of police discovered that his own horse had gone.
+"Did you see which way he went, sis?" he inquired of Lily, and she
+pointed down the road, and sobbed as she did so.
+
+The policeman said something bad under his breath, then advised Lily to
+run home to her ma, and started down the road.
+
+When he was out of sight, Lily drew back the pink-and-white things from
+Johnny's face. "Well, you didn't kill her this time," said she.
+
+"Why do you s'pose she didn't tell all about it?" said Johnny, gaping at
+her.
+
+"How do I know? I suppose she was ashamed to tell how she had been
+fighting, maybe."
+
+"No, that was not why," said Johnny in a deep voice.
+
+"Why was it, then?"
+
+"SHE KNEW."
+
+Johnny began to climb out of the baby-carriage.
+
+"What will she do next, then?" asked Lily.
+
+"I don't know," Johnny replied, gloomily.
+
+He was out of the carriage then, and Lily was readjusting the pillows
+and things. "Get that nice embroidered pillow I threw over the bushes,"
+she ordered, crossly. Johnny obeyed. When she had finished putting the
+baby-carriage to rights she turned upon poor little Johnny Trumbull, and
+her face wore the expression of a queen of tragedy. "Well," said Lily
+Jennings, "I suppose I shall have to marry you when I am grown up, after
+all this."
+
+Johnny gasped. He thought Lily the most beautiful girl he knew, but to
+be confronted with murder and marriage within a few minutes was almost
+too much. He flushed a burning red. He laughed foolishly. He said
+nothing.
+
+"It will be very hard on me," stated Lily, "to marry a boy who tried to
+murder his nice aunt."
+
+Johnny revived a bit under this feminine disdain. "I didn't try to
+murder her," he said in a weak voice.
+
+"You might have, throwing her down in all that awful dust, a nice, clean
+lady. Ladies are not like boys. It might kill them very quickly to be
+knocked down on a dusty road."
+
+"I didn't mean to kill her."
+
+"You might have."
+
+"Well, I didn't, and--she--"
+
+"What?"
+
+"She spanked me."
+
+"Pooh! That doesn't amount to anything," sniffed Lily.
+
+"It does if you are a boy."
+
+"I don't see why."
+
+"Well, I can't help it if you don't. It does."
+
+"Why shouldn't a boy be spanked when he's naughty, just as well as a
+girl, I would like to know?"
+
+"Because he's a boy."
+
+Lily looked at Johnny Trumbull. The great fact did remain. He had been
+spanked, he had thrown his own aunt down in the dust. He had taken
+advantage of her little-girl protection, but he was a boy. Lily did not
+understand his why at all, but she bowed before it. However, that she
+would not admit. She made a rapid change of base. "What," said she, "are
+you going to do next?"
+
+Johnny stared at her. It was a puzzle.
+
+"If," said Lily, distinctly, "you are afraid to go home, if you think
+your aunt will tell, I will let you get into Aunt Laura's baby-carriage
+again, and I will wheel you a little way."
+
+Johnny would have liked at that moment to knock Lily down, as he had his
+aunt Janet. Lily looked at him shrewdly. "Oh yes," said she, "you can
+knock me down in the dust there if you want to, and spoil my nice clean
+dress. You will be a boy, just the same."
+
+"I will never marry you, anyway," declared Johnny.
+
+"Aren't you afraid I'll tell on you and get you another spanking if you
+don't?"
+
+"Tell if you want to. I'd enough sight rather be spanked than marry
+you."
+
+A gleam of respect came into the little girl's wisely regarding blue
+eyes. She, with the swiftness of her sex, recognized in forlorn little
+Johnny the making of a man. "Oh, well," said she, loftily, "I never
+was a telltale, and, anyway, we are not grown up, and there will be my
+trousseau to get, and a lot of other things to do first. I shall go to
+Europe before I am married, too, and I might meet a boy much nicer than
+you on the steamer."
+
+"Meet him if you want to."
+
+Lily looked at Johnny Trumbull with more than respect--with
+admiration--but she kept guard over her little tongue. "Well, you can
+leave that for the future," said she with a grown-up air.
+
+"I ain't going to leave it. It's settled for good and all now," growled
+Johnny.
+
+To his immense surprise, Lily curved her white embroidered sleeve over
+her face and began to weep.
+
+"What's the matter now?" asked Johnny, sulkily, after a minute.
+
+"I think you are a real horrid boy," sobbed Lily.
+
+Lily looked like nothing but a very frilly, sweet, white flower.
+Johnny could not see her face. There was nothing to be seen except
+that delicate fluff of white, supported on dainty white-socked,
+white-slippered limbs.
+
+"Say," said Johnny.
+
+"You are real cruel, when I--I saved your--li-fe," wailed Lily.
+
+"Say," said Johnny, "maybe if I don't see any other girl I like better
+I will marry you when I am grown up, but I won't if you don't stop that
+howling."
+
+Lily stopped immediately. She peeped at him, a blue peep from under the
+flopping, embroidered brim of her hat. "Are you in earnest?" She
+smiled faintly. Her blue eyes, wet with tears, were lovely; so was her
+hesitating smile.
+
+"Yes, if you don't act silly," said Johnny. "Now you had better run
+home, or your mother will wonder where that baby-carriage is."
+
+Lily walked away, smiling over her shoulder, the smile of the happily
+subjugated. "I won't tell anybody, Johnny," she called back in her
+flute-like voice.
+
+"Don't care if you do," returned Johnny, looking at her with chin in the
+air and shoulders square, and Lily wondered at his bravery.
+
+But Johnny was not so brave and he did care. He knew that his best
+course was an immediate return home, but he did not know what he might
+have to face. He could not in the least understand why his aunt Janet
+had not told at once. He was sure that she knew. Then he thought of a
+possible reason for her silence; she might have feared his arrest at the
+hands of the chief of police. Johnny quailed. He knew his aunt Janet
+to be rather a brave sort of woman. If she had fears, she must have had
+reason for them. He might even now be arrested. Suppose Lily did
+tell. He had a theory that girls usually told. He began to speculate
+concerning the horrors of prison. Of course he would not be executed,
+since his aunt was obviously very far from being killed, but he might be
+imprisoned for a long term.
+
+Johnny went home. He did not kick the dust any more. He walked very
+steadily and staidly. When he came in sight of the old Colonial mansion,
+with its massive veranda pillars, he felt chilly. However, he went on.
+He passed around to the south door and entered and smelled shortcake.
+It would have smelled delicious had he not had so much on his mind. He
+looked through the hall, and had a glimpse of his uncle Jonathan in the
+study, writing. At the right of the door was his father's office. The
+door of that was open, and Johnny saw his father pouring things from
+bottles. He did not look at Johnny. His mother crossed the hall. She
+had on a long white apron, which she wore when making her famous cream
+shortcakes. She saw Johnny, but merely observed, "Go and wash your face
+and hands, Johnny; it is nearly supper-time."
+
+Johnny went up-stairs. At the upper landing he found his aunt Janet
+waiting for him. "Come here," she whispered, and Johnny followed her,
+trembling, into her own room. It was a large room, rather crowded with
+heavy, old-fashioned furniture. Aunt Janet had freed herself from dust
+and was arrayed in a purple silk gown. Her hair was looped loosely on
+either side of her long face. She was a handsome woman, after a certain
+type.
+
+"Stand here, Johnny," said she. She had closed the door, and Johnny
+was stationed before her. She did not seem in the least injured nor the
+worse for her experience. On the contrary, there was a bright-red flush
+on her cheeks, and her eyes shone as Johnny had never seen them. She
+looked eagerly at Johnny.
+
+"Why did you do that?" she said, but there was no anger in her voice.
+
+"I forgot," began Johnny.
+
+"Forgot what?" Her voice was strained with eagerness.
+
+"That you were not another boy," said Johnny.
+
+"Tell me," said Aunt Janet. "No, you need not tell me, because if you
+did it might be my duty to inform your parents. I know there is no need
+of your telling. You MUST be in the habit of fighting with the other
+boys."
+
+"Except the little ones," admitted Johnny.
+
+To Johnny's wild astonishment, Aunt Janet seized him by the shoulders
+and looked him in the eyes with a look of adoration and immense
+approval. "Thank goodness," said she, "at last there is going to be a
+fighter in the Trumbull family. Your uncle would never fight, and your
+father would not. Your grandfather would. Your uncle and your father are
+good men, though; you must try to be like them, Johnny."
+
+"Yes, ma'am," replied Johnny, bewildered.
+
+"I think they would be called better men than your grandfather and my
+father," said Aunt Janet.
+
+"Yes, ma'am."
+
+"I think it is time for you to have your grandfather's watch," said Aunt
+Janet. "I think you are man enough to take care of it." Aunt Janet had
+all the time been holding a black leather case. Now she opened it, and
+Johnny saw the great gold watch which he had seen many times before and
+had always understood was to be his some day, when he was a man. "Here,"
+said Aunt Janet. "Take good care of it. You must try to be as good as
+your uncle and father, but you must remember one thing--you will wear a
+watch which belonged to a man who never allowed other men to crowd him
+out of the way he elected to go."
+
+"Yes, ma'am," said Johnny. He took the watch.
+
+"What do you say?" inquired his aunt, sharply.
+
+"Thank you."
+
+"That's right. I thought you had forgotten your manners. Your
+grandfather never did."
+
+"I am sorry. Aunt Janet," muttered Johnny, "that I--"
+
+"You need never say anything about that," his aunt returned, quickly.
+"I did not see who you were at first. You are too old to be spanked by a
+woman, but you ought to be whipped by a man, and I wish your grandfather
+were alive to do it."
+
+"Yes, ma'am," said Johnny. He looked at her bravely. "He could if he
+wanted to," said he.
+
+Aunt Janet smiled at him proudly. "Of course," said she, "a boy like you
+never gets the worst of it fighting with other boys."
+
+"No, ma'am," said Johnny.
+
+Aunt Janet smiled again. "Now run and wash your face and hands," said
+she; "you must not keep supper waiting. Your mother has a paper to write
+for her club, and I have promised to help her."
+
+"Yes, ma'am," said Johnny. He walked out, carrying the great gold
+timepiece, bewildered, embarrassed, modest beneath his honors, but
+little cock of the walk, whether he would or no, for reasons entirely
+and forever beyond his ken.
+
+
+
+
+JOHNNY-IN-THE-WOODS
+
+JOHNNY TRUMBULL, he who had demonstrated his claim to be Cock of the
+Walk by a most impious hand-to-hand fight with his own aunt, Miss Janet
+Trumbull, in which he had been decisively victorious, and won his spurs,
+consisting of his late grandfather's immense, solemnly ticking watch,
+was to take a new path of action. Johnny suddenly developed the
+prominent Trumbull trait, but in his case it was inverted. Johnny, as
+became a boy of his race, took an excursion into the past, but instead
+of applying the present to the past, as was the tendency of the other
+Trumbulls, he forcibly applied the past to the present. He fairly
+plastered the past over the exigencies of his day and generation like a
+penetrating poultice of mustard, and the results were peculiar.
+
+Johnny, being bidden of a rainy day during the midsummer vacation to
+remain in the house, to keep quiet, read a book, and be a good boy,
+obeyed, but his obedience was of a doubtful measure of wisdom.
+
+Johnny got a book out of his uncle Jonathan Trumbull's dark little
+library while Jonathan was walking sedately to the post-office, holding
+his dripping umbrella at a wonderful slant of exactness, without regard
+to the wind, thereby getting the soft drive of the rain full in his
+face, which became, as it were, bedewed with tears, entirely outside any
+cause of his own emotions.
+
+Johnny probably got the only book of an antiorthodox trend in his
+uncle's library. He found tucked away in a snug corner an ancient
+collection of Border Ballads, and he read therein of many unmoral
+romances and pretty fancies, which, since he was a small boy, held
+little meaning for him, or charm, beyond a delight in the swing of the
+rhythm, for Johnny had a feeling for music. It was when he read of Robin
+Hood, the bold Robin Hood, with his dubious ethics but his certain and
+unquenchable interest, that Johnny Trumbull became intent. He had the
+volume in his own room, being somewhat doubtful as to whether it might
+be of the sort included in the good-boy role. He sat beside a rainwashed
+window, which commanded a view of the wide field between the Trumbull
+mansion and Jim Simmons's house, and he read about Robin Hood and his
+Greenwood adventures, his forcible setting the wrong right; and for the
+first time his imagination awoke, and his ambition. Johnny Trumbull,
+hitherto hero of nothing except little material fistfights, wished now
+to become a hero of true romance.
+
+In fact, Johnny considered seriously the possibility of reincarnating,
+in his own person, Robin Hood. He eyed the wide green field dreamily
+through his rain-blurred window. It was a pretty field, waving with
+feathery grasses and starred with daisies and buttercups, and it was
+very fortunate that it happened to be so wide. Jim Simmons's house was
+not a desirable feature of the landscape, and looked much better several
+acres away. It was a neglected, squalid structure, and considered a
+disgrace to the whole village. Jim was also a disgrace, and an unsolved
+problem. He owned that house, and somehow contrived to pay the taxes
+thereon. He also lived and throve in bodily health in spite of evil
+ways, and his children were many. There seemed no way to dispose finally
+of Jim Simmons and his house except by murder and arson, and the village
+was a peaceful one, and such measures were entirely too strenuous.
+
+Presently Johnny, staring dreamily out of his window, saw approaching a
+rusty-black umbrella held at precisely the wrong angle in respect of the
+storm, but held with the unvarying stiffness with which a soldier might
+hold a bayonet, and knew it for his uncle Jonathan's umbrella. Soon he
+beheld also his uncle's serious, rain-drenched face and his long ambling
+body and legs. Jonathan was coming home from the post-office, whither
+he repaired every morning. He never got a letter, never anything except
+religious newspapers, but the visit to the post-office was part of his
+daily routine. Rain or shine, Jonathan Trumbull went for the morning
+mail, and gained thereby a queer negative enjoyment of a perfectly
+useless duty performed. Johnny watched his uncle draw near to the house,
+and cruelly reflected how unlike Robin Hood he must be. He even
+wondered if his uncle could possibly have read Robin Hood and still show
+absolutely no result in his own personal appearance. He knew that
+he, Johnny, could not walk to the post-office and back, even with the
+drawback of a dripping old umbrella instead of a bow and arrow, without
+looking a bit like Robin Hood, especially when fresh from reading about
+him.
+
+Then suddenly something distracted his thoughts from Uncle Jonathan. The
+long, feathery grass in the field moved with a motion distinct from
+that caused by the wind and rain. Johnny saw a tiger-striped back emerge,
+covering long leaps of terror. Johnny knew the creature for a cat afraid
+of Uncle Jonathan. Then he saw the grass move behind the first leaping,
+striped back, and he knew there were more cats afraid of Uncle Jonathan.
+There were even motions caused by unseen things, and he reasoned,
+"Kittens afraid of Uncle Jonathan." Then Johnny reflected with a great
+glow of indignation that the Simmonses kept an outrageous number of
+half-starved cats and kittens, besides a quota of children popularly
+supposed to be none too well nourished, let alone properly clothed. Then
+it was that Johnny Trumbull's active, firm imagination slapped the past
+of old romance like a most thorough mustard poultice over the present.
+There could be no Lincoln Green, no following of brave outlaws (that
+is, in the strictest sense), no bows and arrows, no sojourning under
+greenwood trees and the rest, but something he could, and would, do and
+be. That rainy day when Johnny Trumbull was a good boy, and stayed in
+the house, and read a book, marked an epoch.
+
+That night when Johnny went into his aunt Janet's room she looked
+curiously at his face, which seemed a little strange to her. Johnny,
+since he had come into possession of his grandfather's watch, went every
+night, on his way to bed, to his aunt's room for the purpose of winding
+up that ancient timepiece, Janet having a firm impression that it might
+not be done properly unless under her supervision. Johnny stood before
+his aunt and wound up the watch with its ponderous key, and she watched
+him.
+
+"What have you been doing all day, John?" said she.
+
+"Stayed in the house and--read."
+
+"What did you read, John?"
+
+"A book."
+
+"Do you mean to be impertinent, John?"
+
+"No, ma'am," replied Johnny, and with perfect truth. He had not the
+slightest idea of the title of the book.
+
+"What was the book?"
+
+"A poetry book."
+
+"Where did you find it?"
+
+"In Uncle Jonathan's library."
+
+"Poetry In Uncle Jonathan's library?" said Janet, in a mystified way.
+She had a general impression of Jonathan's library as of century-old
+preserves, altogether dried up and quite indistinguishable one from the
+other except by labels. Poetry she could not imagine as being there
+at all. Finally she thought of the early Victorians, and Spenser and
+Chaucer. The library might include them, but she had an idea that
+Spenser and Chaucer were not fit reading for a little boy. However,
+as she remembered Spenser and Chaucer, she doubted if Johnny could
+understand much of them. Probably he had gotten hold of an early
+Victorian, and she looked rather contemptuous.
+
+"I don't think much of a boy like you reading poetry," said Janet.
+"Couldn't you find anything else to read?"
+
+"No, ma'am." That also was truth. Johnny, before exploring his uncle's
+theological library, had peered at his father's old medical books
+and his mother's bookcases, which contained quite terrifying uniform
+editions of standard things written by women.
+
+"I don't suppose there ARE many books written for boys," said Aunt
+Janet, reflectively.
+
+"No, ma'am," said Johnny. He finished winding the watch, and gave, as
+was the custom, the key to Aunt Janet, lest he lose it.
+
+"I will see if I cannot find some books of travels for you, John," said
+Janet. "I think travels would be good reading for a boy. Good night,
+John."
+
+"Good night. Aunt Janet," replied Johnny. His aunt never kissed him good
+night, which was one reason why he liked her.
+
+On his way to bed he had to pass his mother's room, whose door stood
+open. She was busy writing at her desk. She glanced at Johnny.
+
+"Are you going to bed?" said she.
+
+"Yes, ma'am."
+
+Johnny entered the room and let his mother kiss his forehead, parting
+his curly hair to do so. He loved his mother, but did not care at all to
+have her kiss him. He did not object, because he thought she liked to
+do it, and she was a woman, and it was a very little thing in which he
+could oblige her.
+
+"Were you a good boy, and did you find a good book to read?" asked she.
+
+"Yes, ma'am."
+
+"What was the book?" Cora Trumbull inquired, absently, writing as she
+spoke.
+
+"Poetry."
+
+Cora laughed. "Poetry is odd for a boy," said she. "You should have
+read a book of travels or history. Good night, Johnny."
+
+"Good night, mother."
+
+Then Johnny met his father, smelling strongly of medicines, coming up
+from his study. But his father did not see him. And Johnny went to bed,
+having imbibed from that old tale of Robin Hood more of history and more
+knowledge of excursions into realms of old romance than his elders had
+ever known during much longer lives than his.
+
+Johnny confided in nobody at first. His feeling nearly led him astray
+in the matter of Lily Jennings; he thought of her, for one sentimental
+minute, as Robin Hood's Maid Marion. Then he dismissed the idea
+peremptorily. Lily Jennings would simply laugh. He knew her. Moreover,
+she was a girl, and not to be trusted. Johnny felt the need of another
+boy who would be a kindred spirit; he wished for more than one boy.
+He wished for a following of heroic and lawless souls, even as Robin
+Hood's. But he could think of nobody, after considerable study, except
+one boy, younger than himself. He was a beautiful little boy, whose
+mother had never allowed him to have his golden curls cut, although
+he had been in trousers for quite a while. However, the trousers were
+foolish, being knickerbockers, and accompanied by low socks, which
+revealed pretty, dimpled, babyish legs. The boy's name was Arnold
+Carruth, and that was against him, as being long, and his mother firm
+about allowing no nickname. Nicknames in any case were not allowed in
+the very exclusive private school which Johnny attended.
+
+Arnold Carruth, in spite of his being such a beautiful little boy,
+would have had no standing at all in the school as far as popularity was
+concerned had it not been for a strain of mischief which triumphed over
+curls, socks, and pink cheeks and a much-kissed rosebud of a mouth.
+Arnold Carruth, as one of the teachers permitted herself to state when
+relaxed in the bosom of her own family, was "as choke-full of mischief
+as a pod of peas. And the worst of it all is," quoth the teacher, Miss
+Agnes Rector, who was a pretty young girl, with a hidden sympathy for
+mischief herself--"the worst of it is, that child looks so like a cherub
+on a rosy cloud that even if he should be caught nobody would believe
+it. They would be much more likely to accuse poor little Andrew Jackson
+Green, because he has a snub nose and is a bit cross-eyed, and I never
+knew that poor child to do anything except obey rules and learn his
+lessons. He is almost too good. And another worst of it is, nobody
+can help loving that little imp of a Carruth boy, mischief and all. I
+believe the scamp knows it and takes advantage of it."
+
+It is quite possible that Arnold Carruth did profit unworthily by his
+beauty and engagingness, albeit without calculation. He was so young,
+it was monstrous to believe him capable of calculation, of deliberate
+trading upon his assets of birth and beauty and fascination. However,
+Johnny Trumbull, who was wide awake and a year older, was alive to the
+situation. He told Arnold Carruth, and Arnold Carruth only, about Robin
+Hood and his great scheme.
+
+"You can help," said this wise Johnny; "you can be in it, because nobody
+thinks you can be in anything, on account of your wearing curls."
+
+Arnold Carruth flushed and gave an angry tug at one golden curl which
+the wind blew over a shoulder. The two boys were in a secluded corner
+of Madame's lawn, behind a clump of Japanese cedars, during an
+intermission.
+
+"I can't help it because I wear curls," declared Arnold with angry
+shame.
+
+"Who said you could? No need of getting mad."
+
+"Mamma and Aunt Flora and grandmamma won't let me have these old curls
+cut off," said Arnold. "You needn't think I want to have curls like a
+girl, Johnny Trumbull."
+
+"Who said you did? And I know you don't like to wear those short
+stockings, either."
+
+"Like to!" Arnold gave a spiteful kick, first of one half-bared, dimpled
+leg, then of the other.
+
+"First thing you know I'll steal mamma's or Aunt Flora's stockings and
+throw these in the furnace-I will. Do you s'pose a feller wants to wear
+these baby things? I guess not. Women are awful queer, Johnny Trumbull.
+My mamma and my aunt Flora are awful nice, but they are queer about some
+things."
+
+"Most women are queer," agreed Johnny, "but my aunt Janet isn't as queer
+as some. Rather guess if she saw me with curls like a little girl she'd
+cut 'em off herself."
+
+"Wish she was my aunt," said Arnold Carruth with a sigh. "A feller needs
+a woman like that till he's grown up. Do you s'pose she'd cut off my
+curls if I was to go to your house, Johnny?"
+
+"I'm afraid she wouldn't think it was right unless your mother said she
+might. She has to be real careful about doing right, because my uncle
+Jonathan used to preach, you know."
+
+Arnold Carruth grinned savagely, as if he endured pain. "Well, I s'pose
+I'll have to stand the curls and little baby stockings awhile longer,"
+said he. "What was it you were going to tell me, Johnny?"
+
+"I am going to tell you because I know you aren't too good, if you do
+wear curls and little stockings."
+
+"No, I ain't too good," declared Arnold Carruth, proudly; "I
+ain't--HONEST, Johnny."
+
+"That's why I'm going to tell you. But if you tell any of the other
+boys--or girls--"
+
+"Tell girls!" sniffed Arnold.
+
+"If you tell anybody, I'll lick you."
+
+"Guess I ain't afraid."
+
+"Guess you'd be afraid to go home after you'd been licked."
+
+"Guess my mamma would give it to you."
+
+"Run home and tell mamma you'd been whopped, would you, then?"
+
+Little Arnold, beautiful baby boy, straightened himself with a quick
+remembrance that he was born a man. "You know I wouldn't tell, Johnny
+Trumbull."
+
+"Guess you wouldn't. Well, here it is--" Johnny spoke in emphatic
+whispers, Arnold's curly head close to his mouth: "There are a good many
+things in this town have got to be set right," said Johnny.
+
+Little Arnold stared at him. Then fire shone in his lovely blue eyes
+under the golden shadow of his curls, a fire which had shone in the
+eyes of some ancestors of his, for there was good fighting blood in
+the Carruth family, as well as in the Trumbull, although this small
+descendant did go about curled and kissed and barelegged.
+
+"How'll we begin?" said Arnold, in a strenuous whisper.
+
+"We've got to begin right away with Jim Simmons's cats and kittens."
+
+"With Jim Simmons's cats and kittens?" repeated Arnold.
+
+"That was what I said, exactly. We've got to begin right there. It is an
+awful little beginning, but I can't think of anything else. If you can,
+I'm willing to listen."
+
+"I guess I can't," admitted Arnold, helplessly.
+
+"Of course we can't go around taking away money from rich people and
+giving it to poor folks. One reason is, most of the poor folks in this
+town are lazy, and don't get money because they don't want to work for
+it. And when they are not lazy, they drink. If we gave rich people's
+money to poor folks like that, we shouldn't do a mite of good. The rich
+folks would be poor, and the poor folks wouldn't stay rich; they would
+be lazier, and get more drink. I don't see any sense in doing things
+like that in this town. There are a few poor folks I have been thinking
+we might take some money for and do good, but not many."
+
+"Who?" inquired Arnold Carruth, in awed tones.
+
+"Well, there is poor old Mrs. Sam Little. She's awful poor. Folks help
+her, I know, but she can't be real pleased being helped. She'd rather
+have the money herself. I have been wondering if we couldn't get some of
+your father's money away and give it to her, for one."
+
+"Get away papa's money!"
+
+"You don't mean to tell me you are as stingy as that, Arnold Carruth?"
+
+"I guess papa wouldn't like it."
+
+"Of course he wouldn't. But that is not the point. It is not what your
+father would like; it is what that poor old lady would like."
+
+It was too much for Arnold. He gaped at Johnny.
+
+"If you are going to be mean and stingy, we may as well stop before we
+begin," said Johnny.
+
+Then Arnold Carruth recovered himself. "Old Mr. Webster Payne is awful
+poor," said he. "We might take some of your father's money and give it
+to him."
+
+Johnny snorted, fairly snorted. "If," said he, "you think my father
+keeps his money where we can get it, you are mistaken, Arnold Carruth.
+My father's money is all in papers that are not worth much now and that
+he has to keep in the bank till they are."
+
+Arnold smiled hopefully. "Guess that's the way my papa keeps HIS money."
+
+"It's the way most rich people are mean enough to," said Johnny,
+severely. "I don't care if it's your father or mine, it's mean. And
+that's why we've got to begin with Jim Simmons's cats and kittens."
+
+"Are you going to give old Mrs. Sam Little cats?" inquired Arnold.
+
+Johnny sniffed. "Don't be silly," said he. "Though I do think a nice
+cat with a few kittens might cheer her up a little, and we could steal
+enough milk, by getting up early and tagging after the milkman, to feed
+them. But I wasn't thinking of giving her or old Mr. Payne cats and
+kittens. I wasn't thinking of folks; I was thinking of all those poor
+cats and kittens that Mr. Jim Simmons has and doesn't half feed, and
+that have to go hunting around folks' back doors in the rain, when cats
+hate water, too, and pick things up that must be bad for their stomachs,
+when they ought to have their milk regularly in nice, clean saucers.
+No, Arnold Carruth, what we have got to do is to steal Mr. Jim Simmons's
+cats and get them in nice homes where they can earn their living
+catching mice and be well cared for."
+
+"Steal cats?" said Arnold.
+
+"Yes, steal cats, in order to do right," said Johnny Trumbull, and his
+expression was heroic, even exalted.
+
+It was then that a sweet treble, faltering yet exultant, rang in their
+ears.
+
+"If," said the treble voice, "you are going to steal dear little kitty
+cats and get nice homes for them, I'm going to help."
+
+The voice belonged to Lily Jennings, who had stood on the other side of
+the Japanese cedars and heard every word.
+
+Both boys started in righteous wrath, but Arnold Carruth was the angrier
+of the two. "Mean little cat yourself, listening," said he. His curls
+seemed to rise like a crest of rage.
+
+Johnny, remembering some things, was not so outspoken. "You hadn't any
+right to listen, Lily Jennings," he said, with masculine severity.
+
+"I didn't start to listen," said Lily. "I was looking for cones on these
+trees. Miss Parmalee wanted us to bring some object of nature into the
+class, and I wondered whether I could find a queer Japanese cone on one
+of these trees, and then I heard you boys talking, and I couldn't help
+listening. You spoke very loud, and I couldn't give up looking for that
+cone. I couldn't find any, and I heard all about the Simmonses' cats,
+and I know lots of other cats that haven't got good homes, and--I am
+going to be in it."
+
+"You AIN'T," declared Arnold Carruth.
+
+"We can't have girls in it," said Johnny the mindful, more politely.
+
+"You've got to have me. You had better have me, Johnny Trumbull," she
+added with meaning.
+
+Johnny flinched. It was a species of blackmail, but what could he do?
+Suppose Lily told how she had hidden him--him, Johnny Trumbull, the
+champion of the school--in that empty baby-carriage! He would have more
+to contend against than Arnold Carruth with socks and curls. He did not
+think Lily would tell. Somehow Lily, although a little, befrilled girl,
+gave an impression of having a knowledge of a square deal almost as much
+as a boy would; but what boy could tell with a certainty what such an
+uncertain creature as a girl might or might not do? Moreover, Johnny
+had a weakness, a hidden, Spartanly hidden, weakness for Lily. He rather
+wished to have her act as partner in his great enterprise. He therefore
+gruffly assented.
+
+"All right," he said, "you can be in it. But just you look out. You'll
+see what happens if you tell."
+
+"She can't be in it; she's nothing but a girl," said Arnold Carruth,
+fiercely.
+
+Lily Jennings lifted her chin and surveyed him with queenly scorn. "And
+what are you?" said she. "A little boy with curls and baby socks."
+
+Arnold colored with shame and fury, and subsided. "Mind you don't tell,"
+he said, taking Johnny's cue.
+
+"I sha'n't tell," replied Lily, with majesty. "But you'll tell
+yourselves if you talk one side of trees without looking on the other."
+
+There was then only a few moments before Madame's musical Japanese
+gong which announced the close of intermission should sound, but three
+determined souls in conspiracy can accomplish much in a few moments. The
+first move was planned in detail before that gong sounded, and the two
+boys raced to the house, and Lily followed, carrying a toadstool, which
+she had hurriedly caught up from the lawn for her object of nature to be
+taken into class.
+
+It was a poisonous toadstool, and Lily was quite a heroine in the class.
+That fact doubtless gave her a more dauntless air when, after school,
+the two boys caught up with her walking gracefully down the road,
+flirting her skirts and now and then giving her head a toss, which made
+her fluff of hair fly into a golden foam under her daisy-trimmed straw
+hat.
+
+"To-night," Johnny whispered, as he sped past.
+
+"At half past nine, between your house and the Simmonses'," replied
+Lily, without even looking at him. She was a past-mistress of
+dissimulation.
+
+Lily's mother had guests at dinner that night, and the guests remarked
+sometimes, within the little girl's hearing, what a darling she was.
+
+"She never gives me a second's anxiety," Lily's mother whispered to a
+lady beside her. "You cannot imagine what a perfectly good, dependable
+child she is."
+
+"Now my Christina is a good child in the grain," said the lady, "but she
+is full of mischief. I never can tell what Christina will do next."
+
+"I can always tell," said Lily's mother, in a voice of maternal triumph.
+
+"Now only the other night, when I thought Christina was in bed, that
+absurd child got up and dressed and ran over to see her aunt Bella. Tom
+came home with her, and of course there was nothing very bad about it.
+Christina was very bright; she said, 'Mother, you never told me I must
+not get up and go to see Aunt Bella,' which was, of course, true. I
+could not gainsay that."
+
+"I cannot," said Lily's mother, "imagine my Lily's doing such a thing."
+
+If Lily had heard that last speech of her mother's, whom she dearly
+loved, she might have wavered. That pathetic trust in herself might have
+caused her to justify it. But she had finished her dinner and had been
+excused, and was undressing for bed, with the firm determination to rise
+betimes and dress and join Johnny Trumbull and Arnold Carruth. Johnny
+had the easiest time of them all. He simply had to bid his aunt Janet
+good night and have the watch wound, and take a fleeting glimpse of his
+mother at her desk and his father in his office, and go whistling to his
+room, and sit in the summer darkness and wait until the time came.
+
+Arnold Carruth had the hardest struggle. His mother had an old school
+friend visiting her, and Arnold, very much dressed up, with his curls
+falling in a shining fleece upon a real lace collar, had to be shown off
+and show off. He had to play one little piece which he had learned upon
+the piano. He had to recite a little poem. He had to be asked how old he
+was, and if he liked to go to school, and how many teachers he had, and
+if he loved them, and if he loved his little mates, and which of them he
+loved best; and he had to be asked if he loved his aunt Dorothy, who was
+the school friend and not his aunt at all, and would he not like to come
+and live with her, because she had not any dear little boy; and he was
+obliged to submit to having his curls twisted around feminine fingers,
+and to being kissed and hugged, and a whole chapter of ordeals, before
+he was finally in bed, with his mother's kiss moist upon his lips, and
+free to assert himself.
+
+That night Arnold Carruth realized himself as having an actual horror of
+his helpless state of pampered childhood. The man stirred in the soul of
+the boy, and it was a little rebel with sulky pout of lips and frown of
+childish brows who stole out of bed, got into some queer clothes, and
+crept down the back stairs. He heard his aunt Dorothy, who was not
+his aunt, singing an Italian song in the parlor, he heard the clink of
+silver and china from the butler's pantry, where the maids were washing
+the dinner dishes. He smelt his father's cigar, and he gave a little
+leap of joy on the grass of the lawn. At last he was out at night alone,
+and--he wore long stockings! That noon he had secreted a pair of his
+mother's toward that end. When he came home to luncheon he pulled them
+out of the darning-bag, which he had spied through a closet door that
+had been left ajar. One of the stockings was green silk, and the other
+was black, and both had holes in them, but all that mattered was the
+length. Arnold wore also his father's riding-breeches, which came over
+his shoes and which were enormously large, and one of his father's silk
+shirts. He had resolved to dress consistently for such a great occasion.
+His clothes hampered him, but he felt happy as he sped clumsily down the
+road.
+
+However, both Johnny Trumbull and Lily Jennings, who were waiting for
+him at the rendezvous, were startled by his appearance. Both began to
+run, Johnny pulling Lily after him by the hand, but Arnold's cautious
+hallo arrested them. Johnny and Lily returned slowly, peering through
+the darkness.
+
+"It's me," said Arnold, with gay disregard of grammar.
+
+"You looked," said Lily, "like a real fat old man. What HAVE you got on,
+Arnold Carruth?"
+
+Arnold slouched before his companions, ridiculous but triumphant. He
+hitched up a leg of the riding-breeches and displayed a long, green silk
+stocking. Both Johnny and Lily doubled up with laughter.
+
+"What you laughing at?" inquired Arnold, crossly.
+
+"Oh, nothing at all," said Lily. "Only you do look like a scarecrow
+broken loose. Doesn't he, Johnny?"
+
+"I am going home," stated Arnold with dignity. He turned, but Johnny
+caught him in his little iron grip.
+
+"Oh, shucks, Arnold Carruth!" said he. "Don't be a baby. Come on." And
+Arnold Carruth with difficulty came on.
+
+People in the village, as a rule, retired early. Many lights were out
+when the affair began, many went out while it was in progress. All three
+of the band steered as clear of lighted houses as possible, and dodged
+behind trees and hedges when shadowy figures appeared on the road or
+carriage-wheels were heard in the distance. At their special destination
+they were sure to be entirely safe. Old Mr. Peter Van Ness always
+retired very early. To be sure, he did not go to sleep until late, and
+read in bed, but his room was in the rear of the house on the second
+floor, and all the windows, besides, were dark. Mr. Peter Van Ness was
+a very wealthy elderly gentleman, very benevolent. He had given the
+village a beautiful stone church with memorial windows, a soldiers'
+monument, a park, and a home for aged couples, called "The Van Ness
+Home." Mr. Van Ness lived alone with the exception of a housekeeper and
+a number of old, very well-disciplined servants. The servants always
+retired early, and Mr. Van Ness required the house to be quiet for his
+late reading. He was a very studious old gentleman.
+
+To the Van Ness house, set back from the street in the midst of a
+well-kept lawn, the three repaired, but not as noiselessly as they could
+have wished. In fact, a light flared in an up-stairs window, which was
+wide open, and one woman's voice was heard in conclave with another.
+
+"I should think," said the first, "that the lawn was full of cats. Did
+you ever hear such a mewing, Jane?"
+
+That was the housekeeper's voice. The three, each of whom carried a
+squirming burlap potato-bag from the Trumbull cellar, stood close to a
+clump of stately pines full of windy songs, and trembled.
+
+"It do sound like cats, ma'am," said another voice, which was Jane's,
+the maid, who had brought Mrs. Meeks, the housekeeper, a cup of hot
+water and peppermint, because her dinner had disagreed with her.
+
+"Just listen," said Mrs. Meeks.
+
+"Yes, ma'am, I should think there was hundreds of cats and little
+kittens."
+
+"I am so afraid Mr. Van Ness will be disturbed."
+
+"Yes, ma'am."
+
+"You might go out and look, Jane."
+
+"Oh, ma'am, they might be burglars!"
+
+"How can they be burglars when they are cats?" demanded Mrs. Meeks,
+testily.
+
+Arnold Carruth snickered, and Johnny on one side, and Lily on the other,
+prodded him with an elbow. They were close under the window.
+
+"Burglars is up to all sorts of queer tricks, ma'am," said Jane. "They
+may mew like cats to tell one another what door to go in."
+
+"Jane, you talk like an idiot," said Mrs. Meeks. "Burglars talking like
+cats! Who ever heard of such a thing? It sounds right under that window.
+Open my closet door and get those heavy old shoes and throw them out."
+
+It was an awful moment. The three dared not move. The cats and kittens
+in the bags--not so many, after all--seemed to have turned into
+multiplication-tables. They were positively alarming in their
+determination to get out, their wrath with one another, and their
+vociferous discontent with the whole situation.
+
+"I can't hold my bag much longer," said poor little Arnold Carruth.
+
+"Hush up, cry-baby!" whispered Lily, fiercely, in spite of a clawing paw
+emerging from her own bag and threatening her bare arm.
+
+Then came the shoes. One struck Arnold squarely on the shoulder, nearly
+knocking him down and making him lose hold of his bag. The other struck
+Lily's bag, and conditions became worse; but she held on despite a
+scratch. Lily had pluck.
+
+Then Jane's voice sounded very near, as she leaned out of the window. "I
+guess they have went, ma'am," said she. "I seen something run."
+
+"I can hear them," said Mrs. Meeks, querulously.
+
+"I seen them run," persisted Jane, who was tired and wished to be gone.
+
+"Well, close that window, anyway, for I know I hear them, even if they
+have gone," said Mrs. Meeks. The three heard with relief the window
+slammed down.
+
+The light flashed out, and simultaneously Lily Jennings and Johnny
+Trumbull turned indignantly upon Arnold Carruth.
+
+"There, you have gone and let all those poor cats go," said Johnny.
+
+"And spoilt everything," said Lily.
+
+Arnold rubbed his shoulder. "You would have let go if you had been hit
+right on the shoulder by a great shoe," said he, rather loudly.
+
+"Hush up!" said Lily. "I wouldn't have let my cats go if I had been
+killed by a shoe; so there."
+
+"Serves us right for taking a boy with curls," said Johnny Trumbull.
+
+But he spoke unadvisedly. Arnold Carruth was no match whatever for
+Johnny Trumbull, and had never been allowed the honor of a combat with
+him; but surprise takes even a great champion at a disadvantage. Arnold
+turned upon Johnny like a flash, out shot a little white fist, up struck
+a dimpled leg clad in cloth and leather, and down sat Johnny Trumbull;
+and, worse, open flew his bag, and there was a yowling exodus.
+
+"There go your cats, too, Johnny Trumbull," said Lily, in a perfectly
+calm whisper. At that moment both boys, victor and vanquished, felt a
+simultaneous throb of masculine wrath at Lily. Who was she to gloat
+over the misfortunes of men? But retribution came swiftly to Lily. That
+viciously clawing little paw shot out farther, and there was a limit to
+Spartanism in a little girl born so far from that heroic land. Lily let
+go of her bag and with difficulty stifled a shriek of pain.
+
+"Whose cats are gone now?" demanded Johnny, rising.
+
+"Yes, whose cats are gone now?" said Arnold.
+
+Then Johnny promptly turned upon him and knocked him down and sat on
+him.
+
+Lily looked at them, standing, a stately little figure in the darkness.
+"I am going home," said she. "My mother does not allow me to go with
+fighting boys."
+
+Johnny rose, and so did Arnold, whimpering slightly. His shoulder ached
+considerably.
+
+"He knocked me down," said Johnny.
+
+Even as he whimpered and as he suffered, Arnold felt a thrill of
+triumph. "Always knew I could if I had a chance," said he.
+
+"You couldn't if I had been expecting it," said Johnny.
+
+"Folks get knocked down when they ain't expecting it most of the time,"
+declared Arnold, with more philosophy than he realized.
+
+"I don't think it makes much difference about the knocking down," said
+Lily. "All those poor cats and kittens that we were going to give a good
+home, where they wouldn't be starved, have got away, and they will run
+straight back to Mr. Jim Simmons's."
+
+"If they haven't any more sense than to run back to a place where they
+don't get enough to eat and are kicked about by a lot of children, let
+them run," said Johnny.
+
+"That's so," said Arnold. "I never did see what we were doing such a
+thing for, anyway--stealing Mr. Simmons's cats and giving them to Mr.
+Van Ness."
+
+It was the girl alone who stood by her guns of righteousness. "I saw and
+I see," she declared, with dangerously loud emphasis. "It was only our
+duty to try to rescue poor helpless animals who don't know any better
+than to stay where they are badly treated. And Mr. Van Ness has so
+much money he doesn't know what to do with it; he would have been real
+pleased to give those cats a home and buy milk and liver for them. But
+it's all spoiled now. I will never undertake to do good again, with a
+lot of boys in the way, as long as I live; so there!" Lily turned about.
+
+"Going to tell your mother!" said Johnny, with scorn which veiled
+anxiety.
+
+"No, I'm NOT. I don't tell tales."
+
+Lily marched off, and in her wake went Johnny and Arnold, two poor
+little disillusioned would-be knights of old romance in a wretchedly
+commonplace future, not far enough from their horizons for any glamour.
+
+They went home, and of the three Johnny Trumbull was the only one
+who was discovered. For him his aunt Janet lay in wait and forced a
+confession. She listened grimly, but her eyes twinkled.
+
+"You have learned to fight, John Trumbull," said she, when he had
+finished. "Now the very next thing you have to learn, and make yourself
+worthy of your grandfather Trumbull, is not to be a fool."
+
+"Yes, Aunt Janet," said Johnny.
+
+The next noon, when he came home from school, old Maria, who had been
+with the family ever since he could remember and long before, called him
+into the kitchen. There, greedily lapping milk from a saucer, were two
+very lean, tall kittens.
+
+"See those nice little tommy-cats," said Maria, beaming upon Johnny,
+whom she loved and whom she sometimes fancied deprived of boyish joys.
+"Your aunt Janet sent me over to the Simmonses' for them this morning.
+They are overrun with cats--such poor, shiftless folks always be--and
+you can have them. We shall have to watch for a little while till they
+get wonted, so they won't run home."
+
+Johnny gazed at the kittens, fast distending with the new milk, and
+felt presumably much as dear Robin Hood may have felt after one of his
+successful raids in the fair, poetic past.
+
+"Pretty, ain't they?" said Maria. "They have drank up a whole saucer of
+milk. 'Most starved. I s'pose."
+
+Johnny gathered up the two forlorn kittens and sat down in a kitchen
+chair, with one on each shoulder, hard, boyish cheeks pressed against
+furry, purring sides, and the little fighting Cock of the Walk felt his
+heart glad and tender with the love of the strong for the weak.
+
+
+
+
+DANIEL AND LITTLE DAN'L
+
+THE Wise homestead dated back more than a century, yet it had nothing
+imposing about it except its site. It was a simple, glaringly white
+cottage. There was a center front door with two windows on each side;
+there was a low slant of roof, pierced by unpicturesque dormers. On
+the left of the house was an ell, which had formerly been used as a
+shoemaker's shop, but now served as a kitchen. In the low attic of the
+ell was stored the shoemaker's bench, whereon David Wise's grandfather
+had sat for nearly eighty years of working days; after him his eldest
+son, Daniel's father, had occupied the same hollow seat of patient toil.
+Daniel had sat there for twenty-odd years, then had suddenly realized
+both the lack of necessity and the lack of customers, since the
+great shoe-plant had been built down in the village. Then Daniel had
+retired--although he did not use that expression. Daniel said to his
+friends and his niece Dora that he had "quit work." But he told himself,
+without the least bitterness, that work had quit him.
+
+After Daniel had retired, his one physiological peculiarity assumed
+enormous proportions. It had always been with him, but steady work had
+held it, to a great extent, at bay. Daniel was a moral coward before
+physical conditions. He was as one who suffers, not so much from agony
+of the flesh as from agony of the mind induced thereby. Daniel was a
+coward before one of the simplest, most inevitable happenings of earthly
+life. He was a coward before summer heat. All winter he dreaded summer.
+Summer poisoned the spring for him. Only during the autumn did he
+experience anything of peace. Summer was then over, and between him and
+another summer stretched the blessed perspective of winter. Then Daniel
+Wise drew a long breath and looked about him, and spelled out the beauty
+of the earth in his simple primer of understanding. Daniel had in his
+garden behind the house a prolific grape-vine. He ate the grapes, full
+of the savor of the dead summer, with the gusto of a poet who can at
+last enjoy triumph over his enemy.
+
+Possibly it was the vein of poetry in Daniel which made him a
+coward--which made him so vulnerable. During the autumn he reveled in
+the tints of the landscape which his sitting-room windows commanded.
+There were many maples and oaks. Day by day the roofs of the houses in
+the village became more evident, as the maples shed their crimson and
+gold and purple rags of summer. The oaks remained, great shaggy masses
+of dark gold and burning russet; later they took on soft hues, making
+clearer the blue firmament between the boughs. Daniel watched the autumn
+trees with pure delight. "He will go to-day," he said of a flaming maple
+after a night of frost which had crisped the white arches of the grass
+in his dooryard. All day he sat and watched the maple cast its glory,
+and did not bother much with his simple meals. The Wise house was
+erected on three terraces. Always through the dry summer the grass was
+burned to an ugly negation of color. Later, when rain came, the grass
+was a brilliant green, patched with rosy sorrel and golden stars of
+arnica. Then later still came the diamond brilliance of the frost. So
+dry were the terraces in summer-time that no flowers would flourish.
+When Daniel's mother had come to the house as a bride she had planted
+under a window a blush-rose bush, but always the blush-roses were few
+and covered with insects. It was not until the autumn, when it was time
+for the flowers to die, that the sorrel blessing of waste lands flushed
+rosily and the arnica showed its stars of slender threads of gold, and
+there might even be a slight glimpse of purple aster and a dusty spray
+or two of goldenrod. Then Daniel did not shrink from the sight of the
+terraces. In summer-time the awful negative glare of them under the
+afternoon sun maddened him.
+
+In winter he often visited his brother John in the village. He was very
+fond of John, and John's wife, and their only daughter, Dora. When John
+died, and later his wife, he would have gone to live with Dora, but
+she married. Then her husband also died, and Dora took up dressmaking,
+supporting herself and her delicate little girl-baby. Daniel adored this
+child. She had been named for him, although her mother had been aghast
+before the proposition. "Name a girl Daniel, uncle!" she had cried.
+
+"She is going to have what I own after I have done with it, anyway,"
+declared Daniel, gazing with awe and rapture at the tiny flannel bundle
+in his niece's arms. "That won't make any difference, but I do wish you
+could make up your mind to call her after me, Dora."
+
+Dora Lee was soft-hearted. She named her girl-baby Daniel, and called
+her Danny, which was not, after all, so bad, and her old uncle loved the
+child as if she had been his own. Little Daniel--he always called her
+Daniel, or, rather, "Dan'l"--was the only reason for his descending into
+the village on summer days when the weather was hot. Daniel, when he
+visited the village in summer-time, wore always a green leaf inside his
+hat and carried an umbrella and a palm-leaf fan. This caused the village
+boys to shout, "Hullo, grandma!" after him. Daniel, being a little hard
+of hearing, was oblivious, but he would have been in any case. His
+whole mind was concentrated in getting along that dusty glare of street,
+stopping at the store for a paper bag of candy, and finally ending in
+Dora's little dark parlor, holding his beloved namesake on his knee,
+watching her blissfully suck a barley stick while he waved his palmleaf
+fan. Dora would be fitting gowns in the next room. He would hear the
+hum of feminine chatter over strictly feminine topics. He felt very much
+aloof, even while holding the little girl on his knee. Daniel had never
+married--had never even h ad a sweetheart. The marriageable women he
+had seen had not been of the type to attract a dreamer like Daniel Wise.
+Many of those women thought him "a little off."
+
+Dora Lee, his niece, privately wondered if her uncle had his full
+allotment of understanding. He seemed much more at home with her little
+daughter than with herself, and Dora considered herself a very good
+business woman, with possibly an unusual endowment of common sense. She
+was such a good business woman that when she died suddenly she left her
+child with quite a sum in the bank, besides the house. Daniel did not
+hesitate for a moment. He engaged Miss Sarah Dean for a housekeeper, and
+took the little girl (hardly more than a baby) to his own home. Dora
+had left a will, in which she appointed Daniel guardian in spite of her
+doubt concerning his measure of understanding. There was much comment in
+the village when Daniel took his little namesake to live in his lonely
+house on the terrace. "A man and an old maid to bring up that poor
+child!" they said. But Daniel called Dr. Trumbull to his support. "It
+is much better for that delicate child to be out of this village, which
+drains the south hill," Dr. Trumbull declared. "That child needs pure
+air. It is hot enough in summer all around here, and hot enough at
+Daniel's, but the air is pure there."
+
+There was no gossip about Daniel and Miss Sarah Dean. Gossip would have
+seemed about as foolish concerning him and a dry blade of field-grass.
+Sarah Dean looked like that. She wore rusty black gowns, and her
+gray-blond hair was swept curtainwise over her ears on either side
+of her very thin, mildly severe wedge of a face. Sarah was a notable
+housekeeper and a good cook. She could make an endless variety of cakes
+and puddings and pies, and her biscuits were marvels. Daniel had long
+catered for himself, and a rasher of bacon, with an egg, suited him much
+better for supper than hot biscuits, preserves, and five kinds of cake.
+Still, he did not complain, and did not understand that Sarah's fare was
+not suitable for the child, until Dr. Trumbull told him so.
+
+"Don't you let that child live on that kind of food if you want her to
+live at all," said Dr. Trumbull. "Lord! what are the women made of, and
+the men they feed, for that matter? Why, Daniel, there are many people
+in this place, and hard-working people, too, who eat a quantity of food,
+yet don't get enough nourishment for a litter of kittens."
+
+"What shall I do?" asked Daniel in a puzzled way.
+
+"Do? You can cook a beefsteak yourself, can't you? Sarah Dean would fry
+one as hard as soleleather."
+
+"Yes, I can cook a beefsteak real nice," said Daniel.
+
+"Do it, then; and cook some chops, too, and plenty of eggs."
+
+"I don't exactly hanker after quite so much sweet stuff," said Daniel.
+"I wonder if Sarah's feelings will be hurt."
+
+"It is much better for feelings to be hurt than stomachs," declared Dr.
+Trumbull, "but Sarah's feelings will not be hurt. I know her. She is
+a wiry woman. Give her a knock and she springs back into place. Don't
+worry about her, Daniel."
+
+When Daniel went home that night he carried a juicy steak, and he cooked
+it, and he and little Dan'l had a square meal. Sarah refused the steak
+with a slight air of hauteur, but she behaved very well. When she
+set away her untasted layer-cakes and pies and cookies, she eyed them
+somewhat anxiously. Her standard of values seemed toppling before her
+mental vision. "They will starve to death if they live on such victuals
+as beefsteak, instead of good nourishing hot biscuits and cake," she
+thought. After the supper dishes were cleared away she went into the
+sitting-room where Daniel Wise sat beside a window, waiting in a sort of
+stern patience for a whiff of air. It was a very close evening. The sun
+was red in the low west, but a heaving sea of mist was rising over the
+lowlands.
+
+Sarah sat down opposite Daniel. "Close, ain't it?" said she. She began
+knitting her lace edging.
+
+"Pretty close," replied Daniel. He spoke with an effect of forced
+politeness. Although he had such a horror of extreme heat, he was always
+chary of boldly expressing his mind concerning it, for he had a feeling
+that he might be guilty of blasphemy, since he regarded the weather as
+being due to an Almighty mandate. Therefore, although he suffered, he
+was extremely polite.
+
+"It is awful up-stairs in little Dan'l's room," said Sarah. "I have got
+all the windows open except the one that's right on the bed, and I told
+her she needn't keep more than the sheet and one comfortable over her."
+
+Daniel looked anxious. "Children ain't ever overcome when they are in
+bed, in the house, are they?"
+
+"Land, no! I never heard of such a thing. And, anyway, little Dan'l's so
+thin it ain't likely she feels the heat as much as some."
+
+"I hope she don't."
+
+Daniel continued to sit hunched up on himself, gazing with a sort of
+mournful irritation out of the window upon the landscape over which the
+misty shadows vaguely wavered.
+
+Sarah knitted. She could knit in the dark. After a while she rose and
+said she guessed she would go to bed, as to-morrow was her sweeping-day.
+
+Sarah went, and Daniel sat alone.
+
+Presently a little pale figure stole to him through the dusk--the child,
+in her straight white nightgown, padding softly on tiny naked feet.
+
+"Is that you, Dan'l?"
+
+"Yes, Uncle Dan'l."
+
+"Is it too hot to sleep up in your room?"
+
+"I didn't feel so very hot, Uncle Dan'l, but skeeters were biting me,
+and a great big black thing just flew in my window!"
+
+"A bat, most likely."
+
+"A bat!" Little Dan'l shuddered. She began a little stifled wail. "I'm
+afeard of bats," she lamented.
+
+Daniel gathered the tiny creature up. "You can jest set here with Uncle
+Dan'l," said he. "It is jest a little cooler here, I guess. Once in a
+while there comes a little whiff of wind."
+
+"Won't any bats come?"
+
+"Lord, no! Your Uncle Dan'l won't let any bats come within a gun-shot."
+
+The little creature settled down contentedly in the old man's lap. Her
+fair, thin locks fell over his shirt-sleeved arm, her upturned profile
+was sweetly pure and clear even in the dusk. She was so delicately small
+that he might have been holding a fairy, from the slight roundness of
+the childish limbs and figure. Poor little girl!--Dan'l was much too
+small and thin. Old man Daniel gazed down at her anxiously.
+
+"Jest as soon as the nice fall weather comes," said he, "uncle is going
+to take you down to the village real often, and you can get acquainted
+with some other nice little girls and play with them, and that will do
+uncle's little Dan'l good."
+
+"I saw little Lucy Rose," piped the child, "and she looked at me real
+pleasant, and Lily Jennings wore a pretty dress. Would they play with
+me, uncle?"
+
+"Of course they would. You don't feel quite so hot, here, do you?"
+
+"I wasn't so hot, anyway; I was afeard of bats."
+
+"There ain't any bats here."
+
+"And skeeters."
+
+"Uncle don't believe there's any skeeters, neither."
+
+"I don't hear any sing," agreed little Dan'l in a weak voice. Very soon
+she was fast asleep. The old man sat holding her, and loving her with
+a simple crystalline intensity which was fairly heavenly. He himself
+almost disregarded the heat, being raised above it by sheer exaltation
+of spirit. All the love which had lain latent in his heart leaped
+to life before the helplessness of this little child in his arms. He
+realized himself as much greater and of more importance upon the face
+of the earth than he had ever been before. He became paternity incarnate
+and superblessed. It was a long time before he carried the little child
+back to her room and laid her, still as inert with sleep as a lily,
+upon her bed. He bent over her with a curious waving motion of his old
+shoulders as if they bore wings of love and protection; then he crept
+back down-stairs.
+
+On nights like that he did not go to bed. All the bedrooms were under
+the slant of the roof and were hot. He preferred to sit until dawn
+beside his open window, and doze when he could, and wait with despairing
+patience for the infrequent puffs of cool air breathing blessedly of wet
+swamp places, which, even when the burning sun arose, would only show
+dewy eyes of cool reflection. Daniel Wise, as he sat there through the
+sultry night, even prayed for courage, as a devout sentinel might have
+prayed at his post. The imagination of the deserter was not in the man.
+He never even dreamed of appropriating to his own needs any portion
+of his savings, and going for a brief respite to the deep shadows of
+mountainous places, or to a cool coast, where the great waves broke in
+foam upon the sand, breathing out the mighty saving breath of the sea.
+It never occurred to him that he could do anything but remain at his
+post and suffer in body and soul and mind, and not complain.
+
+The next morning was terrible. The summer had been one of unusually
+fervid heat, but that one day was its climax. David went panting
+up-stairs to his room at dawn. He did not wish Sarah Dean to know that
+he had sat up all night. He opened his bed, tidily, as was his wont.
+Through living alone he had acquired many of the habits of an orderly
+housewife. He went down-stairs, and Sarah was in the kitchen.
+
+"It is a dreadful hot day," said she as Daniel approached the sink to
+wash his face and hands.
+
+"It does seem a little warm," admitted Daniel, with his studied air of
+politeness with respect to the weather as an ordinance of God.
+
+"Warm!" echoed Sarah Dean. Her thin face blazed a scarlet wedge between
+the sleek curtains of her dank hair; perspiration stood on her triangle
+of forehead. "It is the hottest day I ever knew!" she said, defiantly,
+and there was open rebellion in her tone.
+
+"It IS sort of warmish, I rather guess," said Daniel.
+
+After breakfast, old Daniel announced his intention of taking little
+Dan'l out for a walk.
+
+At that Sarah Dean fairly exploded. "Be you gone clean daft, Dan'l?"
+said she. "Don't you know that it actually ain't safe to take out such a
+delicate little thing as that on such a day?"
+
+"Dr. Trumbull said to take her outdoors for a walk every day, rain or
+shine," returned Daniel, obstinately.
+
+"But Dr. Trumbull didn't say to take her out if it rained fire and
+brimstone, I suppose," said Sarah Dean, viciously.
+
+Daniel looked at her with mild astonishment.
+
+"It is as much as that child's life is worth to take her out such a day
+as this," declared Sarah, viciously.
+
+"Dr. Trumbull said to take no account of the weather," said Daniel with
+stubborn patience, "and we will walk on the shady side of the road, and
+go to Bradley's Brook. It's always a little cool there."
+
+"If she faints away before you get there, you bring her right home,"
+said Sarah. She was almost ferocious. "Just because YOU don't feel the
+heat, to take out that little pindlin' girl such a day!" she exclaimed.
+
+"Dr. Trumbull said to," persisted Daniel, although he looked a little
+troubled. Sarah Dean did not dream that, for himself, Daniel Wise would
+have preferred facing an army with banners to going out under that
+terrible fusillade of sun-rays. She did not dream of the actual heroism
+which actuated him when he set out with little Dan'l, holding his big
+umbrella over her little sunbonneted head and waving in his other hand a
+palm-leaf fan.
+
+Little Dan'l danced with glee as she went out of the yard. The small,
+anemic creature did not feel the heat except as a stimulant. Daniel had
+to keep charging her to walk slowly. "Don't go so fast, little Dan'l,
+or you'll get overhet, and then what will Mis' Dean say?" he continually
+repeated.
+
+Little Dan'l's thin, pretty face peeped up at him from between the sides
+of her green sunbonnet. She pointed one dainty finger at a cloud of pale
+yellow butterflies in the field beside which they were walking. "Want to
+chase flutterbies," she chirped. Little Dan'l had a fascinating way of
+misplacing her consonants in long words.
+
+"No; you'll get overhet. You just walk along slow with Uncle Dan'l, and
+pretty soon we'll come to the pretty brook," said Daniel.
+
+"Where the lagon-dries live?" asked little Dan'l, meaning dragon-flies.
+
+"Yes," said Daniel. He was conscious, as he spoke, of increasing waves
+of thready black floating before his eyes. They had floated since dawn,
+but now they were increasing. Some of the time he could hardly see the
+narrow sidewalk path between the dusty meadowsweet and hardhack bushes,
+since those floating black threads wove together into a veritable veil
+before him. At such times he walked unsteadily, and little Dan'l eyed
+him curiously.
+
+"Why don't you walk the way you always do?" she queried.
+
+"Uncle Dan'l can't see jest straight, somehow," replied the old man;
+"guess it's because it's rather warm."
+
+It was in truth a day of terror because of the heat. It was one of
+those days which break records, which live in men's memories as great
+catastrophes, which furnish head-lines for newspapers, and are alluded
+to with shudders at past sufferings. It was one of those days which seem
+to forecast the Dreadful Day of Revelation wherein no shelter may be
+found from the judgment of the fiery firmament. On that day men fell in
+their tracks and died, or were rushed to hospitals to be succored as by
+a miracle. And on that day the poor old man who had all his life feared
+and dreaded the heat as the most loathly happening of earth, walked
+afield for love of the little child. As Daniel went on the heat seemed
+to become palpable--something which could actually be seen. There was
+now a thin, gaseous horror over the blazing sky, which did not temper
+the heat, but increased it, giving it the added torment of steam. The
+clogging moisture seemed to brood over the accursed earth, like some
+foul bird with deadly menace in wings and beak.
+
+Daniel walked more and more unsteadily. Once he might have fallen had
+not the child thrown one little arm around a bending knee. "You 'most
+tumbled down. Uncle Dan'l," said she. Her little voice had a surprised
+and frightened note in it.
+
+"Don't you be scared," gasped Daniel; "we have got 'most to the brook;
+then we'll be all right. Don't you be scared, and--you walk real slow
+and not get overhet."
+
+The brook was near, and it was time. Daniel staggered under the trees
+beside which the little stream trickled over its bed of stones. It was
+not much of a brook at best, and the drought had caused it to lose
+much of its life. However, it was still there, and there were delicious
+little hollows of coolness between the stones over which it flowed, and
+large trees stood about with their feet rooted in the blessed damp. Then
+Daniel sank down. He tried to reach a hand to the water, but could not.
+The black veil had woven a compact mass before his eyes. There was a
+terrible throbbing in his head, but his arms were numb.
+
+Little Dan'l stood looking at him, and her lip quivered. With a mighty
+effort Daniel cleared away the veil and saw the piteous baby face.
+"Take--Uncle Dan'l's hat and--fetch him--some water," he gasped. "Don't
+go too--close and--tumble in."
+
+The child obeyed. Daniel tried to take the dripping hat, but failed.
+Little Dan'l was wise enough to pour the water over the old man's head,
+but she commenced to weep, the pitiful, despairing wail of a child who
+sees failing that upon which she has leaned for support.
+
+Daniel rallied again. The water on his head gave him momentary relief,
+but more than anything else his love for the child nerved him to effort.
+
+"Listen, little Dan'l," he said, and his voice sounded in his own
+ears like a small voice of a soul thousands of miles away. "You take
+the--umbrella, and--you take the fan, and you go real slow, so you don't
+get overhet, and you tell Mis' Dean, and--"
+
+Then old Daniel's tremendous nerve, that he had summoned for the sake of
+love, failed him, and he sank back. He was quite unconscious--his face,
+staring blindly up at the terrible sky between the trees, was to little
+Dan'l like the face of a stranger. She gave one cry, more like the
+yelp of a trodden animal than a child's voice. Then she took the open
+umbrella and sped away. The umbrella bobbed wildly--nothing could be
+seen of poor little Dan'l but her small, speeding feet. She wailed
+loudly all the way.
+
+She was half-way home when, plodding along in a cloud of brown dust, a
+horse appeared in the road. The horse wore a straw bonnet and advanced
+very slowly. He drew a buggy, and in the buggy were Dr. Trumbull and
+Johnny, his son. He had called at Daniel's to see the little girl, and,
+on being told that they had gone to walk, had said something under his
+breath and turned his horse's head down the road.
+
+"When we meet them, you must get out, Johnny," he said, "and I will take
+in that poor old man and that baby. I wish I could put common sense in
+every bottle of medicine. A day like this!"
+
+Dr. Trumbull exclaimed when he saw the great bobbing black umbrella and
+heard the wails. The straw-bonneted horse stopped abruptly. Dr. Trumbull
+leaned out of the buggy. "Who are you?" he demanded.
+
+"Uncle Dan'l is gone," shrieked the child.
+
+"Gone where? What do you mean?"
+
+"He--tumbled right down, and then he was-somebody else. He ain't there."
+
+"Where is 'there'? Speak up quick!"
+
+"The brook--Uncle Dan'l went away at the brook."
+
+Dr. Trumbull acted swiftly. He gave Johnny a push. "Get out," he said.
+"Take that baby into Jim Mann's house there, and tell Mrs. Mann to keep
+her in the shade and look out for her, and you tell Jim, if he hasn't
+got his horse in his farm-wagon, to look lively and harness her in and
+put all the ice they've got in the house in the wagon. Hurry!"
+
+Johnny was over the wheel before his father had finished speaking, and
+Jim Mann just then drew up alongside in his farm-wagon.
+
+"What's to pay?" he inquired, breathless. He was a thin, sinewy man,
+scantily clad in cotton trousers and a shirt wide open at the breast.
+Green leaves protruded from under the brim of his tilted straw hat.
+
+"Old Daniel Wise is overcome by the heat," answered Dr. Trumbull. "Put
+all the ice you have in the house in your wagon, and come along. I'll
+leave my horse and buggy here. Your horse is faster."
+
+Presently the farm-wagon clattered down the road, dust-hidden behind a
+galloping horse. Mrs. Jim Mann, who was a loving mother of children,
+was soothing little Dan'l. Johnny Trumbull watched at the gate. When the
+wagon returned he ran out and hung on behind, while the strong, ungainly
+farm-horse galloped to the house set high on the sun-baked terraces.
+
+When old Daniel revived he found himself in the best parlor, with ice
+all about him. Thunder was rolling overhead and hail clattered on the
+windows. A sudden storm, the heat-breaker, had come up and the dreadful
+day was vanquished. Daniel looked up and smiled a vague smile of
+astonishment at Dr. Trumbull and Sarah Dean; then his eyes wandered
+anxiously about.
+
+"The child is all right," said Dr. Trumbull; "don't you worry, Daniel.
+Mrs. Jim Mann is taking care of her. Don't you try to talk. You didn't
+exactly have a sunstroke, but the heat was too much for you."
+
+But Daniel spoke, in spite of the doctor's mandate. "The heat," said
+he, in a curiously clear voice, "ain't never goin' to be too much for me
+again."
+
+"Don't you talk, Daniel," repeated Dr. Trumbull. "You've always been
+nervous about the heat. Maybe you won't be again, but keep still. When
+I told you to take that child out every day I didn't mean when the world
+was like Sodom and Gomorrah. Thank God, it will be cooler now."
+
+Sarah Dean stood beside the doctor. She looked pale and severe, but
+adequate. She did not even state that she had urged old Daniel not to go
+out. There was true character in Sarah Dean.
+
+The weather that summer was an unexpected quantity. Instead of the day
+after the storm being cool, it was hot. However, old Daniel, after
+his recovery, insisted on going out of doors with little Dan'l after
+breakfast. The only concession which he would make to Sarah Dean, who
+was fairly frantic with anxiety, was that he would merely go down the
+road as far as the big elm-tree, that he would sit down there, and let
+the child play about within sight.
+
+"You'll be brought home agin, sure as preachin'," said Sarah Dean, "and
+if you're brought home ag'in, you won't get up ag'in."
+
+Old Daniel laughed. "Now don't you worry, Sarah," said he. "I'll set
+down under that big ellum and keep cool."
+
+Old Daniel, at Sarah's earnest entreaties, took a palm-leaf fan. But he
+did not use it. He sat peacefully under the cool trail of the great elm
+all the forenoon, while little Dan'l played with her doll. The child was
+rather languid after her shock of the day before, and not disposed to
+run about. Also, she had a great sense of responsibility about the old
+man. Sarah Dean had privately charged her not to let Uncle Daniel get
+"overhet." She continually glanced up at him with loving, anxious, baby
+eyes.
+
+"Be you overhet. Uncle Dan'l?" she would ask.
+
+"No, little Dan'l, uncle ain't a mite overhet," the old man would assure
+her. Now and then little Dan'l left her doll, climbed into the old man's
+lap, and waved the palm-leaf fan before his face.
+
+Old Daniel Wise loved her so that he seemed, to himself, fairly alight
+with happiness. He made up his mind that he would find some little girl
+in the village to come now and then and play with little Dan'l. In the
+cool of that evening he stole out of the back door, covertly, lest
+Sarah Dean discover him, and walked slowly to the rector's house in the
+village. The rector's wife was sitting on her cool, vine-shaded veranda.
+She was alone, and Daniel was glad. He asked her if the little girl
+who had come to live with her, Content Adams, could not come the next
+afternoon and see little Dan'l. "Little Dan'l had ought to see other
+children once in a while, and Sarah Dean makes real nice cookies," he
+stated, pleadingly.
+
+Sally Patterson laughed good-naturedly. "Of course she can, Mr. Wise,"
+she said.
+
+The next afternoon Sally herself drove the rector's horse, and brought
+Content to pay a call on little Dan'l. Sally and Sarah Dean visited in
+the sitting-room, and left the little girls alone in the parlor with
+a plate of cookies, to get acquainted. They sat in solemn silence and
+stared at each other. Neither spoke. Neither ate a cooky. When Sally
+took her leave, she asked little Dan'l if she had had a nice time with
+Content, and little Dan'l said, "Yes, ma'am."
+
+Sarah insisted upon Content's carrying the cookies home in the dish with
+a napkin over it.
+
+"When can I go again to see that other little girl?" asked Content as
+she and Sally were jogging home.
+
+"Oh, almost any time. I will drive you over-because it is rather a
+lonesome walk for you. Did you like the little girl? She is younger than
+you."
+
+"Yes'm."
+
+Also little Dan'l inquired of old Daniel when the other little girl was
+coming again, and nodded emphatically when asked if she had had a nice
+time. Evidently both had enjoyed, after the inscrutable fashion of
+childhood, their silent session with each other. Content came generally
+once a week, and old Daniel was invited to take little Dan'l to the
+rector's. On that occasion Lucy Rose was present, and Lily Jennings. The
+four little girls had tea together at a little table set on the porch,
+and only Lily Jennings talked. The rector drove old Daniel and the child
+home, and after they had arrived the child's tongue was loosened and she
+chattered. She had seen everything there was to be seen at the rector's.
+She told of it in her little silver pipe of a voice. She had to be
+checked and put to bed, lest she be tired out.
+
+"I never knew that child could talk so much," Sarah said to Daniel,
+after the little girl had gone up-stairs.
+
+"She talks quite some when she's alone with me."
+
+"And she seems to see everything."
+
+"Ain't much that child don't see," said Daniel, proudly.
+
+The summer continued unusually hot, but Daniel never again succumbed.
+When autumn came, for the first time in his old life old Daniel Wise was
+sorrowful. He dreaded the effect of the frost and the winter upon his
+precious little Dan'l, whom he put before himself as fondly as any
+father could have done, and as the season progressed his dread seemed
+justified. Poor little Dan'l had cold after cold. Content Adams and Lucy
+Rose came to see her. The rector's wife and the doctor's sent dainties.
+But the child coughed and pined, and old Daniel began to look forward
+to spring and summer--the seasons which had been his bugaboos through
+life--as if they were angels. When the February thaw came, he told
+little Dan'l, "Jest look at the snow meltin' and the drops hangin' on
+the trees; that is a sign of summer."
+
+Old Daniel watched for the first green light along the fences and the
+meadow hollows. When the trees began to cast slightly blurred shadows,
+because of budding leaves, and the robins hopped over the terraces,
+and now and then the air was cleft with blue wings, he became jubilant.
+"Spring is jest about here, and then uncle's little Dan'l will stop
+coughin', and run out of doors and pick flowers," he told the child
+beside the window.
+
+Spring came that year with a riotous rush. Blossoms, leaves, birds,
+and flowers--all arrived pellmell, fairly smothering the world with
+sweetness and music. In May, about the first of the month, there was an
+intensely hot day. It was as hot as midsummer. Old Daniel with
+little Dan'l went afield. It was, to both, as if they fairly saw the
+carnival-arrival of flowers, of green garlands upon treebranches, of
+birds and butterflies. "Spring is right here!" said old Daniel. "Summer
+is right here! Pick them vilets in that holler, little Dan'l." The
+old man sat on a stone in the meadowland, and watched the child in the
+blue-gleaming hollow gather up violets in her little hands as if
+they were jewels. The sun beat upon his head, the air was heavy with
+fragrance, laden with moisture. Old Daniel wiped his forehead. He was
+heated, but so happy that he was not aware of it. He saw wonderful new
+lights over everything. He had wielded love, the one invincible weapon
+of the whole earth, and had conquered his intangible and dreadful enemy.
+When, for the sake of that little beloved life, his own life had become
+as nothing, old Daniel found himself superior to it. He sat there in the
+tumultuous heat of the May day, watching the child picking violets and
+gathering strength with every breath of the young air of the year, and
+he realized that the fear of his whole life was overcome for ever.
+He realized that never again, though they might bring suffering, even
+death, would he dread the summers with their torrid winds and their
+burning lights, since, through love, he had become under-lord of all the
+conditions of his life upon earth.
+
+
+
+
+BIG SISTER SOLLY
+
+IT did seem strange that Sally Patterson, who, according to her own
+self-estimation, was the least adapted of any woman in the village,
+should have been the one chosen by a theoretically selective providence
+to deal with a psychological problem.
+
+It was conceded that little Content Adams was a psychological problem.
+She was the orphan child of very distant relatives of the rector.
+When her parents died she had been cared for by a widowed aunt on her
+mother's side, and this aunt had also borne the reputation of being a
+creature apart. When the aunt died, in a small village in the indefinite
+"Out West," the presiding clergyman had notified Edward Patterson of
+little Content's lonely and helpless estate. The aunt had subsisted
+upon an annuity which had died with her. The child had inherited nothing
+except personal property. The aunt's house had been bequeathed to the
+church over which the clergyman presided, and after her aunt's death he
+took her to his own home until she could be sent to her relatives, and
+he and his wife were exceedingly punctilious about every jot and tittle
+of the aunt's personal belongings. They even purchased two extra trunks
+for them, which they charged to the rector.
+
+Little Content, traveling in the care of a lady who had known her aunt
+and happened to be coming East, had six large trunks, besides a hat-box
+and two suit-cases and a nailed-up wooden box containing odds and ends.
+Content made quite a sensation when she arrived and her baggage was
+piled on the station platform.
+
+Poor Sally Patterson unpacked little Content's trunks. She had sent the
+little girl to school within a few days after her arrival. Lily Jennings
+and Amelia Wheeler called for her, and aided her down the street between
+them, arms interlocked. Content, although Sally had done her best with a
+pretty ready-made dress and a new hat, was undeniably a peculiar-looking
+child. In the first place, she had an expression so old that it was
+fairly uncanny.
+
+"That child has downward curves beside her mouth already, and lines
+between her eyes, and what she will look like a few years hence is
+beyond me," Sally told her husband after she had seen the little girl go
+out of sight between Lily's curls and ruffles and ribbons and Amelia's
+smooth skirts.
+
+"She doesn't look like a happy child," agreed the rector. "Poor little
+thing! Her aunt Eudora must have been a queer woman to train a child."
+
+"She is certainly trained," said Sally, ruefully; "too much so. Content
+acts as if she were afraid to move or speak or even breathe unless
+somebody signals permission. I pity her."
+
+She was in the storeroom, in the midst of Content's baggage. The rector
+sat on an old chair, smoking. He had a conviction that it behooved him
+as a man to stand by his wife during what might prove an ordeal. He
+had known Content's deceased aunt years before. He had also known the
+clergyman who had taken charge of her personal property and sent it on
+with Content.
+
+"Be prepared for finding almost anything. Sally," he observed. "Mr.
+Zenock Shanksbury, as I remember him, was so conscientious that it
+amounted to mania. I am sure he has sent simply unspeakable things
+rather than incur the reproach of that conscience of his with regard to
+defrauding Content of one jot or tittle of that personal property."
+
+Sally shook out a long, black silk dress, with jet dangling here and
+there. "Now here is this dress," said she. "I suppose I really must keep
+this, but when that child is grown up the silk will probably be cracked
+and entirely worthless."
+
+"You had better take the two trunks and pack them with such things, and
+take your chances."
+
+"Oh, I suppose so. I suppose I must take chances with everything except
+furs and wools, which will collect moths. Oh, goodness!" Sally held up
+an old-fashioned fitch fur tippet. Little vague winged things came from
+it like dust. "Moths!" said she, tragically. "Moths now. It is full
+of them. Edward, you need not tell me that clergyman's wife was
+conscientious. No conscientious woman would have sent an old fur tippet
+all eaten with moths into another woman's house. She could not."
+
+Sally took flying leaps across the storeroom. She flung open the window
+and tossed out the mangy tippet. "This is simply awful!" she declared,
+as she returned. "Edward, don't you think we are justified in having
+Thomas take all these things out in the back yard and making a bonfire
+of the whole lot?"
+
+"No, my dear."
+
+"But, Edward, nobody can tell what will come next. If Content's aunt had
+died of a contagious disease, nothing could induce me to touch another
+thing."
+
+"Well, dear, you know that she died from the shock of a carriage
+accident, because she had a weak heart."
+
+"I know it, and of course there is nothing contagious about that." Sally
+took up an ancient bandbox and opened it. She displayed its contents: a
+very frivolous bonnet dating back in style a halfcentury, gay with
+roses and lace and green strings, and another with a heavy crape veil
+dependent.
+
+"You certainly do not advise me to keep these?" asked Sally,
+despondently.
+
+Edward Patterson looked puzzled. "Use your own judgment," he said,
+finally.
+
+Sally summarily marched across the room and flung the gay bonnet and the
+mournful one out of the window. Then she took out a bundle of very old
+underwear which had turned a saffron yellow with age. "People are always
+coming to me for old linen in case of burns," she said, succinctly.
+"After these are washed I can supply an auto da fe."
+
+Poor Sally worked all that day and several days afterward. The rector
+deserted her, and she relied upon her own good sense in the disposition
+of little Content's legacy. When all was over she told her husband.
+
+"Well, Edward," said she, "there is exactly one trunk half full of
+things which the child may live to use, but it is highly improbable. We
+have had six bonfires, and I have given away three suits of old clothes
+to Thomas's father. The clothes were very large."
+
+"Must have belonged to Eudora's first husband. He was a stout man," said
+Edward.
+
+"And I have given two small suits of men's clothes to the Aid Society
+for the next out-West barrel."
+
+"Eudora's second husband's."
+
+"And I gave the washerwoman enough old baking-dishes to last her
+lifetime, and some cracked dishes. Most of the dishes were broken, but a
+few were only cracked; and I have given Silas Thomas's wife ten old wool
+dresses and a shawl and three old cloaks. All the other things which did
+not go into the bonfires went to the Aid Society. They will go back
+out West." Sally laughed, a girlish peal, and her husband joined. But
+suddenly her smooth forehead contracted. "Edward," said she.
+
+"Well, dear?"
+
+"I am terribly puzzled about one thing." The two were sitting in the
+study. Content had gone to bed. Nobody could hear easily, but Sally
+Patterson lowered her voice, and her honest, clear blue eyes had a
+frightened expression.
+
+"What is it, dear?"
+
+"You will think me very silly and cowardly, and I think I have never
+been cowardly, but this is really very strange. Come with me. I am such
+a goose, I don't dare go alone to that storeroom."
+
+The rector rose. Sally switched on the lights as they went up-stairs to
+the storeroom.
+
+"Tread very softly," she whispered. "Content is probably asleep."
+
+The two tiptoed up the stairs and entered the storeroom. Sally
+approached one of the two new trunks which had come with Content from
+out West. She opened it. She took out a parcel nicely folded in a large
+towel.
+
+"See here, Edward Patterson."
+
+The rector stared as Sally shook out a dress-a gay, up-to-date dress, a
+young girl's dress, a very tall young girl's, for the skirts trailed on
+the floor as Sally held it as high as she could. It was made of a fine
+white muslin. There was white lace on the bodice, and there were knots
+of blue ribbon scattered over the whole, knots of blue ribbon confining
+tiny bunches of rosebuds and daisies. These knots of blue ribbon and the
+little flowers made it undeniably a young girl's costume. Even in the
+days of all ages wearing the costumes of all ages, an older woman
+would have been abashed before those exceedingly youthful knots of blue
+ribbons and flowers.
+
+The rector looked approvingly at it. "That is very pretty, it seems to
+me," he said. "That must be worth keeping, Sally."
+
+"Worth keeping! Well, Edward Patterson, just wait. You are a man, and
+of course you cannot understand how very strange it is about the dress."
+The rector looked inquiringly.
+
+"I want to know," said Sally, "if Content's aunt Eudora had any young
+relative besides Content. I mean had she a grown-up young girl relative
+who would wear a dress like this?"
+
+"I don't know of anybody. There might have been some relative of
+Eudora's first husband. No, he was an only child. I don't think it
+possible that Eudora had any young girl relative."
+
+"If she had," said Sally, firmly, "she would have kept this dress. You
+are sure there was nobody else living with Content's aunt at the time
+she died?"
+
+"Nobody except the servants, and they were an old man and his wife."
+
+"Then whose dress was this?"
+
+"I don't know, Sally."
+
+"You don't know, and I don't. It is very strange."
+
+"I suppose," said Edward Patterson, helpless before the feminine
+problem, "that--Eudora got it in some way."
+
+"In some way," repeated Sally. "That is always a man's way out of a
+mystery when there is a mystery. There is a mystery. There is a mystery
+which worries me. I have not told you all yet, Edward."
+
+"What more is there, dear?"
+
+"I--asked Content whose dress this was, and she said--Oh, Edward, I do
+so despise mysteries."
+
+"What did she say, Sally?"
+
+"She said it was her big sister Solly's dress."
+
+"Her what?"
+
+"Her big sister Solly's dress. Edward, has Content ever had a sister?
+Has she a sister now?"
+
+"No, she never had a sister, and she has none now," declared the rector,
+emphatically. "I knew all her family. What in the world ails the child?"
+
+"She said her big sister Solly, Edward, and the very name is so inane.
+If she hasn't any big sister Solly, what are we going to do?"
+
+"Why, the child must simply lie," said the rector.
+
+"But, Edward, I don't think she knows she lies. You may laugh, but I
+think she is quite sure that she has a big sister Solly, and that this
+is her dress. I have not told you the whole. After she came home from
+school to-day she went up to her room, and she left the door open, and
+pretty soon I heard her talking. At first I thought perhaps Lily or
+Amelia was up there, although I had not seen either of them come in
+with Content. Then after a while, when I had occasion to go up-stairs,
+I looked in her room, and she was quite alone, although I had heard her
+talking as I went up-stairs. Then I said: 'Content, I thought somebody
+was in your room. I heard you talking.'
+
+"And she said, looking right into my eyes: 'Yes, ma'am, I was talking.'
+
+"'But there is nobody here,' I said.
+
+"'Yes, ma'am,' she said. 'There isn't anybody here now, but my big
+sister Solly was here, and she is gone. You heard me talking to my big
+sister Solly.' I felt faint, Edward, and you know it takes a good deal
+to overcome me. I just sat down in Content's wicker rocking-chair. I
+looked at her and she looked at me. Her eyes were just as clear and
+blue, and her forehead looked like truth itself. She is not exactly a
+pretty child, and she has a peculiar appearance, but she does certainly
+look truthful and good, and she looked so then. She had tried to fluff
+her hair over her forehead a little as I had told her, and not pull it
+back so tight, and she wore her new dress, and her face and hands were
+as clean, and she stood straight. You know she is a little inclined to
+stoop, and I have talked to her about it. She stood straight, and looked
+at me with those blue eyes, and I did feel fairly dizzy."
+
+"What did you say?"
+
+"Well, after a bit I pulled myself together and I said: 'My dear little
+girl, what is this? What do you mean about your big sister Sarah?'
+Edward, I could not bring myself to say that idiotic Solly. In fact, I
+did think I must be mistaken and had not heard correctly. But Content
+just looked at me as if she thought me very stupid. 'Solly,' said she.
+'My sister's name is Solly.'
+
+"'But, my dear,' I said, 'I understand that you had no sister.'
+
+"'Yes,' said she, 'I have my big sister Solly.'
+
+"'But where has she been all the time?' said I.
+
+"Then Content looked at me and smiled, and it was quite a wonderful
+smile, Edward. She smiled as if she knew so much more than I could ever
+know, and quite pitied me."
+
+"She did not answer your question?"
+
+"No, only by that smile which seemed to tell whole volumes about that
+awful Solly's whereabouts, only I was too ignorant to read them.
+
+"'Where is she now, dear?' I said, after a little.
+
+"'She is gone now,' said Content.
+
+"'Gone where?' said I.
+
+"And then the child smiled at me again. Edward, what are we going to do?
+Is she untruthful, or has she too much imagination? I have heard of such
+a thing as too much imagination, and children telling lies which were
+not really lies."
+
+"So have I," agreed the rector, dryly, "but I never believed in it." The
+rector started to leave the room.
+
+"What are you going to do?" inquired Sally.
+
+"I am going to endeavor to discriminate between lies and imagination,"
+replied the rector.
+
+Sally plucked at his coat-sleeve as they went down-stairs. "My dear,"
+she whispered, "I think she is asleep."
+
+"She will have to wake up."
+
+"But, my dear, she may be nervous. Would it not be better to wait until
+to-morrow?"
+
+"I think not," said Edward Patterson. Usually an easy-going man, when
+he was aroused he was determined to extremes. Into Content's room
+he marched, Sally following. Neither of them saw their small son
+Jim peeking around his door. He had heard--he could not help it--the
+conversation earlier in the day between Content and his mother. He had
+also heard other things. He now felt entirely justified in listening,
+although he had a good code of honor. He considered himself in a way
+responsible, knowing what he knew, for the peace of mind of his parents.
+Therefore he listened, peeking around the doorway of his dark room.
+
+The electric light flashed out from Content's room, and the little
+interior was revealed. It was charmingly pretty. Sally had done her best
+to make this not altogether welcome little stranger's room attractive.
+There were garlands of rosebuds swung from the top of the white
+satin-papered walls. There were dainty toilet things, a little
+dressing-table decked with ivory, a case of books, chairs cushioned with
+rosebud chintz, windows curtained with the same.
+
+In the little white bed, with a rose-sprinkled coverlid over her, lay
+Content. She was not asleep. Directly, when the light flashed out, she
+looked at the rector and his wife with her clear blue eyes. Her fair
+hair, braided neatly and tied with pink ribbons, lay in two tails on
+either side of her small, certainly very good face. Her forehead was
+beautiful, very white and full, giving her an expression of candor which
+was even noble. Content, little lonely girl among strangers in a strange
+place, mutely beseeching love and pity, from her whole attitude toward
+life and the world, looked up at Edward Patterson and Sally, and the
+rector realized that his determination was giving way. He began to
+believe in imagination, even to the extent of a sister Solly. He had
+never had a daughter, and sometimes the thought of one had made his
+heart tender. His voice was very kind when he spoke.
+
+"Well, little girl," he said, "what is this I hear?"
+
+Sally stared at her husband and stifled a chuckle.
+
+As for Content, she looked at the rector and said nothing. It was
+obvious that she did not know what he had heard. The rector explained.
+
+"My dear little girl," he said, "your aunt Sally"--they had agreed upon
+the relationship of uncle and aunt to Content--"tells me that you have
+been telling her about your--big sister Solly." The rector half gasped
+as he said Solly. He seemed to himself to be on the driveling verge of
+idiocy before the pronunciation of that absurdly inane name.
+
+Content's responding voice came from the pink-and-white nest in which she
+was snuggled, like the fluting pipe of a canary.
+
+"Yes, sir," said she.
+
+"My dear child," said the rector, "you know perfectly well that you have
+no big sister--Solly." Every time the rector said Solly he swallowed
+hard.
+
+Content smiled as Sally had described her smiling. She said nothing.
+The rector felt reproved and looked down upon from enormous heights of
+innocence and childhood and the wisdom thereof. However, he persisted.
+
+"Content," he said, "what did you mean by telling your aunt Sally what
+you did?"
+
+"I was talking with my big sister Solly," replied Content, with the
+calmness of one stating a fundamental truth of nature.
+
+The rector's face grew stern. "Content," he said, "look at me."
+
+Content looked. Looking seemed to be the instinctive action which
+distinguished her as an individual.
+
+"Have you a big sister--Solly?" asked the rector. His face was stern,
+but his voice faltered.
+
+"Yes, sir."
+
+"Then--tell me so."
+
+"I have a big sister Solly," said Content. Now she spoke rather wearily,
+although still sweetly, as if puzzled why she had been disturbed in
+sleep to be asked such an obvious question.
+
+"Where has she been all the time, that we have known nothing about her?"
+demanded the rector.
+
+Content smiled. However, she spoke. "Home," said she.
+
+"When did she come here?"
+
+"This morning."
+
+"Where is she now?"
+
+Content smiled and was silent. The rector cast a helpless look at his
+wife. He now did not care if she did see that he was completely at a
+loss. How could a great, robust man and a clergyman be harsh to a tender
+little girl child in a pink-andwhite nest of innocent dreams?
+
+Sally pitied him. She spoke more harshly than her husband. "Content
+Adams," said she, "you know perfectly well that you have no big sister
+Solly. Now tell me the truth. Tell me you have no big sister Solly."
+
+"I have a big sister Solly," said Content.
+
+"Come, Edward," said Sally. "There is no use in staying and talking
+to this obstinate little girl any longer." Then she spoke to Content.
+"Before you go to sleep," said she, "you must say your prayers, if you
+have not already done so."
+
+"I have said my prayers," replied Content, and her blue eyes were full
+of horrified astonishment at the suspicion.
+
+"Then," said Sally, "you had better say them over and add something.
+Pray that you may always tell the truth."
+
+"Yes, ma'am," said Content, in her little canary pipe.
+
+The rector and his wife went out. Sally switched off the light with a
+snap as she passed. Out in the hall she stopped and held her husband's
+arms hard. "Hush!" she whispered. They both listened. They heard this,
+in the faintest plaint of a voice:
+
+"They don't believe you are here, Sister Solly, but I do."
+
+Sally dashed back into the rosebud room and switched on the light. She
+stared around. She opened a closet door. Then she turned off the light
+and joined her husband.
+
+"There was nobody there?" he whispered.
+
+"Of course not."
+
+When they were back in the study the rector and his wife looked at each
+other.
+
+"We will do the best we can," said Sally. "Don't worry, Edward, for you
+have to write your sermon to-morrow. We will manage some way. I will
+admit that I rather wish Content had had some other distant relative
+besides you who could have taken charge of her."
+
+"You poor child!" said the rector. "It is hard on you, Sally, for she is
+no kith nor kin of yours."
+
+"Indeed I don't mind," said Sally Patterson, "if only I can succeed in
+bringing her up."
+
+Meantime Jim Patterson, up-stairs, sitting over his next day's algebra
+lesson, was even more perplexed than were his parents in the study.
+He paid little attention to his book. "I can manage little Lucy," he
+reflected, "but if the others have got hold of it, I don't know."
+
+Presently he rose and stole very softly through the hall to Content's
+door. She was timid, and always left it open so she could see the hall
+light until she fell asleep. "Content," whispered Jim.
+
+There came the faintest "What?" in response.
+
+"Don't you," said Jim, in a theatrical whisper, "say another word at
+school to anybody about your big sister Solly. If you do, I'll whop you,
+if you are a girl."
+
+"Don't care!" was sighed forth from the room.
+
+"And I'll whop your old big sister Solly, too."
+
+There was a tiny sob.
+
+"I will," declared Jim. "Now you mind!"
+
+The next day Jim cornered little Lucy Rose under a cedar-tree before
+school began. He paid no attention to Bubby Harvey and Tom Simmons,
+who were openly sniggering at him. Little Lucy gazed up at Jim, and the
+blue-green shade of the cedar seemed to bring out only more clearly the
+white-rose softness of her dear little face. Jim bent over her.
+
+"Want you to do something for me," he whispered.
+
+Little Lucy nodded gravely.
+
+"If my new cousin Content ever says anything to you again--I heard her
+yesterday--about her big sister Solly, don't you ever say a word about
+it to anybody else. You will promise me, won't you, little Lucy?"
+
+A troubled expression came into little Lucy's kind eyes. "But she told
+Lily, and Lily told Amelia, and Amelia told her grandmother Wheeler,
+and her grandmother Wheeler told Miss Parmalee when she met her on the
+street after school, and Miss Parmalee called on my aunt Martha and told
+her," said little Lucy.
+
+"Oh, shucks!" said Jim.
+
+"And my aunt Martha told my father that she thought perhaps she ought
+to ask for her when she called on your mother. She said Arnold Carruth's
+aunt Flora was going to call, and his aunt Dorothy. I heard Miss Acton
+tell Miss Parmalee that she thought they ought to ask for her when they
+called on your mother, too."
+
+"Little Lucy," he said, and lowered his voice, "you must promise me
+never, as long as you live, to tell what I am going to tell you."
+
+Little Lucy looked frightened.
+
+"Promise!" insisted Jim.
+
+"I promise," said little Lucy, in a weak voice.
+
+"Never, as long as you live, to tell anybody. Promise!"
+
+"I promise."
+
+"Now, you know if you break your promise and tell, you will be guilty of
+a dreadful lie and be very wicked."
+
+Little Lucy shivered. "I never will."
+
+"Well, my new cousin Content Adams--tells lies."
+
+Little Lucy gasped.
+
+"Yes, she does. She says she has a big sister Solly, and she hasn't got
+any big sister Solly. She never did have, and she never will have. She
+makes believe."
+
+"Makes believe?" said little Lucy, in a hopeful voice.
+
+"Making believe is just a real mean way of lying. Now I made Content
+promise last night never to say one word in school about her big sister
+Solly, and I am going to tell you this, so you can tell Lily and the
+others and not lie. Of course, I don't want to lie myself, because my
+father is rector, and, besides, mother doesn't approve of it; but if
+anybody is going to lie, I am the one. Now, you mind, little Lucy.
+Content's big sister Solly has gone away, and she is never coming back.
+If you tell Lily and the others I said so, I can't see how you will be
+lying."
+
+Little Lucy gazed at the boy. She looked like truth incarnate. "But,"
+said she, in her adorable stupidity of innocence, "I don't see how she
+could go away if she was never here, Jim."
+
+"Oh, of course she couldn't. But all you have to do is to say that you
+heard me say she had gone. Don't you understand?"
+
+"I don't understand how Content's big sister Solly could possibly go
+away if she was never here."
+
+"Little Lucy, I wouldn't ask you to tell a lie for the world, but if you
+were just to say that you heard me say--"
+
+"I think it would be a lie," said little Lucy, "because how can I help
+knowing if she was never here she couldn't--"
+
+"Oh, well, little Lucy," cried Jim, in despair, still with
+tenderness--how could he be anything but tender with little Lucy?--"all
+I ask is never to say anything about it."
+
+"If they ask me?"
+
+"Anyway, you can hold your tongue. You know it isn't wicked to hold your
+tongue."
+
+Little Lucy absurdly stuck out the pointed tip of her little red tongue.
+Then she shook her head slowly.
+
+"Well," she said, "I will hold my tongue."
+
+This encounter with innocence and logic had left him worsted. Jim could
+see no way out of the fact that his father, the rector, his mother,
+the rector's wife, and he, the rector's son, were disgraced by their
+relationship to such an unsanctified little soul as this queer Content
+Adams.
+
+And yet he looked at the poor lonely little girl, who was trying very
+hard to learn her lessons, who suggested in her very pose and movement
+a little, scared rabbit ready to leap the road for some bush of
+hiding, and while he was angry with her he pitied her. He had no doubts
+concerning Content's keeping her promise. He was quite sure that he
+would now say nothing whatever about that big sister Solly to the
+others, but he was not prepared for what happened that very afternoon.
+
+When he went home from school his heart stood still to see Miss Martha
+Rose, and Arnold Carruth's aunt Flora, and his aunt who was not his
+aunt, Miss Dorothy Vernon, who was visiting her, all walking along in
+state with their lace-trimmed parasols, their white gloves, and their
+nice card-cases. Jim jumped a fence and raced across lots home, and
+gained on them. He burst in on his mother, sitting on the porch, which
+was inclosed by wire netting overgrown with a budding vine. It was the
+first warm day of the season.
+
+"Mother," cried Jim Patterson--"mother, they are coming!"
+
+"Who, for goodness' sake, Jim?"
+
+"Why, Arnold's aunt Flora and his aunt Dorothy and little Lucy's aunt
+Martha. They are coming to call."
+
+Involuntarily Sally's hand went up to smooth her pretty hair. "Well,
+what of it, Jim?" said she.
+
+"Mother, they will ask for--big sister Solly!"
+
+Sally Patterson turned pale. "How do you know?"
+
+"Mother, Content has been talking at school. A lot know. You will see
+they will ask for--"
+
+"Run right in and tell Content to stay in her room," whispered Sally,
+hastily, for the callers, their white-kidded hands holding their
+card-cases genteelly, were coming up the walk.
+
+Sally advanced, smiling. She put a brave face on the matter, but she
+realized that she, Sally Patterson, who had never been a coward, was
+positively afraid before this absurdity. The callers sat with her on the
+pleasant porch, with the young vine-shadows making networks over their
+best gowns. Tea was served presently by the maid, and, much to Sally's
+relief, before the maid appeared came the inquiry. Miss Martha Rose made
+it.
+
+"We would be pleased to see Miss Solly Adams also," said Miss Martha.
+
+Flora Carruth echoed her. "I was so glad to hear another nice girl had
+come to the village," said she with enthusiasm. Miss Dorothy Vernon said
+something indefinite to the same effect.
+
+"I am sorry," replied Sally, with an effort, "but there is no Miss
+Solly Adams here now." She spoke the truth as nearly as she could manage
+without unraveling the whole ridiculous affair. The callers sighed with
+regret, tea was served with little cakes, and they fluttered down the
+walk, holding their card-cases, and that ordeal was over.
+
+But Sally sought the rector in his study, and she was trembling.
+"Edward," she cried out, regardless of her husband's sermon, "something
+must be done now."
+
+"Why, what is the matter, Sally?"
+
+"People are--calling on her."
+
+"Calling on whom?"
+
+"Big sister--Solly!" Sally explained.
+
+"Well, don't worry, dear," said the rector. "Of course we will do
+something, but we must think it over. Where is the child now?"
+
+"She and Jim are out in the garden. I saw them pass the window just
+now. Jim is such a dear boy, he tries hard to be nice to her. Edward
+Patterson, we ought not to wait."
+
+"My dear, we must."
+
+Meantime Jim and Content Adams were out in the garden. Jim had gone to
+Content's door and tapped and called out, rather rudely: "Content,
+I say, put on your hat and come along out in the garden. I've got
+something to tell you."
+
+"Don't want to," protested Content's little voice, faintly.
+
+"You come right along."
+
+And Content came along. She was an obedient child, and she liked Jim,
+although she stood much in awe of him. She followed him into the garden
+back of the rectory, and they sat down on the bench beneath the weeping
+willow. The minute they were seated Jim began to talk.
+
+"Now," said he, "I want to know."
+
+Content glanced up at him, then looked down and turned pale.
+
+"I want to know, honest Injun," said Jim, "what you are telling such
+awful whoppers about your old big sister Solly for?"
+
+Content was silent. This time she did not smile, a tear trickled out of
+her right eye and ran over the pale cheek.
+
+"Because you know," said Jim, observant of the tear, but ruthless, "that
+you haven't any big sister Solly, and never did have. You are getting us
+all in an awful mess over it, and father is rector here, and mother is
+his wife, and I am his son, and you are his niece, and it is downright
+mean. Why do you tell such whoppers? Out with it!"
+
+Content was trembling violently. "I lived with Aunt Eudora," she
+whispered.
+
+"Well, what of that? Other folks have lived with their aunts and not
+told whoppers."
+
+"They haven't lived with Aunt Eudora."
+
+"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Content Adams, and you the
+rector's niece, talking that way about dead folks."
+
+"I don't mean to talk about poor Aunt Eudora," fairly sobbed Content.
+"Aunt Eudora was a real good aunt, but she was grown up. She was a good
+deal more grown up than your mother; she really was, and when I
+first went to live with her I was 'most a little baby; I couldn't
+speak--plain, and I had to go to bed real early, and slept 'way off from
+everybody, and I used to be afraid--all alone, and so--"
+
+"Well, go on," said Jim, but his voice was softer. It WAS hard lines for
+a little kid, especially if she was a girl.
+
+"And so," went on the little, plaintive voice, "I got to thinking how
+nice it would be if I only had a big sister, and I used to cry and say
+to myself--I couldn't speak plain, you know, I was so little-'Big sister
+would be real solly.' And then first thing I knew--she came."
+
+"Who came?"
+
+"Big sister Solly."
+
+"What rot! She didn't come. Content Adams, you know she didn't come."
+
+"She must have come," persisted the little girl, in a frightened
+whisper. "She must have. Oh, Jim, you don't know. Big sister Solly must
+have come, or I would have died like my father and mother."
+
+Jim's arm, which was near her, twitched convulsively, but he did not put
+it around her.
+
+"She did--co-me," sobbed Content. "Big sister Solly did come."
+
+"Well, have it so," said Jim, suddenly. "No use going over that any
+longer. Have it she came, but she ain't here now, anyway. Content Adams,
+you can't look me in the face and tell me that."
+
+Content looked at Jim, and her little face was almost terrible, so full
+of bewilderment and fear it was. "Jim," whispered Content, "I can't
+have big sister Solly not be here. I can't send her away. What would she
+think?"
+
+Jim stared. "Think? Why, she isn't alive to think, anyhow!"
+
+"I can't make her--dead," sobbed Content. "She came when I wanted her,
+and now when I don't so much, when I've got Uncle Edward and Aunt Sally
+and you, and don't feel so dreadful lonesome, I can't be so bad as to
+make her dead."
+
+Jim whistled. Then his face brightened up. He looked at Content with a
+shrewd and cheerful grin. "See here, kid, you say your sister Solly is
+big, grown up, don't you?" he inquired.
+
+Content nodded pitifully.
+
+"Then why, if she is grown up and pretty, don't she have a beau?"
+
+Content stopped sobbing and gave him a quick glance.
+
+"Then--why doesn't she get married, and go out West to live?"
+
+Jim chuckled. Instead of a sob, a faint echo of his chuckle came from
+Content.
+
+Jim laughed merrily. "I say, Content," he cried, "let's have it she's
+married now, and gone?"
+
+"Well," said Content.
+
+Jim put his arm around her very nicely and protectingly. "It's all
+right, then," said he, "as all right as it can be for a girl. Say,
+Content, ain't it a shame you aren't a boy?"
+
+"I can't help it," said Content, meekly.
+
+"You see," said Jim, thoughtfully, "I don't, as a rule, care much about
+girls, but if you could coast down-hill and skate, and do a few things
+like that, you would be almost as good as a boy."
+
+Content surveyed him, and her pessimistic little face assumed upward
+curves. "I will," said she. "I will do anything, Jim. I will fight if
+you want me to, just like a boy."
+
+"I don't believe you could lick any of us fellers unless you get a good
+deal harder in the muscles," said Jim, eying her thoughtfully; "but
+we'll play ball, and maybe by and by you can begin with Arnold Carruth."
+
+"Could lick him now," said Content.
+
+But Jim's face sobered before her readiness. "Oh no, you mustn't go to
+fighting right away," said he. "It wouldn't do. You really are a girl,
+you know, and father is rector."
+
+"Then I won't," said Content; "but I COULD knock down that little boy
+with curls; I know I could."
+
+"Well, you needn't. I'll like you just as well. You see, Content"--Jim's
+voice faltered, for he was a boy, and on the verge of sentiment before
+which he was shamed--"you see, Content, now your big sister Solly is
+married and gone out West, why, you can have me for your brother, and of
+course a brother is a good deal better than a sister."
+
+"Yes," said Content, eagerly.
+
+"I am going," said Jim, "to marry Lucy Rose when I grow up, but I
+haven't got any sister, and I'd like you first rate for one. So I'll be
+your big brother instead of your cousin."
+
+"Big brother Solly?"
+
+"Say, Content, that is an awful name, but I don't care. You're only
+a girl. You can call me anything you want to, but you mustn't call me
+Solly when there is anybody within hearing."
+
+"I won't."
+
+"Because it wouldn't do," said Jim with weight.
+
+"I never will, honest," said Content.
+
+Presently they went into the house. Dr. Trumbull was there; he had
+been talking seriously to the rector and his wife. He had come over on
+purpose.
+
+"It is a perfect absurdity," he said, "but I made ten calls this
+morning, and everywhere I was asked about that little Adams girl's big
+sister--why you keep her hidden. They have a theory that she is either
+an idiot or dreadfully disfigured. I had to tell them I know nothing
+about it."
+
+"There isn't any girl," said the rector, wearily. "Sally, do explain."
+
+Dr. Trumbull listened. "I have known such cases," he said when Sally had
+finished.
+
+"What did you do for them?" Sally asked, anxiously.
+
+"Nothing. Such cases have to be cured by time. Children get over these
+fancies when they grow up."
+
+"Do you mean to say that we have to put up with big sister Solly until
+Content is grown up?" asked Sally, in a desperate tone. And then Jim
+came in. Content had run up-stairs.
+
+"It is all right, mother," said Jim.
+
+Sally caught him by the shoulders. "Oh, Jim, has she told you?"
+
+Jim gave briefly, and with many omissions, an account of his
+conversation with Content.
+
+"Did she say anything about that dress, Jim?" asked his mother.
+
+"She said her aunt had meant it for that out-West rector's daughter Alice
+to graduate in, but Content wanted it for her big sister Solly, and told
+the rector's wife it was hers. Content says she knows she was a naughty
+girl, but after she had said it she was afraid to say it wasn't so.
+Mother, I think that poor little thing is scared 'most to death."
+
+"Nobody is going to hurt her," said Sally. "Goodness! that rector's wife
+was so conscientious that she even let that dress go. Well, I can send
+it right back, and the girl will have it in time for her graduation,
+after all. Jim dear, call the poor child down. Tell her nobody is going
+to scold her." Sally's voice was very tender.
+
+Jim returned with Content. She had on a little ruffled pink gown
+which seemed to reflect color on her cheeks. She wore an inscrutable
+expression, at once child-like and charming. She looked shy, furtively
+amused, yet happy. Sally realized that the pessimistic downward lines
+had disappeared, that Content was really a pretty little girl.
+
+Sally put an arm around the small, pink figure. "So you and Jim have
+been talking, dear?" she said.
+
+"Yes, ma'am," replied little Content. "Jim is my big brother--" She just
+caught herself before she said Solly.
+
+"And your sister Solly is married and living out West?"
+
+"Yes," said Content, with a long breath. "My sister Solly is married."
+Smiles broke all over her little face. She hid it in Sally's skirts, and
+a little peal of laughter like a bird-trill came from the soft muslin
+folds.
+
+
+
+
+LITTLE LUCY ROSE
+
+BACK of the rectory there was a splendid, long hill. The ground receded
+until the rectory garden was reached, and the hill was guarded on either
+flank by a thick growth of pines and cedars, and, being a part of the
+land appertaining to the rectory, was never invaded by the village
+children. This was considered very fortunate by Mrs. Patterson, Jim's
+mother, and for an odd reason. The rector's wife was very fond of
+coasting, as she was of most out-of-door sports, but her dignified
+position prevented her from enjoying them to the utmost. In many
+localities the clergyman's wife might have played golf and tennis, have
+rode and swum and coasted and skated, and nobody thought the worse of
+her; but in The Village it was different.
+
+Sally had therefore rejoiced at the discovery of that splendid, isolated
+hill behind the house. It could not have been improved upon for a long,
+perfectly glorious coast, winding up on the pool of ice in the garden
+and bumping thrillingly between dry vegetables. Mrs. Patterson steered
+and Jim made the running pushes, and slid flat on his chest behind his
+mother. Jim was very proud of his mother. He often wished that he felt
+at liberty to tell of her feats. He had never been told not to tell, but
+realized, being rather a sharp boy, that silence was wiser. Jim's mother
+confided in him, and he respected her confidence. "Oh, Jim dear," she
+would often say, "there is a mothers' meeting this afternoon, and I
+would so much rather go coasting with you." Or, "There's a Guild meeting
+about a fair, and the ice in the garden is really quite smooth."
+
+It was perhaps unbecoming a rector's wife, but Jim loved his mother
+better because she expressed a preference for the sports he loved, and
+considered that no other boy had a mother who was quite equal to his.
+Sally Patterson was small and wiry, with a bright face, and very thick,
+brown hair, which had a boyish crest over her forehead, and she could
+run as fast as Jim. Jim's father was much older than his mother, and
+very dignified, although he had a keen sense of humor. He used to laugh
+when his wife and son came in after their coasting expeditions.
+
+"Well, boys," he would say, "had a good time?"
+
+Jim was perfectly satisfied and convinced that his mother was the very
+best and most beautiful person in the village, even in the whole world,
+until Mr. Cyril Rose came to fill a vacancy of cashier in the bank, and
+his daughter, little Lucy Rose, as a matter of course, came with him.
+Little Lucy had no mother. Mr. Cyril's cousin, Martha Rose, kept his
+house, and there was a colored maid with a bad temper, who was said,
+however, to be invaluable "help."
+
+Little Lucy attended Madame's school. She came the next Monday after Jim
+and his friends had planned to have a chicken roast and failed. After
+Jim saw little Lucy he thought no more of the chicken roast. It
+seemed to him that he thought no more of anything. He could not by any
+possibility have learned his lessons had it not been for the desire
+to appear a good scholar before little Lucy. Jim had never been a
+self-conscious boy, but that day he was so keenly worried about her
+opinion of him that his usual easy swing broke into a strut when he
+crossed the room. He need not have been so troubled, because little Lucy
+was not looking at him. She was not looking at any boy or girl. She
+was only trying to learn her lesson. Little Lucy was that rather rare
+creature, a very gentle, obedient child, with a single eye for her duty.
+She was so charming that it was sad to think how much her mother had
+missed, as far as this world was concerned.
+
+The minute Madame saw her a singular light came into her eyes--the light
+of love of a childless woman for a child. Similar lights were in the
+eyes of Miss Parmalee and Miss Acton. They looked at one another with
+a sort of sweet confidence when they were drinking tea together after
+school in Madame's study.
+
+"Did you ever see such a darling?" said Madame. Miss Parmalee said she
+never had, and Miss Acton echoed her.
+
+"She is a little angel," said Madame.
+
+"She worked so hard over her geography lesson," said Miss Parmalee, "and
+she got the Amazon River in New England and the Connecticut in South
+America, after all; but she was so sweet about it, she made me want to
+change the map of the world. Dear little soul, it did seem as if she
+ought to have rivers and everything else just where she chose."
+
+"And she tried so hard to reach an octave, and her little finger is too
+short," said Miss Acton; "and she hasn't a bit of an ear for music, but
+her little voice is so sweet it does not matter."
+
+"I have seen prettier children," said Madame, "but never one quite such
+a darling."
+
+Miss Parmalee and Miss Acton agreed with Madame, and so did everybody
+else. Lily Jennings's beauty was quite eclipsed by little Lucy, but
+Lily did not care; she was herself one of little Lucy's most fervent
+admirers. She was really Jim Patterson's most formidable rival in the
+school. "You don't care about great, horrid boys, do you, dear?" Lily
+said to Lucy, entirely within hearing of Jim and Lee Westminster and
+Johnny Trumbull and Arnold Carruth and Bubby Harvey and Frank Ellis, and
+a number of others who glowered at her.
+
+Dear little Lucy hesitated. She did not wish to hurt the feelings of
+boys, and the question had been loudly put. Finally she said she didn't
+know. Lack of definite knowledge was little Lucy's rock of refuge in
+time of need. She would look adorable, and say in her timid little fluty
+voice, "I don't--know." The last word came always with a sort of gasp
+which was alluring. All the listening boys were convinced that little
+Lucy loved them all individually and generally, because of her "I
+don't--know."
+
+Everybody was convinced of little Lucy's affection for everybody, which
+was one reason for her charm. She flattered without knowing that she did
+so. It was impossible for her to look at any living thing except with
+soft eyes of love. It was impossible for her to speak without every tone
+conveying the sweetest deference and admiration. The whole atmosphere
+of Madame's school changed with the advent of the little girl. Everybody
+tried to live up to little Lucy's supposed ideal, but in reality she had
+no ideal. Lucy was the simplest of little girls, only intent upon being
+good, doing as she was told, and winning her father's approval, also her
+cousin Martha's.
+
+Martha Rose was quite elderly, although still good-looking. She was not
+popular, because she was very silent. She dressed becomingly, received
+calls and returned them, but hardly spoke a word. People rather dreaded
+her coming. Miss Martha Rose would sit composedly in a proffered chair,
+her gloved hands crossed over her nice, gold-bound card-case, her chin
+tilted at an angle which never varied, her mouth in a set smile which
+never wavered, her slender feet in their best shoes toeing out precisely
+under the smooth sweep of her gray silk skirt. Miss Martha Rose dressed
+always in gray, a fashion which the village people grudgingly admired.
+It was undoubtedly becoming and distinguished, but savored ever so
+slightly of ostentation, as did her custom of always dressing little
+Lucy in blue. There were different shades and fabrics, but blue it
+always was. It was the best color for the child, as it revealed the fact
+that her big, dark eyes were blue. Shaded as they were by heavy, curly
+lashes, they would have been called black or brown, but the blue in
+them leaped to vision above the blue of blue frocks. Little Lucy had the
+finest, most delicate features, a mist of soft, dark hair, which curled
+slightly, as mist curls, over sweet, round temples. She was a small,
+daintily clad child, and she spoke and moved daintily and softly;
+and when her blue eyes were fixed upon anybody's face, that person
+straightway saw love and obedience and trust in them, and love met love
+half-way. Even Miss Martha Rose looked another woman when little Lucy's
+innocent blue eyes were fixed upon her rather handsome but colorless
+face between the folds of her silvery hair; Miss Martha's hair had
+turned prematurely gray. Light would come into Martha Rose's face, light
+and animation, although she never talked much even to Lucy. She never
+talked much to her cousin Cyril, but he was rather glad of it. He had
+a keen mind, but it was easily diverted, and he was engrossed in his
+business, and concerned lest he be disturbed by such things as feminine
+chatter, of which he certainly had none in his own home, if he kept
+aloof from Jenny, the colored maid. Hers was the only female voice ever
+heard to the point of annoyance in the Rose house.
+
+It was rather wonderful how a child like little Lucy and Miss Martha
+lived with so little conversation. Martha talked no more at home than
+abroad; moreover, at home she had not the attitude of waiting for some
+one to talk to her, which people outside considered trying. Martha did
+not expect her cousin to talk to her. She seldom asked a question. She
+almost never volunteered a perfectly useless observation. She made no
+remarks upon self-evident topics. If the sun shone, she never mentioned
+it. If there was a heavy rain, she never mentioned that. Miss Martha
+suited her cousin exactly, and for that reason, aside from the fact that
+he had been devoted to little Lucy's mother, it never occurred to him
+to marry again. Little Lucy talked no more than Miss Martha, and nobody
+dreamed that she sometimes wanted somebody to talk to her. Nobody
+dreamed that the dear little girl, studying her lessons, learning
+needlework, trying very futilely to play the piano, was lonely; but she
+was without knowing it herself. Martha was so kind and so still; and her
+father was so kind and so still, engrossed in his papers or books,
+often sitting by himself in his own study. Little Lucy in this peace and
+stillness was not having her share of childhood. When other little
+girls came to play with her. Miss Martha enjoined quiet, and even Lily
+Jennings's bird-like chattering became subdued. It was only at school
+that Lucy got her chance for the irresponsible delight which was the
+simple right of her childhood, and there her zeal for her lessons
+prevented. She was happy at school, however, for there she lived in
+an atmosphere of demonstrative affection. The teachers were given
+to seizing her in fond arms and caressing her, and so were her girl
+companions; while the boys, especially Jim Patterson, looked wistfully
+on.
+
+Jim Patterson was in love, a charming little poetical boy-love; but it
+was love. Everything which he did in those days was with the thought of
+little Lucy for incentive. He stood better in school than he had ever
+done before, but it was all for the sake of little Lucy. Jim Patterson
+had one talent, rather rudimentary, still a talent. He could play by
+ear. His father owned an old violin. He had been inclined to music in
+early youth, and Jim got permission to practise on it, and he went by
+himself in the hot attic and practised. Jim's mother did not care for
+music, and her son's preliminary scraping tortured her. Jim tucked the
+old fiddle under one round boy-cheek and played in the hot attic, with
+wasps buzzing around him; and he spent his pennies for catgut, and
+he learned to mend fiddle-strings; and finally came a proud Wednesday
+afternoon when there were visitors in Madame's school, and he stood on
+the platform, with Miss Acton playing an accompaniment on the baby grand
+piano, and he managed a feeble but true tune on his violin. It was
+all for little Lucy, but little Lucy cared no more for music than his
+mother; and while Jim was playing she was rehearsing in the depths
+of her mind the little poem which later she was to recite; for this
+adorable little Lucy was, as a matter of course, to figure in the
+entertainment. It therefore happened that she heard not one note of Jim
+Patterson's painfully executed piece, for she was saying to herself in
+mental singsong a foolish little poem, beginning:
+
+        There was one little flower that bloomed
+           Beside a cottage door.
+
+When she went forward, little darling blue-clad figure, there was a
+murmur of admiration; and when she made mistakes straight through the
+poem, saying,
+
+        There was a little flower that fell
+           On my aunt Martha's floor,
+
+for beginning, there was a roar of tender laughter and a clapping of
+tender, maternal hands, and everybody wanted to catch hold of little
+Lucy and kiss her. It was one of the irresistible charms of this child
+that people loved her the more for her mistakes, and she made many,
+although she tried so very hard to avoid them. Little Lucy was not in
+the least brilliant, but she held love like a precious vase, and it gave
+out perfume better than mere knowledge.
+
+Jim Patterson was so deeply in love with her when he went home that
+night that he confessed to his mother. Mrs. Patterson had led up to the
+subject by alluding to little Lucy while at the dinner-table.
+
+"Edward," she said to her husband--both she and the rector had
+been present at Madame's school entertainment and the tea-drinking
+afterward--"did you ever see in all your life such a darling little girl
+as the new cashier's daughter? She quite makes up for Miss Martha, who
+sat here one solid hour, holding her card-case, waiting for me to talk
+to her. That child is simply delicious, and I was so glad she made
+mistakes."
+
+"Yes, she is a charming child," assented the rector, "despite the fact
+that she is not a beauty, hardly even pretty."
+
+"I know it," said Mrs. Patterson, "but she has the worth of beauty."
+
+Jim was quite pale while his father and mother were talking. He
+swallowed the hot soup so fast that it burnt his tongue. Then he turned
+very red, but nobody noticed him. When his mother came up-stairs to kiss
+him good night he told her.
+
+"Mother," said he, "I have something to tell you."
+
+"All right, Jim," replied Sally Patterson, with her boyish air.
+
+"It is very important," said Jim.
+
+Mrs. Patterson did not laugh; she did not even smile. She sat down
+beside Jim's bed and looked seriously at his eager, rapt, shamed little
+boy-face on the pillow. "Well?" said she, after a minute which seemed
+difficult to him.
+
+Jim coughed. Then he spoke with a blurt. "Mother," said Jim, "by and by,
+of course not quite yet, but by and by, will you have any objection to
+Miss Lucy Rose as a daughter?"
+
+Even then Sally Patterson did not laugh or even smile. "Are you thinking
+of marrying her, Jim?" asked she, quite as if her son had been a man.
+
+"Yes, mother," replied Jim. Then he flung up his little arms in pink
+pajama sleeves, and Sally Patterson took his face between her two hands
+and kissed him warmly.
+
+"She is a darling, and your choice does you credit, Jim," said she. "Of
+course you have said nothing to her yet?"
+
+"I thought it was rather too soon."
+
+"I really think you are very wise, Jim," said his mother. "It is too
+soon to put such ideas into the poor child's head. She is younger than
+you, isn't she, Jim?"
+
+"She is just six months and three days younger," replied Jim, with
+majesty.
+
+"I thought so. Well, you know, Jim, it would just wear her all out,
+as young as that, to be obliged to think about her trousseau and
+housekeeping and going to school, too."
+
+"I know it," said Jim, with a pleased air. "I thought I was right,
+mother."
+
+"Entirely right; and you, too, really ought to finish school, and take
+up a profession or a business, before you say anything definite. You
+would want a nice home for the dear little thing, you know that, Jim."
+
+Jim stared at his mother out of his white pillow. "I thought I would
+stay with you, and she would stay with her father until we were both
+very much older," said he. "She has a nice home now, you know, mother."
+
+Sally Patterson's mouth twitched a little, but she spoke quite gravely
+and reasonably. "Yes, that is very true," said she; "still, I do think
+you are wise to wait, Jim."
+
+When Sally Patterson had left Jim, she looked in on the rector in his
+study. "Our son is thinking seriously of marrying, Edward," said she.
+
+The rector stared at her. She had shut the door, and she laughed.
+
+"He is very discreet. He has consulted me as to my approval of her as
+daughter and announced his intention to wait a little while."
+
+The rector laughed; then he wrinkled his forehead uneasily. "I don't
+like the little chap getting such ideas," said he.
+
+"Don't worry, Edward; he hasn't got them," said Sally Patterson.
+
+"I hope not."
+
+"He has made a very wise choice. She is that perfect darling of a Rose
+girl who couldn't speak her piece, and thought we all loved her when we
+laughed."
+
+"Well, don't let him get foolish ideas; that is all, my dear," said the
+rector.
+
+"Don't worry, Edward. I can manage him," said Sally.
+
+But she was mistaken. The very next day Jim proposed in due form
+to little Lucy. He could not help it. It was during the morning
+intermission, and he came upon her seated all alone under a hawthorn
+hedge, studying her arithmetic anxiously. She was in blue, as usual, and
+a very perky blue bow sat on her soft, dark hair, like a bluebird. She
+glanced up at Jim from under her long lashes.
+
+"Do two and seven make eight or ten? If you please, will you tell me?"
+said she.
+
+"Say, Lucy," said Jim, "will you marry me by and by?"
+
+Lucy stared at him uncomprehendingly.
+
+"Will you?"
+
+"Will I what?"
+
+"Marry me by and by?"
+
+Lucy took refuge in her little harbor of ignorance. "I don't know," said
+she.
+
+"But you like me, don't you, Lucy?"
+
+"I don't know."
+
+"Don't you like me better than you like Johnny Trumbull?"
+
+"I don't know."
+
+"You like me better than you like Arnold Carruth, don't you? He has
+curls and wears socks."
+
+"I don't know."
+
+"When do you think you can be sure?"
+
+"I don't know."
+
+Jim stared helplessly at little Lucy. She stared back sweetly.
+
+"Please tell me whether two and seven make six or eleven, Jim," said
+she.
+
+"They make nine," said Jim.
+
+"I have been counting my fingers and I got it eleven, but I suppose
+I must have counted one finger twice," said little Lucy. She gazed
+reflectively at her little baby-hands. A tiny ring with a blue stone
+shone on one finger.
+
+"I will give you a ring, you know," Jim said, coaxingly.
+
+"I have got a ring my father gave me. Did you say it was ten, please,
+Jim?"
+
+"Nine," gasped Jim.
+
+"All the way I can remember," said little Lucy, "is for you to pick just
+so many leaves off the hedge, and I will tie them in my handkerchief,
+and just before I have to say my lesson I will count those leaves."
+
+Jim obediently picked nine leaves from the hawthorn hedge, and little
+Lucy tied them into her handkerchief, and then the Japanese gong sounded
+and they went back to school.
+
+That night after dinner, just before Lucy went to bed, she spoke of her
+own accord to her father and Miss Martha, a thing which she seldom did.
+"Jim Patterson asked me to marry him when I asked him what seven and two
+made in my arithmetic lesson," said she. She looked with the loveliest
+round eyes of innocence first at her father, then at Miss Martha. Cyril
+Rose gasped and laid down his newspaper.
+
+"What did you say, little Lucy?" he asked.
+
+"Jim Patterson asked me to marry him when I asked him to tell me how
+much seven and two made in my arithmetic lesson."
+
+Cyril Rose and his cousin Martha looked at each other.
+
+"Arnold Carruth asked me, too, when a great big wasp flew on my arm and
+frightened me."
+
+Cyril and Martha continued to look. The little, sweet, uncertain voice
+went on.
+
+"And Johnny Trumbull asked me when I 'most fell down on the sidewalk;
+and Lee Westminster asked me when I wasn't doing anything, and so did
+Bubby Harvey."
+
+"What did you tell them?" asked Miss Martha, in a faint voice.
+
+"I told them I didn't know."
+
+"You had better have the child go to bed now," said Cyril. "Good night,
+little Lucy. Always tell father everything."
+
+"Yes, father," said little Lucy, and was kissed, and went away with
+Martha.
+
+When Martha returned, her cousin looked at her severely. He was a fair,
+gentle-looking man, and severity was impressive when he assumed it.
+
+"Really, Martha," said he, "don't you think you had better have a little
+closer outlook over that baby?"
+
+"Oh, Cyril, I never dreamed of such a thing," cried Miss Martha.
+
+"You really must speak to Madame," said Cyril. "I cannot have such
+things put into the child's head."
+
+"Oh, Cyril, how can I?"
+
+"I think it is your duty."
+
+"Cyril, could not--you?"
+
+Cyril grinned. "Do you think," said he, "that I am going to that elegant
+widow schoolma'am and say, 'Madame, my young daughter has had four
+proposals of marriage in one day, and I must beg you to put a stop to
+such proceedings'? No, Martha; it is a woman's place to do such a thing
+as that. The whole thing is too absurd, indignant as I am about it. Poor
+little soul!"
+
+So it happened that Miss Martha Rose, the next day being Saturday,
+called on Madame, but, not being asked any leading question, found
+herself absolutely unable to deliver herself of her errand, and went
+away with it unfulfilled.
+
+"Well, I must say," said Madame to Miss Parmalee, as Miss Martha tripped
+wearily down the front walk--"I must say, of all the educated women who
+have really been in the world, she is the strangest. You and I have done
+nothing but ask inane questions, and she has sat waiting for them, and
+chirped back like a canary. I am simply worn out."
+
+"So am I," sighed Miss Parmalee.
+
+But neither of them was so worn out as poor Miss Martha, anticipating
+her cousin's reproaches. However, her wonted silence and reticence stood
+her in good stead, for he merely asked, after little Lucy had gone to
+bed:
+
+"Well, what did Madame say about Lucy's proposals?"
+
+"She did not say anything," replied Martha.
+
+"Did she promise it would not occur again?"
+
+"She did not promise, but I don't think it will."
+
+The financial page was unusually thrilling that night, and Cyril
+Rose, who had come to think rather lightly of the affair, remarked,
+absent-mindedly; "Well, I hope it does not occur again. I cannot have
+such ridiculous ideas put into the child's head. If it does, we get a
+governess for her and take her away from Madame's." Then he resumed his
+reading, and Martha, guilty but relieved, went on with her knitting.
+
+It was late spring then, and little Lucy had attended Madame's school
+several months, and her popularity had never waned. A picnic was planned
+to Dover's Grove, and the romantic little girls had insisted upon a May
+queen, and Lucy was unanimously elected. The pupils of Madame's school
+went to the picnic in the manner known as a "strawride." Miss Parmalee
+sat with them, her feet uncomfortably tucked under her. She was the
+youngest of the teachers, and could not evade the duty. Madame and Miss
+Acton headed the procession, sitting comfortably in a victoria driven
+by the colored man Sam, who was employed about the school. Dover's Grove
+was six miles from the village, and a favorite spot for picnics. The
+victoria rolled on ahead; Madame carried a black parasol, for the sun
+was on her side and the day very warm. Both ladies wore thin, dark
+gowns, and both felt the languor of spring.
+
+The straw-wagon, laden with children seated upon the golden trusses of
+straw, looked like a wagonload of blossoms. Fair and dark heads, rosy
+faces looked forth in charming clusters. They sang, they chattered. It
+made no difference to them that it was not the season for a straw-ride,
+that the trusses were musty. They inhaled the fragrance of blooming
+boughs under which they rode, and were quite oblivious to all discomfort
+and unpleasantness. Poor Miss Parmalee, with her feet going to sleep,
+sneezing from time to time from the odor of the old straw, did not
+obtain the full beauty of the spring day. She had protested against the
+straw-ride.
+
+"The children really ought to wait until the season for such things,"
+she had told Madame, quite boldly; and Madame had replied that she was
+well aware of it, but the children wanted something of the sort, and the
+hay was not cut, and straw, as it happened, was more easily procured.
+
+"It may not be so very musty," said Madame; "and you know, my dear,
+straw is clean, and I am sorry, but you do seem to be the one to ride
+with the children on the straw, because"--Madame dropped her voice--"you
+are really younger, you know, than either Miss Acton or I."
+
+Poor Miss Parmalee could almost have dispensed with her few years
+of superior youth to have gotten rid of that straw-ride. She had no
+parasol, and the sun beat upon her head, and the noise of the children
+got horribly on her nerves. Little Lucy was her one alleviation. Little
+Lucy sat in the midst of the boisterous throng, perfectly still, crowned
+with her garland of leaves and flowers, her sweet, pale little face
+calmly observant. She was the high light of Madame's school, the effect
+which made the whole. All the others looked at little Lucy, they talked
+to her, they talked at her; but she remained herself unmoved, as a high
+light should be. "Dear little soul," Miss Parmalee thought. She also
+thought that it was a pity that little Lucy could not have worn a white
+frock in her character as Queen of the May, but there she was mistaken.
+The blue was of a peculiar shade, of a very soft material, and nothing
+could have been prettier. Jim Patterson did not often look away from
+little Lucy; neither did Arnold Carruth; neither did Bubby Harvey;
+neither did Johnny Trumbull; neither did Lily Jennings; neither did many
+others.
+
+Amelia Wheeler, however, felt a little jealous as she watched Lily. She
+thought Lily ought to have been queen; and she, while she did not dream
+of competing with incomparable little Lucy, wished Lily would not always
+look at Lucy with such worshipful admiration. Amelia was inconsistent.
+She knew that she herself could not aspire to being an object of
+worship, but the state of being a nonentity for Lily was depressing.
+"Wonder if I jumped out of this old wagon and got killed if she would
+mind one bit?" she thought, tragically. But Amelia did not jump. She
+had tragic impulses, or rather imaginations of tragic impulses, but she
+never carried them out. It was left for little Lucy, flower-crowned and
+calmly sweet and gentle under honors, to be guilty of a tragedy of which
+she never dreamed. For that was the day when little Lucy was lost.
+
+When the picnic was over, when the children were climbing into the
+straw-wagon and Madame and Miss Acton were genteelly disposed in the
+victoria, a lamentable cry arose. Sam drew his reins tight and rolled
+his inquiring eyes around; Madame and Miss Acton leaned far out on
+either side of the victoria.
+
+"Oh, what is it?" said Madame. "My dear Miss Acton, do pray get out and
+see what the trouble is. I begin to feel a little faint."
+
+In fact, Madame got her cut-glass smelling-bottle out of her bag and
+began to sniff vigorously. Sam gazed backward and paid no attention to
+her. Madame always felt faint when anything unexpected occurred, and
+smelled at the pretty bottle, but she never fainted.
+
+Miss Acton got out, lifting her nice skirts clear of the dusty wheel,
+and she scuttled back to the uproarious straw-wagon, showing her slender
+ankles and trimly shod feet. Miss Acton was a very wiry, dainty woman,
+full of nervous energy. When she reached the straw-wagon Miss Parmalee
+was climbing out, assisted by the driver. Miss Parmalee was very pale
+and visibly tremulous. The children were all shrieking in dissonance,
+so it was quite impossible to tell what the burden of their tale of woe
+was; but obviously something of a tragic nature had happened.
+
+"What is the matter?" asked Miss Acton, teetering like a humming-bird
+with excitement.
+
+"Little Lucy--" gasped Miss Parmalee.
+
+"What about her?"
+
+"She isn't here."
+
+"Where is she?"
+
+"We don't know. We just missed her."
+
+Then the cry of the children for little Lucy Rose, although sadly
+wrangled, became intelligible. Madame came, holding up her silk skirt
+and sniffing at her smelling-bottle, and everybody asked questions
+of everybody else, and nobody knew any satisfactory answers. Johnny
+Trumbull was confident that he was the last one to see little Lucy, and
+so were Lily Jennings and Amelia Wheeler, and so were Jim Patterson and
+Bubby Harvey and Arnold Carruth and Lee Westminster and many others; but
+when pinned down to the actual moment everybody disagreed, and only one
+thing was certain--little Lucy Rose was missing.
+
+"What shall I say to her father?" moaned Madame.
+
+"Of course, we shall find her before we say anything," returned Miss
+Parmalee, who was sure to rise to an emergency. Madame sank helpless
+before one. "You had better go and sit under that tree (Sam, take a
+cushion out of the carriage for Madame) and keep quiet; then Sam must
+drive to the village and give the alarm, and the strawwagon had better
+go, too; and the rest of us will hunt by threes, three always keeping
+together. Remember, children, three of you keep together, and, whatever
+you do, be sure and do not separate. We cannot have another lost."
+
+It seemed very sound advice. Madame, pale and frightened, sat on the
+cushion under the tree and sniffed at her smelling-bottle, and the rest
+scattered and searched the grove and surrounding underbrush thoroughly.
+But it was sunset when the groups returned to Madame under her tree,
+and the strawwagon with excited people was back, and the victoria with
+Lucy's father and the rector and his wife, and Dr. Trumbull in his
+buggy, and other carriages fast arriving. Poor Miss Martha Rose had been
+out calling when she heard the news, and she was walking to the scene of
+action. The victoria in which her cousin was seated left her in a
+cloud of dust. Cyril Rose had not noticed the mincing figure with the
+card-case and the parasol.
+
+The village searched for little Lucy Rose, but it was Jim Patterson who
+found her, and in the most unlikely of places. A forlorn pair with a
+multiplicity of forlorn children lived in a tumble-down house about half
+a mile from the grove. The man's name was Silas Thomas, and his wife's
+was Sarah. Poor Sarah had lost a large part of the small wit she had
+originally owned several years before, when her youngest daughter, aged
+four, died. All the babies that had arrived since had not consoled her
+for the death of that little lamb, by name Viola May, nor restored her
+full measure of under-wit. Poor Sarah Thomas had spied adorable little
+Lucy separated from her mates by chance for a few minutes, picking wild
+flowers, and had seized her in forcible but loving arms and carried her
+home. Had Lucy not been such a silent, docile child, it could never
+have happened; but she was a mere little limp thing in the grasp of the
+over-loving, deprived mother who thought she had gotten back her own
+beloved Viola May.
+
+When Jim Patterson, big-eyed and pale, looked in at the Thomas door,
+there sat Sarah Thomas, a large, unkempt, wild-visaged, but gentle
+creature, holding little Lucy and cuddling her, while Lucy, shrinking
+away as far as she was able, kept her big, dark eyes of wonder and
+fear upon the woman's face. And all around were clustered the Thomas
+children, unkempt as their mother, a gentle but degenerate brood, all
+of them believing what their mother said. Viola May had come home again.
+Silas Thomas was not there; he was trudging slowly homeward from a job
+of wood-cutting. Jim saw only the mother, little Lucy, and that poor
+little flock of children gazing in wonder and awe. Jim rushed in and
+faced Sarah Thomas. "Give me little Lucy!" said he, as fiercely as any
+man. But he reckoned without the unreasoning love of a mother. Sarah
+only held little Lucy faster, and the poor little girl rolled appealing
+eyes at him over that brawny, grasping arm of affection.
+
+Jim raced for help, and it was not long before it came. Little Lucy rode
+home in the victoria, seated in Sally Patterson's lap. "Mother, you take
+her," Jim had pleaded; and Sally, in the face and eyes of Madame, had
+gathered the little trembling creature into her arms. In her heart she
+had not much of an opinion of any woman who had allowed such a darling
+little girl out of her sight for a moment. Madame accepted a seat in
+another carriage and rode home, explaining and sniffing and inwardly
+resolving never again to have a straw-ride.
+
+Jim stood on the step of the victoria all the way home. They passed poor
+Miss Martha Rose, still faring toward the grove, and nobody noticed her,
+for the second time. She did not turn back until the straw-wagon, which
+formed the tail of the little procession, reached her. That she halted
+with mad waves of her parasol, and, when told that little Lucy was
+found, refused a seat on the straw because she did not wish to rumple
+her best gown and turned about and fared home again.
+
+The rectory was reached before Cyril Rose's house, and Cyril yielded
+gratefully to Sally Patterson's proposition that she take the little
+girl with her, give her dinner, see that she was washed and brushed
+and freed from possible contamination from the Thomases, who were not a
+cleanly lot, and later brought home in the rector's carriage. However,
+little Lucy stayed all night at the rectory. She had a bath; her lovely,
+misty hair was brushed; she was fed and petted; and finally Sally
+Patterson telephoned for permission to keep her overnight. By that time
+poor Martha had reached home and was busily brushing her best dress.
+
+After dinner, little Lucy, very happy and quite restored, sat in Sally
+Patterson's lap on the veranda, while Jim hovered near. His innocent
+boy-love made him feel as if he had wings. But his wings only bore him
+to failure, before an earlier and mightier force of love than his young
+heart could yet compass for even such a darling as little Lucy. He sat
+on the veranda step and gazed eagerly and rapturously at little Lucy on
+his mother's lap, and the desire to have her away from other loves came
+over him. He saw the fireflies dancing in swarms on the lawn, and a
+favorite sport of the children of the village occurred to him.
+
+"Say, little Lucy," said Jim.
+
+Little Lucy looked up with big, dark eyes under her mist of hair, as she
+nestled against Sally Patterson's shoulder.
+
+"Say, let's chase fireflies, little Lucy."
+
+"Do you want to chase fireflies with Jim, darling?" asked Sally.
+
+Little Lucy nestled closer. "I would rather stay with you," said she in
+her meek flute of a voice, and she gazed up at Sally with the look which
+she might have given the mother she had lost.
+
+Sally kissed her and laughed. Then she reached down a fond hand and
+patted her boy's head. "Never mind, Jim," said Sally. "Mothers have to
+come first."
+
+
+
+
+NOBLESSE
+
+MARGARET LEE encountered in her late middle age the rather singular
+strait of being entirely alone in the world. She was unmarried, and as
+far as relatives were concerned, she had none except those connected
+with her by ties not of blood, but by marriage.
+
+Margaret had not married when her flesh had been comparative; later,
+when it had become superlative, she had no opportunities to marry. Life
+would have been hard enough for Margaret under any circumstances, but it
+was especially hard, living, as she did, with her father's stepdaughter
+and that daughter's husband.
+
+Margaret's stepmother had been a child in spite of her two marriages,
+and a very silly, although pretty child. The daughter, Camille, was like
+her, although not so pretty, and the man whom Camille had married
+was what Margaret had been taught to regard as "common." His business
+pursuits were irregular and partook of mystery. He always smoked
+cigarettes and chewed gum. He wore loud shirts and a diamond scarf-pin
+which had upon him the appearance of stolen goods. The gem had belonged
+to Margaret's own mother, but when Camille expressed a desire to present
+it to Jack Desmond, Margaret had yielded with no outward hesitation, but
+afterward she wept miserably over its loss when alone in her room. The
+spirit had gone out of Margaret, the little which she had possessed. She
+had always been a gentle, sensitive creature, and was almost helpless
+before the wishes of others.
+
+After all, it had been a long time since Margaret had been able to
+force the ring even upon her little finger, but she had derived a small
+pleasure from the reflection that she owned it in its faded velvet box,
+hidden under laces in her top bureau drawer. She did not like to see
+it blazing forth from the tie of this very ordinary young man who had
+married Camille. Margaret had a gentle, high-bred contempt for Jack
+Desmond, but at the same time a vague fear of him. Jack had a measure of
+unscrupulous business shrewdness, which spared nothing and nobody, and
+that in spite of the fact that he had not succeeded.
+
+Margaret owned the old Lee place, which had been magnificent, but of
+late years the expenditures had been reduced and it had deteriorated.
+The conservatories had been closed. There was only one horse in
+the stable. Jack had bought him. He was a wornout trotter with legs
+carefully bandaged. Jack drove him at reckless speed, not considering
+those slender, braceleted legs. Jack had a racing-gig, and when in it,
+with striped coat, cap on one side, cigarette in mouth, lines held taut,
+skimming along the roads in clouds of dust, he thought himself the man
+and true sportsman which he was not. Some of the old Lee silver had paid
+for that waning trotter.
+
+Camille adored Jack, and cared for no associations, no society, for
+which he was not suited. Before the trotter was bought she told Margaret
+that the kind of dinners which she was able to give in Fairhill were
+awfully slow. "If we could afford to have some men out from the city,
+some nice fellers that Jack knows, it would be worth while," said she,
+"but we have grown so hard up we can't do a thing to make it worth their
+while. Those men haven't got any use for a back-number old place like
+this. We can't take them round in autos, nor give them a chance at
+cards, for Jack couldn't pay if he lost, and Jack is awful honorable. We
+can't have the right kind of folks here for any fun. I don't propose
+to ask the rector and his wife, and old Mr. Harvey, or people like the
+Leaches."
+
+"The Leaches are a very good old family," said Margaret, feebly.
+
+"I don't care for good old families when they are so slow," retorted
+Camille. "The fellers we could have here, if we were rich enough, come
+from fine families, but they are up-to-date. It's no use hanging on to
+old silver dishes we never use and that I don't intend to spoil my
+hands shining. Poor Jack don't have much fun, anyway. If he wants that
+trotter--he says it's going dirt cheap--I think it's mean he can't have
+it, instead of your hanging on to a lot of out-of-style old silver; so
+there."
+
+Two generations ago there had been French blood in Camille's family. She
+put on her clothes beautifully; she had a dark, rather fine-featured,
+alert little face, which gave a wrong impression, for she was
+essentially vulgar. Sometimes poor Margaret Lee wished that Camille had
+been definitely vicious, if only she might be possessed of more of the
+characteristics of breeding. Camille so irritated Margaret in those
+somewhat abstruse traits called sensibilities that she felt as if she
+were living with a sort of spiritual nutmeg-grater. Seldom did Camille
+speak that she did not jar Margaret, although unconsciously. Camille
+meant to be kind to the stout woman, whom she pitied as far as she was
+capable of pitying without understanding. She realized that it must
+be horrible to be no longer young, and so stout that one was fairly
+monstrous, but how horrible she could not with her mentality conceive.
+Jack also meant to be kind. He was not of the brutal--that is,
+intentionally brutal--type, but he had a shrewd eye to the betterment of
+himself, and no realization of the torture he inflicted upon those who
+opposed that betterment.
+
+For a long time matters had been worse than usual financially in the Lee
+house. The sisters had been left in charge of the sadly dwindled estate,
+and had depended upon the judgment, or lack of judgment, of Jack. He
+approved of taking your chances and striking for larger income. The few
+good old grandfather securities had been sold, and wild ones from the
+very jungle of commerce had been substituted. Jack, like most of his
+type, while shrewd, was as credulous as a child. He lied himself, and
+expected all men to tell him the truth. Camille at his bidding mortgaged
+the old place, and Margaret dared not oppose. Taxes were not paid;
+interest was not paid; credit was exhausted. Then the house was put up
+at public auction, and brought little more than sufficient to pay the
+creditors. Jack took the balance and staked it in a few games of chance,
+and of course lost. The weary trotter stumbled one day and had to be
+shot. Jack became desperate. He frightened Camille. He was suddenly
+morose. He bade Camille pack, and Margaret also, and they obeyed.
+Camille stowed away her crumpled finery in the bulging old trunks, and
+Margaret folded daintily her few remnants of past treasures. She had an
+old silk gown or two, which resisted with their rich honesty the inroads
+of time, and a few pieces of old lace, which Camille understood no
+better than she understood their owner.
+
+Then Margaret and the Desmonds went to the city and lived in a horrible,
+tawdry little flat in a tawdry locality. Jack roared with bitter mirth
+when he saw poor Margaret forced to enter her tiny room sidewise;
+Camille laughed also, although she chided Jack gently. "Mean of you to
+make fun of poor Margaret, Jacky dear," she said.
+
+For a few weeks Margaret's life in that flat was horrible; then it
+became still worse. Margaret nearly filled with her weary, ridiculous
+bulk her little room, and she remained there most of the time, although
+it was sunny and noisy, its one window giving on a courtyard strung with
+clothes-lines and teeming with boisterous life. Camille and Jack
+went trolley-riding, and made shift to entertain a little, merry but
+questionable people, who gave them passes to vaudeville and entertained
+in their turn until the small hours. Unquestionably these people
+suggested to Jack Desmond the scheme which spelled tragedy to Margaret.
+
+She always remembered one little dark man with keen eyes who had seen
+her disappearing through her door of a Sunday night when all these gay,
+bedraggled birds were at liberty and the fun ran high. "Great Scott!"
+the man had said, and Margaret had heard him demand of Jack that she be
+recalled. She obeyed, and the man was introduced, also the other members
+of the party. Margaret Lee stood in the midst of this throng and heard
+their repressed titters of mirth at her appearance. Everybody there was
+in good humor with the exception of Jack, who was still nursing his bad
+luck, and the little dark man, whom Jack owed. The eyes of Jack and the
+little dark man made Margaret cold with a terror of something, she
+knew not what. Before that terror the shame and mortification of her
+exhibition to that merry company was of no import.
+
+She stood among them, silent, immense, clad in her dark purple silk gown
+spread over a great hoopskirt. A real lace collar lay softly over her
+enormous, billowing shoulders; real lace ruffles lay over her great,
+shapeless hands. Her face, the delicacy of whose features was veiled
+with flesh, flushed and paled. Not even flesh could subdue the sad
+brilliancy of her dark-blue eyes, fixed inward upon her own sad state,
+unregardful of the company. She made an indefinite murmur of response
+to the salutations given her, and then retreated. She heard the roar of
+laughter after she had squeezed through the door of her room. Then she
+heard eager conversation, of which she did not catch the real import,
+but which terrified her with chance expressions. She was quite sure that
+she was the subject of that eager discussion. She was quite sure that it
+boded her no good.
+
+In a few days she knew the worst; and the worst was beyond her utmost
+imaginings. This was before the days of moving-picture shows; it was
+the day of humiliating spectacles of deformities, when inventions
+of amusements for the people had not progressed. It was the day of
+exhibitions of sad freaks of nature, calculated to provoke tears rather
+than laughter in the healthy-minded, and poor Margaret Lee was a chosen
+victim. Camille informed her in a few words of her fate. Camille was
+sorry for her, although not in the least understanding why she was
+sorry. She realized dimly that Margaret would be distressed, but she
+was unable from her narrow point of view to comprehend fully the whole
+tragedy.
+
+"Jack has gone broke," stated Camille. "He owes Bill Stark a pile, and
+he can't pay a cent of it; and Jack's sense of honor about a poker debt
+is about the biggest thing in his character. Jack has got to pay. And
+Bill has a little circus, going to travel all summer, and he's offered
+big money for you. Jack can pay Bill what he owes him, and we'll have
+enough to live on, and have lots of fun going around. You hadn't ought
+to make a fuss about it."
+
+Margaret, pale as death, stared at the girl, pertly slim, and common and
+pretty, who stared back laughingly, although still with the glimmer of
+uncomprehending pity in her black eyes.
+
+"What does--he--want--me--for?" gasped Margaret.
+
+"For a show, because you are so big," replied Camille. "You will make us
+all rich, Margaret. Ain't it nice?"
+
+Then Camille screamed, the shrill raucous scream of the women of her
+type, for Margaret had fallen back in a dead faint, her immense bulk
+inert in her chair. Jack came running in alarm. Margaret had suddenly
+gained value in his shrewd eyes. He was as pale as she.
+
+Finally Margaret raised her head, opened her miserable eyes, and
+regained her consciousness of herself and what lay before her. There was
+no course open but submission. She knew that from the first. All three
+faced destitution; she was the one financial asset, she and her poor
+flesh. She had to face it, and with what dignity she could muster.
+
+Margaret had great piety. She kept constantly before her mental vision
+the fact in which she believed, that the world which she found so hard,
+and which put her to unspeakable torture, was not all.
+
+A week elapsed before the wretched little show of which she was to be a
+member went on the road, and night after night she prayed. She besieged
+her God for strength. She never prayed for respite. Her realization
+of the situation and her lofty resolution prevented that. The awful,
+ridiculous combat was before her; there was no evasion; she prayed only
+for the strength which leads to victory.
+
+However, when the time came, it was all worse than she had imagined. How
+could a woman gently born and bred conceive of the horrible ignominy
+of such a life? She was dragged hither and yon, to this and that little
+town. She traveled through sweltering heat on jolting trains; she slept
+in tents; she lived--she, Margaret Lee--on terms of equality with the
+common and the vulgar. Daily her absurd unwieldiness was exhibited to
+crowds screaming with laughter. Even her faith wavered. It seemed to her
+that there was nothing for evermore beyond those staring, jeering faces
+of silly mirth and delight at sight of her, seated in two chairs, clad
+in a pink spangled dress, her vast shoulders bare and sparkling with a
+tawdry necklace, her great, bare arms covered with brass bracelets, her
+hands incased in short, white kid gloves, over the fingers of which she
+wore a number of rings--stage properties.
+
+Margaret became a horror to herself. At times it seemed to her that she
+was in the way of fairly losing her own identity. It mattered little
+that Camille and Jack were very kind to her, that they showed her the
+nice things which her terrible earnings had enabled them to have.
+She sat in her two chairs--the two chairs proved a most successful
+advertisement--with her two kid-cushiony hands clenched in her pink
+spangled lap, and she suffered agony of soul, which made her inner self
+stern and terrible, behind that great pink mask of face. And nobody
+realized until one sultry day when the show opened at a village in a
+pocket of green hills--indeed, its name was Greenhill--and Sydney Lord
+went to see it.
+
+Margaret, who had schooled herself to look upon her audience as if they
+were not, suddenly comprehended among them another soul who understood
+her own. She met the eyes of the man, and a wonderful comfort, as of a
+cool breeze blowing over the face of clear water, came to her. She knew
+that the man understood. She knew that she had his fullest sympathy. She
+saw also a comrade in the toils of comic tragedy, for Sydney Lord was in
+the same case. He was a mountain of flesh. As a matter of fact, had
+he not been known in Greenhill and respected as a man of weight of
+character as well as of body, and of an old family, he would have
+rivaled Margaret. Beside him sat an elderly woman, sweet-faced, slightly
+bent as to her slender shoulders, as if with a chronic attitude of
+submission. She was Sydney's widowed sister, Ellen Waters. She lived
+with her brother and kept his house, and had no will other than his.
+
+Sydney Lord and his sister remained when the rest of the audience had
+drifted out, after the privileged hand-shakes with the queen of
+the show. Every time a coarse, rustic hand reached familiarly after
+Margaret's, Sydney shrank.
+
+He motioned his sister to remain seated when he approached the stage.
+Jack Desmond, who had been exploiting Margaret, gazed at him with
+admiring curiosity. Sydney waved him away with a commanding gesture. "I
+wish to speak to her a moment. Pray leave the tent," he said, and Jack
+obeyed. People always obeyed Sydney Lord.
+
+Sydney stood before Margaret, and he saw the clear crystal, which was
+herself, within all the flesh, clad in tawdry raiment, and she knew that
+he saw it.
+
+"Good God!" said Sydney, "you are a lady!"
+
+He continued to gaze at her, and his eyes, large and brown, became
+blurred; at the same time his mouth tightened.
+
+"How came you to be in such a place as this?" demanded Sydney. He spoke
+almost as if he were angry with her.
+
+Margaret explained briefly.
+
+"It is an outrage," declared Sydney. He said it, however, rather
+absently. He was reflecting. "Where do you live?" he asked.
+
+"Here."
+
+"You mean--?"
+
+"They make up a bed for me here, after the people have gone."
+
+"And I suppose you had--before this--a comfortable house."
+
+"The house which my grandfather Lee owned, the old Lee mansion-house,
+before we went to the city. It was a very fine old Colonial house,"
+explained Margaret, in her finely modulated voice.
+
+"And you had a good room?"
+
+"The southeast chamber had always been mine. It was very large, and the
+furniture was old Spanish mahogany."
+
+"And now--" said Sydney.
+
+"Yes," said Margaret. She looked at him, and her serious blue eyes
+seemed to see past him. "It will not last," she said.
+
+"What do you mean?"
+
+"I try to learn a lesson. I am a child in the school of God. My lesson
+is one that always ends in peace."
+
+"Good God!" said Sydney.
+
+He motioned to his sister, and Ellen approached in a frightened fashion.
+Her brother could do no wrong, but this was the unusual, and alarmed
+her.
+
+"This lady--" began Sydney.
+
+"Miss Lee," said Margaret. "I was never married. I am Miss Margaret
+Lee."
+
+"This," said Sydney, "is my sister Ellen, Mrs. Waters. Ellen, I wish you
+to meet Miss Lee."
+
+Ellen took into her own Margaret's hand, and said feebly that it was a
+beautiful day and she hoped Miss Lee found Greenhill a pleasant place
+to--visit.
+
+Sydney moved slowly out of the tent and found Jack Desmond. He was
+standing near with Camille, who looked her best in a pale-blue summer
+silk and a black hat trimmed with roses. Jack and Camille never really
+knew how the great man had managed, but presently Margaret had gone away
+with him and his sister.
+
+Jack and Camille looked at each other.
+
+"Oh, Jack, ought you to have let her go?" said Camille.
+
+"What made you let her go?" asked Jack.
+
+"I--don't know. I couldn't say anything. That man has a tremendous way
+with him. Goodness!"
+
+"He is all right here in the place, anyhow," said Jack. "They look up to
+him. He is a big-bug here. Comes of a family like Margaret's, though he
+hasn't got much money. Some chaps were braggin' that they had a bigger
+show than her right here, and I found out."
+
+"Suppose," said Camille, "Margaret does not come back?"
+
+"He could not keep her without bein' arrested," declared Jack, but he
+looked uneasy. He had, however, looked uneasy for some time. The fact
+was, Margaret had been very gradually losing weight. Moreover, she was
+not well. That very night, after the show was over, Bill Stark, the
+little dark man, had a talk with the Desmonds about it.
+
+"Truth is, before long, if you don't look out, you'll have to pad her,"
+said Bill; "and giants don't amount to a row of pins after that begins."
+
+Camille looked worried and sulky. "She ain't very well, anyhow," said
+she. "I ain't going to kill Margaret."
+
+"It's a good thing she's got a chance to have a night's rest in a
+house," said Bill Stark.
+
+"The fat man has asked her to stay with him and his sister while the
+show is here," said Jack.
+
+"The sister invited her," said Camille, with a little stiffness. She was
+common, but she had lived with Lees, and her mother had married a Lee.
+She knew what was due Margaret, and also due herself.
+
+"The truth is," said Camille, "this is an awful sort of life for a woman
+like Margaret. She and her folks were never used to anything like it."
+
+"Why didn't you make your beauty husband hustle and take care of her and
+you, then?" demanded Bill, who admired Camille, and disliked her because
+she had no eyes for him.
+
+"My husband has been unfortunate. He has done the best he could,"
+responded Camille. "Come, Jack; no use talking about it any longer.
+Guess Margaret will pick up. Come along. I'm tired out."
+
+That night Margaret Lee slept in a sweet chamber with muslin curtains
+at the windows, in a massive old mahogany bed, much like hers which had
+been sacrificed at an auction sale. The bed-linen was linen, and smelled
+of lavender. Margaret was too happy to sleep. She lay in the cool,
+fragrant sheets and was happy, and convinced of the presence of the God
+to whom she had prayed. All night Sydney Lord sat down-stairs in his
+book-walled sanctum and studied over the situation. It was a crucial
+one. The great psychological moment of Sydney Lord's life for
+knight-errantry had arrived. He studied the thing from every point of
+view. There was no romance about it. These were hard, sordid, tragic,
+ludicrous facts with which he had to deal. He knew to a nicety the
+agonies which Margaret suffered. He knew, because of his own capacity
+for sufferings of like stress. "And she is a woman and a lady," he said,
+aloud.
+
+If Sydney had been rich enough, the matter would have been simple. He
+could have paid Jack and Camille enough to quiet them, and Margaret
+could have lived with him and his sister and their two old servants. But
+he was not rich; he was even poor. The price to be paid for Margaret's
+liberty was a bitter one, but it was that or nothing. Sydney faced it.
+He looked about the room. To him the walls lined with the dull gleams of
+old books were lovely. There was an oil portrait of his mother over
+the mantel-shelf. The weather was warm now, and there was no need for a
+hearth fire, but how exquisitely home-like and dear that room could
+be when the snow drove outside and there was the leap of flame on the
+hearth! Sydney was a scholar and a gentleman. He had led a gentle and
+sequestered life. Here in his native village there were none to gibe and
+sneer. The contrast of the traveling show would be as great for him as
+it had been for Margaret, but he was the male of the species, and she
+the female. Chivalry, racial, harking back to the beginning of nobility
+in the human, to its earliest dawn, fired Sydney. The pale daylight
+invaded the study. Sydney, as truly as any knight of old, had girded
+himself, and with no hope, no thought of reward, for the battle in the
+eternal service of the strong for the weak, which makes the true worth
+of the strong.
+
+There was only one way. Sydney Lord took it. His sister was spared the
+knowledge of the truth for a long while. When she knew, she did not
+lament; since Sydney had taken the course, it must be right. As for
+Margaret, not knowing the truth, she yielded. She was really on the
+verge of illness. Her spirit was of too fine a strain to enable her body
+to endure long. When she was told that she was to remain with Sydney's
+sister while Sydney went away on business, she made no objection. A
+wonderful sense of relief, as of wings of healing being spread under her
+despair, was upon her. Camille came to bid her good-by.
+
+"I hope you have a nice visit in this lovely house," said Camille, and
+kissed her. Camille was astute, and to be trusted. She did not betray
+Sydney's confidence. Sydney used a disguise--a dark wig over his
+partially bald head and a little make-up-and he traveled about with the
+show and sat on three chairs, and shook hands with the gaping crowd,
+and was curiously happy. It was discomfort; it was ignominy; it was
+maddening to support by the exhibition of his physical deformity a
+perfectly worthless young couple like Jack and Camille Desmond, but it
+was all superbly ennobling for the man himself.
+
+Always as he sat on his three chairs, immense, grotesque--the more
+grotesque for his splendid dignity of bearing--there was in his soul
+of a gallant gentleman the consciousness of that other, whom he was
+shielding from a similar ordeal. Compassion and generosity, so great
+that they comprehended love itself and excelled its highest type,
+irradiated the whole being of the fat man exposed to the gaze of his
+inferiors. Chivalry, which rendered him almost god-like, strengthened
+him for his task. Sydney thought always of Margaret as distinct from her
+physical self, a sort of crystalline, angelic soul, with no encumbrance
+of earth. He achieved a purely spiritual conception of her. And
+Margaret, living again her gentle lady life, was likewise ennobled by a
+gratitude which transformed her. Always a clear and beautiful soul, she
+gave out new lights of character like a jewel in the sun. And she also
+thought of Sydney as distinct from his physical self. The consciousness
+of the two human beings, one of the other, was a consciousness as of two
+wonderful lines of good and beauty, moving for ever parallel, separate,
+and inseparable in an eternal harmony of spirit.
+
+
+
+
+CORONATION
+
+JIM BENNET had never married. He had passed middle life, and possessed
+considerable property. Susan Adkins kept house for him. She was a
+widow and a very distant relative. Jim had two nieces, his brother's
+daughters. One, Alma Beecher, was married; the other, Amanda, was not.
+The nieces had naively grasping views concerning their uncle and his
+property. They stated freely that they considered him unable to care for
+it; that a guardian should be appointed and the property be theirs at
+once. They consulted Lawyer Thomas Hopkinson with regard to it; they
+discoursed at length upon what they claimed to be an idiosyncrasy of
+Jim's, denoting failing mental powers.
+
+"He keeps a perfect slew of cats, and has a coal fire for them in the
+woodshed all winter," said Amanda.
+
+"Why in thunder shouldn't he keep a fire in the woodshed if he wants
+to?" demanded Hopkinson. "I know of no law against it. And there isn't a
+law in the country regulating the number of cats a man can keep." Thomas
+Hopkinson, who was an old friend of Jim's, gave his prominent chin an
+upward jerk as he sat in his office arm-chair before his clients.
+
+"There is something besides cats," said Alma
+
+"What?"
+
+"He talks to himself."
+
+"What in creation do you expect the poor man to do? He can't talk to
+Susan Adkins about a blessed thing except tidies and pincushions. That
+woman hasn't a thought in her mind outside her soul's salvation and
+fancy-work. Jim has to talk once in a while to keep himself a man. What
+if he does talk to himself? I talk to myself. Next thing you will want
+to be appointed guardian over me, Amanda."
+
+Hopkinson was a bachelor, and Amanda flushed angrily.
+
+"He wasn't what I call even gentlemanly," she told Alma, when the two
+were on their way home.
+
+"I suppose Tom Hopkinson thought you were setting your cap at him,"
+retorted Alma. She relished the dignity of her married state, and
+enjoyed giving her spinster sister little claws when occasion called.
+However, Amanda had a temper of her own, and she could claw back.
+
+"YOU needn't talk," said she. "You only took Joe Beecher when you had
+given up getting anybody better. You wanted Tom Hopkinson yourself. I
+haven't forgotten that blue silk dress you got and wore to meeting. You
+needn't talk. You know you got that dress just to make Tom look at you,
+and he didn't. You needn't talk."
+
+"I wouldn't have married Tom Hopkinson if he had been the only man on
+the face of the earth," declared Alma with dignity; but she colored
+hotly.
+
+Amanda sniffed. "Well, as near as I can find out Uncle Jim can go on
+talking to himself and keeping cats, and we can't do anything," said
+she.
+
+When the two women were home, they told Alma's husband, Joe Beecher,
+about their lack of success. They were quite heated with their walk and
+excitement. "I call it a shame," said Alma. "Anybody knows that poor
+Uncle Jim would be better off with a guardian."
+
+"Of course," said Amanda. "What man that had a grain of horse sense
+would do such a crazy thing as to keep a coal fire in a woodshed?"
+
+"For such a slew of cats, too," said Alma, nodding fiercely.
+
+Alma's husband, Joe Beecher, spoke timidly and undecidedly in the
+defense. "You know," he said, "that Mrs. Adkins wouldn't have those cats
+in the house, and cats mostly like to sit round where it's warm."
+
+His wife regarded him. Her nose wrinkled. "I suppose next thing YOU'LL
+be wanting to have a cat round where it's warm, right under my feet,
+with all I have to do," said she. Her voice had an actual acidity of
+sound.
+
+Joe gasped. He was a large man with a constant expression of wondering
+inquiry. It was the expression of his babyhood; he had never lost it,
+and it was an expression which revealed truly the state of his mind.
+Always had Joe Beecher wondered, first of all at finding himself in the
+world at all, then at the various happenings of existence. He probably
+wondered more about the fact of his marriage with Alma Bennet than
+anything else, although he never betrayed his wonder. He was always
+painfully anxious to please his wife, of whom he stood in awe. Now he
+hastened to reply: "Why, no, Alma; of course I won't."
+
+"Because," said Alma, "I haven't come to my time of life, through all
+the trials I've had, to be taking any chances of breaking my bones over
+any miserable, furry, four-footed animal that wouldn't catch a mouse if
+one run right under her nose."
+
+"I don't want any cat," repeated Joe, miserably. His fear and awe of the
+two women increased. When his sister-in-law turned upon him he fairly
+cringed.
+
+"Cats!" said Amanda. Then she sniffed. The sniff was worse than speech.
+
+Joe repeated in a mumble that he didn't want any cats, and went out,
+closing the door softly after him, as he had been taught. However, he
+was entirely sure, in the depths of his subjugated masculine mind, that
+his wife and her sister had no legal authority whatever to interfere
+with their uncle's right to keep a hundred coal fires in his woodshed,
+for a thousand cats. He always had an inner sense of glee when he heard
+the two women talk over the matter. Once Amanda had declared that she
+did not believe that Tom Hopkinson knew much about law, anyway.
+
+"He seems to stand pretty high," Joe ventured with the utmost mildness.
+
+"Yes, he does," admitted Alma, grudgingly.
+
+"It does not follow he knows law," persisted Amanda, "and it MAY follow
+that he likes cats. There was that great Maltese tommy brushing round
+all the time we were in his office, but I didn't dare shoo him off for
+fear it might be against the law." Amanda laughed, a very disagreeable
+little laugh. Joe said nothing, but inwardly he chuckled. It was
+the cause of man with man. He realized a great, even affectionate,
+understanding of Jim.
+
+The day after his nieces had visited the lawyer's office, Jim was
+preparing to call on his friend Edward Hayward, the minister. Before
+leaving he looked carefully after the fire in the woodshed. The
+stove was large. Jim piled on the coal, regardless outwardly that the
+housekeeper, Susan Adkins, had slammed the kitchen door to indicate her
+contempt. Inwardly Jim felt hurt, but he had felt hurt so long from the
+same cause that the sensation had become chronic, and was borne with a
+gentle patience. Moreover, there was something which troubled him more
+and was the reason for his contemplated call on his friend. He evened
+the coals on the fire with great care, and replenished from the pail in
+the icebox the cats' saucers. There was a circle of clean white saucers
+around the stove. Jim owned many cats; counting the kittens, there were
+probably over twenty. Mrs. Adkins counted them in the sixties. "Those
+sixty-seven cats," she said.
+
+Jim often gave away cats when he was confident of securing good homes,
+but supply exceeded the demand. Now and then tragedies took place
+in that woodshed. Susan Adkins came bravely to the front upon these
+occasions. Quite convinced was Susan Adkins that she had a good home,
+and it behooved her to keep it, and she did not in the least object
+to drowning, now and then, a few very young kittens. She did this with
+neatness and despatch while Jim walked to the store on an errand and was
+supposed to know nothing about it. There was simply not enough room in
+his woodshed for the accumulation of cats, although his heart could have
+held all.
+
+That day, as he poured out the milk, cats of all ages and sizes and
+colors purred in a softly padding multitude around his feet, and
+he regarded them with love. There were tiger cats, Maltese cats,
+black-and-white cats, black cats and white cats, tommies and females,
+and his heart leaped to meet the pleading mews of all. The saucers were
+surrounded. Little pink tongues lapped. "Pretty pussy! pretty pussy!"
+cooed Jim, addressing them in general. He put on his overcoat and hat,
+which he kept on a peg behind the door. Jim had an arm-chair in the
+woodshed. He always sat there when he smoked; Susan Adkins demurred at
+his smoking in the house, which she kept so nice, and Jim did not dream
+of rebellion. He never questioned the right of a woman to bar tobacco
+smoke from a house. Before leaving he refilled some of the saucers.
+He was not sure that all of the cats were there; some might be afield,
+hunting, and he wished them to find refreshment when they returned. He
+stroked the splendid striped back of a great tiger tommy which filled
+his armchair. This cat was his special pet. He fastened the outer shed
+door with a bit of rope in order that it might not blow entirely open,
+and yet allow his feline friends to pass, should they choose. Then he
+went out.
+
+The day was clear, with a sharp breath of frost. The fields gleamed with
+frost, offering to the eye a fine shimmer as of diamond-dust under the
+brilliant blue sky, overspread in places with a dapple of little white
+clouds.
+
+"White frost and mackerel sky; going to be falling weather," Jim said,
+aloud, as he went out of the yard, crunching the crisp grass under heel.
+
+Susan Adkins at a window saw his lips moving. His talking to himself
+made her nervous, although it did not render her distrustful of his
+sanity. It was fortunate that Susan had not told Jim that she disliked
+his habit. In that case he would have deprived himself of that slight
+solace; he would not have dreamed of opposing Susan's wishes. Jim had a
+great pity for the nervous whims, as he regarded them, of women--a
+pity so intense and tender that it verged on respect and veneration.
+He passed his nieces' house on the way to the minister's, and both were
+looking out of windows and saw his lips moving.
+
+"There he goes, talking to himself like a crazy loon," said Amanda.
+
+Alma nodded.
+
+Jim went on, blissfully unconscious. He talked in a quiet monotone; only
+now and then his voice rose; only now and then there were accompanying
+gestures. Jim had a straight mile down the broad village street to walk
+before he reached the church and the parsonage beside it.
+
+Jim and the minister had been friends since boyhood. They were graduates
+and classmates of the same college. Jim had had unusual educational
+advantages for a man coming from a simple family. The front door of the
+parsonage flew open when Jim entered the gate, and the minister stood
+there smiling. He was a tall, thin man with a wide mouth, which either
+smiled charmingly or was set with severity. He was as brown and dry as a
+wayside weed which winter had subdued as to bloom but could not entirely
+prostrate with all its icy storms and compelling blasts. Jim, advancing
+eagerly toward the warm welcome in the door, was a small man, and bent
+at that, but he had a handsome old face, with the rose of youth on the
+cheeks and the light of youth in the blue eyes, and the quick changes of
+youth, before emotions, about the mouth.
+
+"Hullo, Jim!" cried Dr. Edward Hayward. Hayward, for a doctor of
+divinity, was considered somewhat lacking in dignity at times; still,
+he was Dr. Hayward, and the failing was condoned. Moreover, he was
+a Hayward, and the Haywards had been, from the memory of the oldest
+inhabitant, the great people of the village. Dr. Hayward's house was
+presided over by his widowed cousin, a lady of enough dignity to make up
+for any lack of it in the minister. There were three servants, besides
+the old butler who had been Hayward's attendant when he had been a young
+man in college. Village people were proud of their minister, with his
+degree and what they considered an imposing household retinue.
+
+Hayward led, and Jim followed, to the least pretentious room in
+the house--not the study proper, which was lofty, book-lined, and
+leather-furnished, curtained with broad sweeps of crimson damask, but a
+little shabby place back of it, accessible by a narrow door. The little
+room was lined with shelves; they held few books, but a collection of
+queer and dusty things--strange weapons, minerals, odds and ends--which
+the minister loved and with which his lady cousin never interfered.
+
+"Louisa," Hayward had told his cousin when she entered upon her post,
+"do as you like with the whole house, but let my little study alone.
+Let it look as if it had been stirred up with a garden-rake--that little
+room is my territory, and no disgrace to you, my dear, if the dust rises
+in clouds at every step."
+
+Jim was as fond of the little room as his friend. He entered, and sighed
+a great sigh of satisfaction as he sank into the shabby, dusty hollow
+of a large chair before the hearth fire. Immediately a black cat leaped
+into his lap, gazed at him with greenjewel eyes, worked her paws,
+purred, settled into a coil, and slept. Jim lit his pipe and threw the
+match blissfully on the floor. Dr. Hayward set an electric coffee-urn at
+its work, for the little room was a curious mixture of the comfortable
+old and the comfortable modern.
+
+"Sam shall serve our luncheon in here," he said, with a staid glee.
+
+Jim nodded happily.
+
+"Louisa will not mind," said Hayward. "She is precise, but she has
+a fine regard for the rights of the individual, which is most
+commendable." He seated himself in a companion chair to Jim's, lit
+his own pipe, and threw the match on the floor. Occasionally, when the
+minister was out, Sam, without orders so to do, cleared the floor of
+matches.
+
+Hayward smoked and regarded his friend, who looked troubled despite his
+comfort. "What is it, Jim?" asked the minister at last.
+
+"I don't know how to do what is right for me to do," replied the little
+man, and his face, turned toward his friend, had the puzzled earnestness
+of a child.
+
+Hayward laughed. It was easily seen that his was the keener mind. In
+natural endowments there had never been equality, although there was
+great similarity of tastes. Jim, despite his education, often lapsed
+into the homely vernacular of which he heard so much. An involuntarily
+imitative man in externals was Jim, but essentially an original. Jim
+proceeded.
+
+"You know, Edward, I have never been one to complain," he said, with an
+almost boyish note of apology.
+
+"Never complained half enough; that's the trouble," returned the other.
+
+"Well, I overheard something Mis' Adkins said to Mis' Amos Trimmer the
+other afternoon. Mis' Trimmer was calling on Mis' Adkins. I couldn't
+help overhearing unless I went outdoors, and it was snowing and I had a
+cold. I wasn't listening."
+
+"Had a right to listen if you wanted to," declared Hayward, irascibly.
+
+"Well, I couldn't help it unless I went outdoors. Mis' Adkins she was in
+the kitchen making lightbread for supper, and Mis' Trimmer had sat right
+down there with her. Mis' Adkins's kitchen is as clean as a parlor,
+anyway. Mis' Adkins said to Mis' Trimmer, speaking of me--because Mis'
+Trimmer had just asked where I was and Mis' Adkins had said I was out in
+the woodshed sitting with the cats and smoking--Mis' Adkins said, 'He's
+just a doormat, that's what he is.' Then Mis' Trimmer says, 'The way he
+lets folks ride over him beats me.' Then Mis' Adkins says again: 'He's
+nothing but a door-mat. He lets everybody that wants to just trample
+on him and grind their dust into him, and he acts real pleased and
+grateful.'"
+
+Hayward's face flushed. "Did Mrs. Adkins mention that she was one of the
+people who used you for a door-mat?" he demanded.
+
+Jim threw back his head and laughed like a child, with the sweetest
+sense of unresentful humor. "Lord bless my soul, Edward," replied Jim,
+"I don't believe she ever thought of that."
+
+"And at that very minute you, with a hard cold, were sitting out in that
+draughty shed smoking because she wouldn't allow you to smoke in your
+own house!"
+
+"I don't mind that, Edward," said Jim, and laughed again.
+
+"Could you see to read your paper out there, with only that little shed
+window? And don't you like to read your paper while you smoke?"
+
+"Oh yes," admitted Jim; "but my! I don't mind little things like that!
+Mis' Adkins is only a poor widow woman, and keeping my house nice and
+not having it smell of tobacco is all she's got. They can talk about
+women's rights--I feel as if they ought to have them fast enough, if
+they want them, poor things; a woman has a hard row to hoe, and will
+have, if she gets all the rights in creation. But I guess the rights
+they'd find it hardest to give up would be the rights to have men look
+after them just a little more than they look after other men, just
+because they are women. When I think of Annie Berry--the girl I was
+going to marry, you know, if she hadn't died--I feel as if I couldn't do
+enough for another woman. Lord! I'm glad to sit out in the woodshed and
+smoke. Mis' Adkins is pretty good-natured to stand all the cats."
+
+Then the coffee boiled, and Hayward poured out some for Jim and himself.
+He had a little silver service at hand, and willow-ware cups and
+saucers. Presently Sam appeared, and Hayward gave orders concerning
+luncheon.
+
+"Tell Miss Louisa we are to have it served here," said he, "and mind,
+Sam, the chops are to be thick and cooked the way we like them; and
+don't forget the East India chutney, Sam."
+
+"It does seem rather a pity that you cannot have chutney at home with
+your chops, when you are so fond of it," remarked Hayward when Sam had
+gone.
+
+"Mis' Adkins says it will give me liver trouble, and she isn't strong
+enough to nurse."
+
+"So you have to eat her ketchup?"
+
+"Well, she doesn't put seasoning in it," admitted Jim. "But Mis' Adkins
+doesn't like seasoning herself, and I don't mind."
+
+"And I know the chops are never cut thick, the way we like them."
+
+"Mis' Adkins likes her meat well done, and she can't get such thick
+chops well done. I suppose our chops are rather thin, but I don't mind."
+
+"Beefsteak and chops, both cut thin, and fried up like sole-leather.
+I know!" said Dr. Hayward, and he stamped his foot with unregenerate
+force.
+
+"I don't mind a bit, Edward."
+
+"You ought to mind, when it is your own house, and you buy the food and
+pay your housekeeper. It is an outrage!"
+
+"I don't mind, really, Edward."
+
+Dr. Hayward regarded Jim with a curious expression compounded of love,
+anger, and contempt. "Any more talk of legal proceedings?" he asked,
+brusquely.
+
+Jim flushed. "Tom ought not to tell of that."
+
+"Yes, he ought; he ought to tell it all over town. He doesn't, but he
+ought. It is an outrage! Here you have been all these years supporting
+your nieces, and they are working away like field-mice, burrowing under
+your generosity, trying to get a chance to take action and appropriate
+your property and have you put under a guardian."
+
+"I don't mind a bit," said Jim; "but--"
+
+The other man looked inquiringly at him, and, seeing a pitiful working
+of his friend's face, he jumped up and got a little jar from a shelf.
+"We will drop the whole thing until we have had our chops and chutney,"
+said he. "You are right; it is not worth minding. Here is a new brand of
+tobacco I want you to try. I don't half like it, myself, but you may."
+
+Jim, with a pleased smile, reached out for the tobacco, and the two
+men smoked until Sam brought the luncheon. It was well cooked and well
+served on an antique table. Jim was thoroughly happy. It was not
+until the luncheon was over and another pipe smoked that the troubled,
+perplexed expression returned to his face.
+
+"Now," said Hayward, "out with it!"
+
+"It is only the old affair about Alma and Amanda, but now it has taken
+on a sort of new aspect."
+
+"What do you mean by a new aspect?"
+
+"It seems," said Jim, slowly, "as if they were making it so I couldn't
+do for them."
+
+Hayward stamped his foot. "That does sound new," he said, dryly. "I
+never thought Alma Beecher or Amanda Bennet ever objected to have you do
+for them."
+
+"Well," said Jim, "perhaps they don't now, but they want me to do it
+in their own way. They don't want to feel as if I was giving and they
+taking; they want it to seem the other way round. You see, if I were to
+deed over my property to them, and then they allowance me, they would
+feel as if they were doing the giving."
+
+"Jim, you wouldn't be such a fool as that?"
+
+"No, I wouldn't," replied Jim, simply. "They wouldn't know how to take
+care of it, and Mis' Adkins would be left to shift for herself. Joe
+Beecher is real good-hearted, but he always lost every dollar he
+touched. No, there wouldn't be any sense in that. I don't mean to give
+in, but I do feel pretty well worked up over it."
+
+"What have they said to you?"
+
+Jim hesitated.
+
+"Out with it, now. One thing you may be sure of: nothing that you can
+tell me will alter my opinion of your two nieces for the worse. As for
+poor Joe Beecher, there is no opinion, one way or the other. What did
+they say?"
+
+Jim regarded his friend with a curiously sweet, far-off expression.
+"Edward," he said, "sometimes I believe that the greatest thing a man's
+friends can do for him is to drive him into a corner with God; to be so
+unjust to him that they make him understand that God is all that mortal
+man is meant to have, and that is why he finds out that most people,
+especially the ones he does for, don't care for him."
+
+Hayward looked solemnly and tenderly at the other's almost rapt face.
+"You are right, I suppose, old man," said he; "but what did they do?"
+
+"They called me in there about a week ago and gave me an awful talking
+to."
+
+"About what?"
+
+Jim looked at his friend with dignity. "They were two women talking,
+and they went into little matters not worth repeating," said he. "All
+is-they seemed to blame me for everything I had ever done for them,
+and for everything I had ever done, anyway. They seemed to blame me for
+being born and living, and, most of all, for doing anything for them."
+
+"It is an outrage!" declared Hayward. "Can't you see it?"
+
+"I can't seem to see anything plain about it," returned Jim, in a
+bewildered way. "I always supposed a man had to do something bad to
+be given a talking to; but it isn't so much that, and I don't bear any
+malice against them. They are only two women, and they are nervous.
+What worries me is, they do need things, and they can't get on and be
+comfortable unless I do for them; but if they are going to feel that
+way about it, it seems to cut me off from doing, and that does worry me,
+Edward."
+
+The other man stamped. "Jim Bennet," he said, "they have talked, and now
+I am going to."
+
+"You, Edward?"
+
+"Yes, I am. It is entirely true what those two women, Susan Adkins and
+Mrs. Trimmer, said about you. You ARE a door-mat, and you ought to be
+ashamed of yourself for it. A man should be a man, and not a door-mat.
+It is the worst thing in the world for people to walk over him and
+trample him. It does them much more harm than it does him. In the end
+the trampler is much worse off than the trampled upon. Jim Bennet, your
+being a doormat may cost other people their souls' salvation. You are
+selfish in the grain to be a door-mat."
+
+Jim turned pale. His child-like face looked suddenly old with his mental
+effort to grasp the other's meaning. In fact, he was a child--one of
+the little ones of the world--although he had lived the span of a man's
+life. Now one of the hardest problems of the elders of the world was
+presented to him. "You mean--" he said, faintly.
+
+"I mean, Jim, that for the sake of other people, if not for your own
+sake, you ought to stop being a door-mat and be a man in this world of
+men."
+
+"What do you want me to do?"
+
+"I want you to go straight to those nieces of yours and tell them the
+truth. You know what your wrongs are as well as I do. You know what
+those two women are as well as I do. They keep the letter of the Ten
+Commandments--that is right. They attend my church--that is right. They
+scour the outside of the platter until it is bright enough to blind
+those people who don't understand them; but inwardly they are petty,
+ravening wolves of greed and ingratitude. Go and tell them; they don't
+know themselves. Show them what they are. It is your Christian duty."
+
+"You don't mean for me to stop doing for them?"
+
+"I certainly do mean just that--for a while, anyway."
+
+"They can't possibly get along, Edward; they will suffer."
+
+"They have a little money, haven't they?"
+
+"Only a little in savings-bank. The interest pays their taxes."
+
+"And you gave them that?"
+
+Jim colored.
+
+"Very well, their taxes are paid for this year; let them use that money.
+They will not suffer, except in their feelings, and that is where they
+ought to suffer. Man, you would spoil all the work of the Lord by your
+selfish tenderness toward sinners!"
+
+"They aren't sinners."
+
+"Yes, they are--spiritual sinners, the worst kind in the world. Now--"
+
+"You don't mean for me to go now?"
+
+"Yes, I do--now. If you don't go now you never will. Then, afterward, I
+want you to go home and sit in your best parlor and smoke, and have all
+your cats in there, too."
+
+Jim gasped. "But, Edward! Mis' Adkins--"
+
+"I don't care about Mrs. Adkins. She isn't as bad as the rest, but she
+needs her little lesson, too."
+
+"Edward, the way that poor woman works to keep the house nice--and she
+don't like the smell of tobacco smoke."
+
+"Never mind whether she likes it or not. You smoke."
+
+"And she don't like cats."
+
+"Never mind. Now you go."
+
+Jim stood up. There was a curious change in his rosy, child-like face.
+There was a species of quickening. He looked at once older and more
+alert. His friend's words had charged him as with electricity. When he
+went down the street he looked taller.
+
+Amanda Bennet and Alma Beecher, sitting sewing at their street windows,
+made this mistake.
+
+"That isn't Uncle Jim," said Amanda. "That man is a head taller, but he
+looks a little like him."
+
+"It can't be Uncle Jim," agreed Alma. Then both started.
+
+"It is Uncle Jim, and he is coming here," said Amanda.
+
+Jim entered. Nobody except himself, his nieces, and Joe Beecher ever
+knew exactly what happened, what was the aspect of the door-mat erected
+to human life, of the worm turned to menace. It must have savored of
+horror, as do all meek and downtrodden things when they gain, driven to
+bay, the strength to do battle. It must have savored of the god-like,
+when the man who had borne with patience, dignity, and sorrow for them
+the stings of lesser things because they were lesser things, at last
+arose and revealed himself superior, with a great height of the spirit,
+with the power to crush.
+
+When Jim stopped talking and went home, two pale, shocked faces of women
+gazed after him from the windows. Joe Beecher was sobbing like a child.
+Finally his wife turned her frightened face upon him, glad to have still
+some one to intimidate.
+
+"For goodness' sake, Joe Beecher, stop crying like a baby," said she,
+but she spoke in a queer whisper, for her lips were stiff.
+
+Joe stood up and made for the door.
+
+"Where are you going?" asked his wife.
+
+"Going to get a job somewhere," replied Joe, and went. Soon the women
+saw him driving a neighbor's cart up the street.
+
+"He's going to cart gravel for John Leach's new sidewalk!" gasped Alma.
+
+"Why don't you stop him?" cried her sister. "You can't have your husband
+driving a tip-cart for John Leach. Stop him, Alma!"
+
+"I can't stop him," moaned Alma. "I don't feel as if I could stop
+anything."
+
+Her sister gazed at her, and the same expression was on both faces,
+making them more than sisters of the flesh. Both saw before them a stern
+boundary wall against which they might press in vain for the rest of
+their lives, and both saw the same sins of their hearts.
+
+Meantime Jim Bennet was seated in his best parlor and Susan Adkins was
+whispering to Mrs. Trimmer out in the kitchen.
+
+"I don't know whether he's gone stark, staring mad or not," whispered
+Susan, "but he's in the parlor smoking his worst old pipe, and that big
+tiger tommy is sitting in his lap, and he's let in all the other cats,
+and they're nosing round, and I don't dare drive 'em out. I took up the
+broom, then I put it away again. I never knew Mr. Bennet to act so. I
+can't think what's got into him."
+
+"Did he say anything?"
+
+"No, he didn't say much of anything, but he said it in a way that made
+my flesh fairly creep. Says he, 'As long as this is my house and my
+furniture and my cats, Mis' Adkins, I think I'll sit down in the parlor,
+where I can see to read my paper and smoke at the same time.' Then he
+holds the kitchen door open, and he calls, 'Kitty, kitty, kitty!' and
+that great tiger tommy comes in with his tail up, rubbing round his
+legs, and all the other cats followed after. I shut the door before
+these last ones got into the parlor." Susan Adkins regarded malevolently
+the three tortoise-shell cats of three generations and various stages
+of growth, one Maltese settled in a purring round of comfort with four
+kittens, and one perfectly black cat, which sat glaring at her with
+beryl-colored eyes.
+
+"That black cat looks evil," said Mrs. Trimmer.
+
+"Yes, he does. I don't know why I didn't drown him when he was a
+kitten."
+
+"Why didn't you drown all those Malty kittens?"
+
+"The old cat hid them away until they were too big. Then he wouldn't let
+me. What do you suppose has come to him? Just smell that awful pipe!"
+
+"Men do take queer streaks every now and then," said Mrs. Trimmer. "My
+husband used to, and he was as good as they make 'em, poor man. He would
+eat sugar on his beefsteak, for one thing. The first time I saw him do
+it I was scared. I thought he was plum crazy, but afterward I found out
+it was just because he was a man, and his ma hadn't wanted him to eat
+sugar when he was a boy. Mr. Bennet will get over it."
+
+"He don't act as if he would."
+
+"Oh yes, he will. Jim Bennet never stuck to anything but being Jim
+Bennet for very long in his life, and this ain't being Jim Bennet."
+
+"He is a very good man," said Susan with a somewhat apologetic tone.
+
+"He's too good."
+
+"He's too good to cats."
+
+"Seems to me he's too good to 'most everybody. Think what he has done
+for Amanda and Alma, and how they act!"
+
+"Yes, they are ungrateful and real mean to him; and I feel sometimes
+as if I would like to tell them just what I think of them," said Susan
+Adkins. "Poor man, there he is, studying all the time what he can do for
+people, and he don't get very much himself."
+
+Mrs. Trimmer arose to take leave. She had a long, sallow face, capable
+of a sarcastic smile. "Then," said she, "if I were you I wouldn't
+begrudge him a chair in the parlor and a chance to read and smoke and
+hold a pussy-cat."
+
+"Who said I was begrudging it? I can air out the parlor when he's got
+over the notion."
+
+"Well, he will, so you needn't worry," said Mrs. Trimmer. As she went
+down the street she could see Jim's profile beside the parlor window,
+and she smiled her sarcastic smile, which was not altogether unpleasant.
+"He's stopped smoking, and he ain't reading," she told herself. "It
+won't be very long before he's Jim Bennet again."
+
+But it was longer than she anticipated, for Jim's will was propped by
+Edward Hayward's. Edward kept Jim to his standpoint for weeks, until a
+few days before Christmas. Then came self-assertion, that self-assertion
+of negation which was all that Jim possessed in such a crisis. He called
+upon Dr. Hayward; the two were together in the little study for nearly
+an hour, and talk ran high, then Jim prevailed.
+
+"It's no use, Edward," he said; "a man can't be made over when he's cut
+and dried in one fashion, the way I am. Maybe I'm doing wrong, but to
+me it looks like doing right, and there's something in the Bible about
+every man having his own right and wrong. If what you say is true, and
+I am hindering the Lord Almighty in His work, then it is for Him to stop
+me. He can do it. But meantime I've got to go on doing the way I always
+have. Joe has been trying to drive that tip-cart, and the horse ran away
+with him twice. Then he let the cart fall on his foot and mash one of
+his toes, and he can hardly get round, and Amanda and Alma don't dare
+touch that money in the bank for fear of not having enough to pay the
+taxes next year in case I don't help them. They only had a little money
+on hand when I gave them that talking to, and Christmas is 'most here,
+and they haven't got things they really need. Amanda's coat that she
+wore to meeting last Sunday didn't look very warm to me, and poor Alma
+had her furs chewed up by the Leach dog, and she's going without any.
+They need lots of things. And poor Mis' Adkins is 'most sick with
+tobacco smoke. I can see it, though she doesn't say anything, and the
+nice parlor curtains are full of it, and cat hairs are all over things.
+I can't hold out any longer, Edward. Maybe I am a door-mat; and if I am,
+and it is wicked, may the Lord forgive me, for I've got to keep right on
+being a door-mat."
+
+Hayward sighed and lighted his pipe. However, he had given up and
+connived with Jim.
+
+On Christmas eve the two men were in hiding behind a clump of cedars
+in the front yard of Jim's nieces' house. They watched the expressman
+deliver a great load of boxes and packages. Jim drew a breath of joyous
+relief.
+
+"They are taking them in," he whispered--"they are taking them in,
+Edward!"
+
+Hayward looked down at the dim face of the man beside him, and something
+akin to fear entered his heart. He saw the face of a lifelong friend,
+but he saw something in it which he had never recognized before. He saw
+the face of one of the children of heaven, giving only for the sake of
+the need of others, and glorifying the gifts with the love and pity of
+an angel.
+
+"I was afraid they wouldn't take them!" whispered Jim, and his watching
+face was beautiful, although it was only the face of a little, old man
+of a little village, with no great gift of intellect. There was a full
+moon riding high; the ground was covered with a glistening snow-level,
+over which wavered wonderful shadows, as of wings. One great star
+prevailed despite the silver might of the moon. To Hayward Jim's face
+seemed to prevail, as that star, among all the faces of humanity.
+
+Jim crept noiselessly toward a window, Hayward at his heels. The two
+could see the lighted interior plainly.
+
+"See poor Alma trying on her furs," whispered Jim, in a rapture. "See
+Amanda with her coat. They have found the money. See Joe heft the
+turkey." Suddenly he caught Hayward's arm, and the two crept away.
+Out on the road, Jim fairly sobbed with pure delight. "Oh, Edward,"
+he said, "I am so thankful they took the things! I was so afraid they
+wouldn't, and they needed them! Oh, Edward, I am so thankful!" Edward
+pressed his friend's arm.
+
+When they reached Jim's house a great tiger-cat leaped to Jim's shoulder
+with the silence and swiftness of a shadow. "He's always watching for
+me," said Jim, proudly. "Pussy! Pussy!" The cat began to purr loudly,
+and rubbed his splendid head against the man's cheek.
+
+"I suppose," said Hayward, with something of awe in his tone, "that you
+won't smoke in the parlor to-night?"
+
+"Edward, I really can't. Poor woman, she's got it all aired and
+beautifully cleaned, and she's so happy over it. There's a good fire in
+the shed, and I will sit there with the pussy-cats until I go to bed.
+Oh, Edward, I am so thankful that they took the things!"
+
+"Good night, Jim."
+
+"Good night. You don't blame me, Edward?"
+
+"Who am I to blame you, Jim? Good night."
+
+Hayward watched the little man pass along the path to the shed door.
+Jim's back was slightly bent, but to his friend it seemed bent beneath
+a holy burden of love and pity for all humanity, and the inheritance
+of the meek seemed to crown that drooping old head. The door-mat, again
+spread freely for the trampling feet of all who got comfort thereby,
+became a blessed thing. The humble creature, despised and held in
+contempt like One greater than he, giving for the sake of the needs of
+others, went along the narrow foot-path through the snow. The minister
+took off his hat and stood watching until the door was opened and closed
+and the little window gleamed with golden light.
+
+
+
+
+THE AMETHYST COMB
+
+MISS JANE CAREW was at the railroad station waiting for the New York
+train. She was about to visit her friend, Mrs. Viola Longstreet. With
+Miss Carew was her maid, Margaret, a middleaged New England woman,
+attired in the stiffest and most correct of maid-uniforms. She carried
+an old, large sole-leather bag, and also a rather large sole-leather
+jewel-case. The jewel-case, carried openly, was rather an unusual
+sight at a New England railroad station, but few knew what it was. They
+concluded it to be Margaret's special handbag. Margaret was a very tall,
+thin woman, unbending as to carriage and expression. The one thing out
+of absolute plumb about Margaret was her little black bonnet. That was
+askew. Time had bereft the woman of so much hair that she could fasten
+no head-gear with security, especially when the wind blew, and that
+morning there was a stiff gale. Margaret's bonnet was cocked over one
+eye. Miss Carew noticed it.
+
+"Margaret, your bonnet is crooked," she said.
+
+Margaret straightened her bonnet, but immediately the bonnet veered
+again to the side, weighted by a stiff jet aigrette. Miss Carew observed
+the careen of the bonnet, realized that it was inevitable, and did not
+mention it again. Inwardly she resolved upon the removal of the jet
+aigrette later on. Miss Carew was slightly older than Margaret, and
+dressed in a style somewhat beyond her age. Jane Carew had been alert
+upon the situation of departing youth. She had eschewed gay colors and
+extreme cuts, and had her bonnets made to order, because there were no
+longer anything but hats in the millinery shop. The milliner in Wheaton,
+where Miss Carew lived, had objected, for Jane Carew inspired reverence.
+
+"A bonnet is too old for you. Miss Carew," she said. "Women much older
+than you wear hats."
+
+"I trust that I know what is becoming to a woman of my years, thank you.
+Miss Waters," Jane had replied, and the milliner had meekly taken her
+order.
+
+After Miss Carew had left, the milliner told her girls that she had
+never seen a woman so perfectly crazy to look her age as Miss Carew.
+"And she a pretty woman, too," said the milliner; "as straight as an
+arrer, and slim, and with all that hair, scarcely turned at all."
+
+Miss Carew, with all her haste to assume years, remained a pretty
+woman, softly slim, with an abundance of dark hair, showing little gray.
+Sometimes Jane reflected, uneasily, that it ought at her time of life to
+be entirely gray. She hoped nobody would suspect her of dyeing it. She
+wore it parted in the middle, folded back smoothly, and braided in
+a compact mass on the top of her head. The style of her clothes was
+slightly behind the fashion, just enough to suggest conservatism and
+age. She carried a little silver-bound bag in one nicely gloved hand;
+with the other she held daintily out of the dust of the platform her
+dress-skirt. A glimpse of a silk frilled petticoat, of slender feet, and
+ankles delicately slim, was visible before the onslaught of the wind.
+Jane Carew made no futile effort to keep her skirts down before the
+wind-gusts. She was so much of the gentlewoman that she could be gravely
+oblivious to the exposure of her ankles. She looked as if she had never
+heard of ankles when her black silk skirts lashed about them. She rose
+superbly above the situation. For some abstruse reason Margaret's
+skirts were not affected by the wind. They might have been weighted with
+buckram, although it was no longer in general use. She stood, except for
+her veering bonnet, as stiffly immovable as a wooden doll.
+
+Miss Carew seldom left Wheaton. This visit to New York was an
+innovation. Quite a crowd gathered about Jane's sole-leather trunk when
+it was dumped on the platform by the local expressman. "Miss Carew is
+going to New York," one said to another, with much the same tone as
+if he had said, "The great elm on the common is going to move into Dr.
+Jones's front yard."
+
+When the train arrived, Miss Carew, followed by Margaret, stepped
+aboard with a majestic disregard of ankles. She sat beside a window, and
+Margaret placed the bag on the floor and held the jewel-case in her lap.
+The case contained the Carew jewels. They were not especially valuable,
+although they were rather numerous. There were cameos in brooches and
+heavy gold bracelets; corals which Miss Carew had not worn since her
+young girlhood. There were a set of garnets, some badly cut diamonds in
+ear-rings and rings, some seed-pearl ornaments, and a really beautiful
+set of amethysts. There were a necklace, two brooches--a bar and a
+circle--earrings, a ring, and a comb. Each piece was charming, set in
+filigree gold with seed-pearls, but perhaps of them all the comb was
+the best. It was a very large comb. There was one great amethyst in the
+center of the top; on either side was an intricate pattern of plums in
+small amethysts, and seed-pearl grapes, with leaves and stems of gold.
+Margaret in charge of the jewel-case was imposing. When they arrived in
+New York she confronted everybody whom she met with a stony stare,
+which was almost accusative and convictive of guilt, in spite of entire
+innocence on the part of the person stared at. It was inconceivable that
+any mortal would have dared lay violent hands upon that jewel-case
+under that stare. It would have seemed to partake of the nature of grand
+larceny from Providence.
+
+When the two reached the up-town residence of Viola Longstreet, Viola
+gave a little scream at the sight of the case.
+
+"My dear Jane Carew, here you are with Margaret carrying that jewel-case
+out in plain sight. How dare you do such a thing? I really wonder you
+have not been held up a dozen times."
+
+Miss Carew smiled her gentle but almost stern smile--the Carew smile,
+which consisted in a widening and slightly upward curving of tightly
+closed lips.
+
+"I do not think," said she, "that anybody would be apt to interfere with
+Margaret."
+
+Viola Longstreet laughed, the ringing peal of a child, although she was
+as old as Miss Carew. "I think you are right, Jane," said she. "I don't
+believe a crook in New York would dare face that maid of yours. He
+would as soon encounter Plymouth Rock. I am glad you have brought your
+delightful old jewels, although you never wear anything except those
+lovely old pearl sprays and dull diamonds."
+
+"Now," stated Jane, with a little toss of pride, "I have Aunt Felicia's
+amethysts."
+
+"Oh, sure enough! I remember you did write me last summer that she had
+died and you had the amethysts at last. She must have been very old."
+
+"Ninety-one."
+
+"She might have given you the amethysts before. You, of course, will
+wear them; and I--am going to borrow the corals!"
+
+Jane Carew gasped.
+
+"You do not object, do you, dear? I have a new dinner-gown which clamors
+for corals, and my bank-account is strained, and I could buy none equal
+to those of yours, anyway."
+
+"Oh, I do not object," said Jane Carew; still she looked aghast.
+
+Viola Longstreet shrieked with laughter. "Oh, I know. You think the
+corals too young for me. You have not worn them since you left off
+dotted muslin. My dear, you insisted upon growing old--I insisted
+upon remaining young. I had two new dotted muslins last summer. As for
+corals, I would wear them in the face of an opposing army! Do not judge
+me by yourself, dear. You laid hold of Age and held him, although
+you had your complexion and your shape and hair. As for me, I had my
+complexion and kept it. I also had my hair and kept it. My shape has
+been a struggle, but it was worth while. I, my dear, have held Youth
+so tight that he has almost choked to death, but held him I have. You
+cannot deny it. Look at me, Jane Carew, and tell me if, judging by my
+looks, you can reasonably state that I have no longer the right to wear
+corals."
+
+Jane Carew looked. She smiled the Carew smile. "You DO look very young,
+Viola," said Jane, "but you are not."
+
+"Jane Carew," said Viola, "I am young. May I wear your corals at my
+dinner to-morrow night?"
+
+"Why, of course, if you think--"
+
+"If I think them suitable. My dear, if there were on this earth
+ornaments more suitable to extreme youth than corals, I would borrow
+them if you owned them, but, failing that, the corals will answer. Wait
+until you see me in that taupe dinner-gown and the corals!"
+
+Jane waited. She visited with Viola, whom she loved, although they had
+little in common, partly because of leading widely different lives,
+partly because of constitutional variations. She was dressed for dinner
+fully an hour before it was necessary, and she sat in the library
+reading when Viola swept in.
+
+Viola was really entrancing. It was a pity that Jane Carew had such an
+unswerving eye for the essential truth that it could not be appeased by
+actual effect. Viola had doubtless, as she had said, struggled to keep
+her slim shape, but she had kept it, and, what was more, kept it without
+evidence of struggle. If she was in the least hampered by tight lacing
+and length of undergarment, she gave no evidence of it as she curled
+herself up in a big chair and (Jane wondered how she could bring herself
+to do it) crossed her legs, revealing one delicate foot and ankle,
+silk-stockinged with taupe, and shod with a coral satin slipper with a
+silver heel and a great silver buckle. On Viola's fair round neck the
+Carew corals lay bloomingly; her beautiful arms were clasped with them;
+a great coral brooch with wonderful carving confined a graceful fold
+of the taupe over one hip, a coral comb surmounted the shining waves of
+Viola's hair. Viola was an ash-blonde, her complexion was as roses, and
+the corals were ideal for her. As Jane regarded her friend's beauty,
+however, the fact that Viola was not young, that she was as old as
+herself, hid it and overshadowed it.
+
+"Well, Jane, don't you think I look well in the corals, after all?"
+asked Viola, and there was something pitiful in her voice.
+
+When a man or a woman holds fast to youth, even if successfully,
+there is something of the pitiful and the tragic involved. It is the
+everlasting struggle of the soul to retain the joy of earth, whose
+fleeting distinguishes it from heaven, and whose retention is not
+accomplished without an inner knowledge of its futility.
+
+"I suppose you do, Viola," replied Jane Carew, with the inflexibility
+of fate, "but I really think that only very young girls ought to wear
+corals."
+
+Viola laughed, but the laugh had a minor cadence. "But I AM a young
+girl, Jane," she said. "I MUST be a young girl. I never had any girlhood
+when I should have had. You know that."
+
+Viola had married, when very young, a man old enough to be her father,
+and her wedded life had been a sad affair, to which, however, she seldom
+alluded. Viola had much pride with regard to the inevitable past.
+
+"Yes," agreed Jane. Then she added, feeling that more might be
+expected, "Of course I suppose that marrying so very young does make a
+difference."
+
+"Yes," said Viola, "it does. In fact, it makes of one's girlhood an
+anti-climax, of which many dispute the wisdom, as you do. But have it I
+will. Jane, your amethysts are beautiful."
+
+Jane regarded the clear purple gleam of a stone on her arm. "Yes,"
+she agreed, "Aunt Felicia's amethysts have always been considered very
+beautiful."
+
+"And such a full set," said Viola.
+
+"Yes," said Jane. She colored a little, but Viola did not know why. At
+the last moment Jane had decided not to wear the amethyst comb, because
+it seemed to her altogether too decorative for a woman of her age, and
+she was afraid to mention it to Viola. She was sure that Viola would
+laugh at her and insist upon her wearing it.
+
+"The ear-rings are lovely," said Viola. "My dear, I don't see how you
+ever consented to have your ears pierced."
+
+"I was very young, and my mother wished me to," replied Jane, blushing.
+
+The door-bell rang. Viola had been covertly listening for it all the
+time. Soon a very beautiful young man came with a curious dancing step
+into the room. Harold Lind always gave the effect of dancing when he
+walked. He always, moreover, gave the effect of extreme youth and of
+the utmost joy and mirth in life itself. He regarded everything
+and everybody with a smile as of humorous appreciation, and yet the
+appreciation was so goodnatured that it offended nobody.
+
+"Look at me--I am absurd and happy; look at yourself, also absurd
+and happy; look at everybody else likewise; look at life--a jest so
+delicious that it is quite worth one's while dying to be made acquainted
+with it." That is what Harold Lind seemed to say. Viola Longstreet
+became even more youthful under his gaze; even Jane Carew regretted that
+she had not worn her amethyst comb and began to doubt its unsuitability.
+Viola very soon called the young man's attention to Jane's amethysts,
+and Jane always wondered why she did not then mention the comb. She
+removed a brooch and a bracelet for him to inspect.
+
+"They are really wonderful," he declared. "I have never seen greater
+depth of color in amethysts."
+
+"Mr. Lind is an authority on jewels," declared Viola. The young man shot
+a curious glance at her, which Jane remembered long afterward. It was
+one of those glances which are as keystones to situations.
+
+Harold looked at the purple stones with the expression of a child with
+a toy. There was much of the child in the young man's whole appearance,
+but of a mischievous and beautiful child, of whom his mother might
+observe, with adoration and illconcealed boastfulness, "I can never tell
+what that child will do next!"
+
+Harold returned the bracelet and brooch to Jane, and smiled at her as
+if amethysts were a lovely purple joke between her and himself, uniting
+them by a peculiar bond of fine understanding. "Exquisite, Miss Carew,"
+he said. Then he looked at Viola. "Those corals suit you wonderfully,
+Mrs. Longstreet," he observed, "but amethysts would also suit you."
+
+"Not with this gown," replied Viola, rather pitifully. There was
+something in the young man's gaze and tone which she did not understand,
+but which she vaguely quivered before.
+
+Harold certainly thought the corals were too young for Viola. Jane
+understood, and felt an unworthy triumph. Harold, who was young enough
+in actual years to be Viola's son, and was younger still by reason of
+his disposition, was amused by the sight of her in corals, although he
+did not intend to betray his amusement. He considered Viola in corals
+as too rude a jest to share with her. Had poor Viola once grasped Harold
+Lind's estimation of her she would have as soon gazed upon herself in
+her coffin. Harold's comprehension of the essentials was beyond Jane
+Carew's. It was fairly ghastly, partaking of the nature of X-rays,
+but it never disturbed Harold Lind. He went along his dance-track
+undisturbed, his blue eyes never losing their high lights of glee, his
+lips never losing their inscrutable smile at some happy understanding
+between life and himself. Harold had fair hair, which was very smooth
+and glossy. His skin was like a girl's. He was so beautiful that he
+showed cleverness in an affectation of carelessness in dress. He did
+not like to wear evening clothes, because they had necessarily to be
+immaculate. That evening Jane regarded him with an inward criticism that
+he was too handsome for a man. She told Viola so when the dinner was
+over and he and the other guests had gone.
+
+"He is very handsome," she said, "but I never like to see a man quite so
+handsome."
+
+"You will change your mind when you see him in tweeds," returned Viola.
+"He loathes evening clothes."
+
+Jane regarded her anxiously. There was something in Viola's tone which
+disturbed and shocked her. It was inconceivable that Viola should be
+in love with that youth, and yet--"He looks very young," said Jane in a
+prim voice.
+
+"He IS young," admitted Viola; "still, not quite so young as he looks.
+Sometimes I tell him he will look like a boy if he lives to be eighty."
+
+"Well, he must be very young," persisted Jane.
+
+"Yes," said Viola, but she did not say how young. Viola herself, now
+that the excitement was over, did not look so young as at the beginning
+of the evening. She removed the corals, and Jane considered that she
+looked much better without them.
+
+"Thank you for your corals, dear," said Viola. "Where Is Margaret?"
+
+Margaret answered for herself by a tap on the door. She and Viola's
+maid, Louisa, had been sitting on an upper landing, out of sight,
+watching the guests down-stairs. Margaret took the corals and placed
+them in their nest in the jewel-case, also the amethysts, after
+Viola had gone. The jewel-case was a curious old affair with many
+compartments. The amethysts required two. The comb was so large that it
+had one for itself. That was the reason why Margaret did not discover
+that evening that it was gone. Nobody discovered it for three days, when
+Viola had a little card-party. There was a whist-table for Jane, who had
+never given up the reserved and stately game. There were six tables in
+Viola's pretty living-room, with a little conservatory at one end and
+a leaping hearth fire at the other. Jane's partner was a stout old
+gentleman whose wife was shrieking with merriment at an auction-bridge
+table. The other whist-players were a stupid, very small young man who
+was aimlessly willing to play anything, and an amiable young woman who
+believed in self-denial. Jane played conscientiously. She returned trump
+leads, and played second hand low, and third high, and it was not until
+the third rubber was over that she saw. It had been in full evidence
+from the first. Jane would have seen it before the guests arrived, but
+Viola had not put it in her hair until the last moment. Viola was wild
+with delight, yet shamefaced and a trifle uneasy. In a soft, white gown,
+with violets at her waist, she was playing with Harold Lind, and in her
+ash-blond hair was Jane Carew's amethyst comb. Jane gasped and paled.
+The amiable young woman who was her opponent stared at her. Finally she
+spoke in a low voice.
+
+"Aren't you well. Miss Carew?" she asked.
+
+The men, in their turn, stared. The stout one rose fussily. "Let me get
+a glass of water," he said. The stupid small man stood up and waved his
+hands with nervousness.
+
+"Aren't you well?" asked the amiable young lady again.
+
+Then Jane Carew recovered her poise. It was seldom that she lost it.
+"I am quite well, thank you, Miss Murdock," she replied. "I believe
+diamonds are trumps."
+
+They all settled again to the play, but the young lady and the two
+men continued glancing at Miss Carew. She had recovered her dignity of
+manner, but not her color. Moreover, she had a bewildered expression.
+Resolutely she abstained from glancing again at her amethyst comb
+in Viola Longstreet's ash-blond hair, and gradually, by a course of
+subconscious reasoning as she carefully played her cards, she arrived
+at a conclusion which caused her color to return and the bewildered
+expression to disappear. When refreshments were served, the amiable
+young lady said, kindly:
+
+"You look quite yourself, now, dear Miss Carew, but at one time while we
+were playing I was really alarmed. You were very pale."
+
+"I did not feel in the least ill," replied Jane Carew. She smiled her
+Carew smile at the young lady. Jane had settled it with herself that
+of course Viola had borrowed that amethyst comb, appealing to Margaret.
+Viola ought not to have done that; she should have asked her, Miss
+Carew; and Jane wondered, because Viola was very well bred; but of
+course that was what had happened. Jane had come down before Viola,
+leaving Margaret in her room, and Viola had asked her. Jane did not then
+remember that Viola had not even been told that there was an amethyst
+comb in existence. She remembered when Margaret, whose face was as pale
+and bewildered as her own, mentioned it, when she was brushing her hair.
+
+"I saw it, first thing. Miss Jane," said Margaret. "Louisa and I were
+on the landing, and I looked down and saw your amethyst comb in Mrs.
+Longstreet's hair."
+
+"She had asked you for it, because I had gone down-stairs?" asked Jane,
+feebly.
+
+"No, Miss Jane. I had not seen her. I went out right after you did.
+Louisa had finished Mrs. Longstreet, and she and I went down to the
+mailbox to post a letter, and then we sat on the landing, and--I saw
+your comb."
+
+"Have you," asked Jane, "looked in the jewelcase?"
+
+"Yes, Miss Jane."
+
+"And it is not there?"
+
+"It is not there. Miss Jane." Margaret spoke with a sort of solemn
+intoning. She recognized what the situation implied, and she, who
+fitted squarely and entirely into her humble state, was aghast before a
+hitherto unimagined occurrence. She could not, even with the evidence
+of her senses against a lady and her mistress's old friend, believe in
+them. Had Jane told her firmly that she had not seen that comb in that
+ash-blond hair she might have been hypnotized into agreement. But Jane
+simply stared at her, and the Carew dignity was more shaken than she had
+ever seen it.
+
+"Bring the jewel-case here, Margaret," ordered Jane in a gasp.
+
+Margaret brought the jewel-case, and everything was taken out; all the
+compartments were opened, but the amethyst comb was not there. Jane
+could not sleep that night. At dawn she herself doubted the evidence of
+her senses. The jewel-case was thoroughly overlooked again, and still
+Jane was incredulous that she would ever see her comb in Viola's hair
+again. But that evening, although there were no guests except Harold
+Lind, who dined at the house, Viola appeared in a pink-tinted gown, with
+a knot of violets at her waist, and--she wore the amethyst comb. She
+said not one word concerning it; nobody did. Harold Lind was in wild
+spirits. The conviction grew upon Jane that the irresponsible, beautiful
+youth was covertly amusing himself at her, at Viola's, at everybody's
+expense. Perhaps he included himself. He talked incessantly, not in
+reality brilliantly, but with an effect of sparkling effervescence which
+was fairly dazzling. Viola's servants restrained with difficulty their
+laughter at his sallies. Viola regarded Harold with ill-concealed
+tenderness and admiration. She herself looked even younger than usual,
+as if the innate youth in her leaped to meet this charming comrade.
+
+Jane felt sickened by it all. She could not understand her friend. Not
+for one minute did she dream that there could be any serious outcome of
+the situation; that Viola, would marry this mad youth, who, she knew,
+was making such covert fun at her expense; but she was bewildered and
+indignant. She wished that she had not come. That evening when she went
+to her room she directed Margaret to pack, as she intended to return
+home the next day. Margaret began folding gowns with alacrity. She was
+as conservative as her mistress and she severely disapproved of many
+things. However, the matter of the amethyst comb was uppermost in her
+mind. She was wild with curiosity. She hardly dared inquire, but finally
+she did.
+
+"About the amethyst comb, ma'am?" she said, with a delicate cough.
+
+"What about it, Margaret?" returned Jane, severely.
+
+"I thought perhaps Mrs. Longstreet had told you how she happened to have
+it."
+
+Poor Jane Carew had nobody in whom to confide. For once she spoke her
+mind to her maid. "She has not said one word. And, oh, Margaret, I don't
+know what to think of it."
+
+Margaret pursed her lips.
+
+"What do YOU think, Margaret?"
+
+"I don't know. Miss Jane."
+
+"I don't."
+
+"I did not mention it to Louisa," said Margaret.
+
+"Oh, I hope not!" cried Jane.
+
+"But she did to me," said Margaret. "She asked had I seen Miss Viola's
+new comb, and then she laughed, and I thought from the way she acted
+that--" Margaret hesitated.
+
+"That what?"
+
+"That she meant Mr. Lind had given Miss Viola the comb."
+
+Jane started violently. "Absolutely impossible!" she cried. "That,
+of course, is nonsense. There must be some explanation. Probably Mrs.
+Longstreet will explain before we go."
+
+Mrs. Longstreet did not explain. She wondered and expostulated when Jane
+announced her firm determination to leave, but she seemed utterly at a
+loss for the reason. She did not mention the comb.
+
+When Jane Carew took leave of her old friend she was entirely sure in
+her own mind that she would never visit her again--might never even see
+her again.
+
+Jane was unutterably thankful to be back in her own peaceful home, over
+which no shadow of absurd mystery brooded; only a calm afternoon light
+of life, which disclosed gently but did not conceal or betray. Jane
+settled back into her pleasant life, and the days passed, and the weeks,
+and the months, and the years. She heard nothing whatever from or about
+Viola Longstreet for three years. Then, one day, Margaret returned from
+the city, and she had met Viola's old maid Louisa in a department store,
+and she had news. Jane wished for strength to refuse to listen, but she
+could not muster it. She listened while Margaret brushed her hair.
+
+"Louisa has not been with Miss Viola for a long time," said Margaret.
+"She is living with somebody else. Miss Viola lost her money, and had to
+give up her house and her servants, and Louisa said she cried when she
+said good-by."
+
+Jane made an effort. "What became of--" she began.
+
+Margaret answered the unfinished sentence. She was excited by gossip
+as by a stimulant. Her thin cheeks burned, her eyes blazed. "Mr. Lind,"
+said Margaret, "Louisa told me, had turned out to be real bad. He got
+into some money trouble, and then"--Margaret lowered her voice--"he was
+arrested for taking a lot of money which didn't belong to him. Louisa
+said he had been in some business where he handled a lot of other folks'
+money, and he cheated the men who were in the business with him, and
+he was tried, and Miss Viola, Louisa thinks, hid away somewhere so they
+wouldn't call her to testify, and then he had to go to prison; but--"
+Margaret hesitated.
+
+"What is it?" asked Jane.
+
+"Louisa thinks he died about a year and a half ago. She heard the lady
+where she lives now talking about it. The lady used to know Miss Viola,
+and she heard the lady say Mr. Lind had died in prison, that he couldn't
+stand the hard life, and that Miss Viola had lost all her money through
+him, and then"--Margaret hesitated again, and her mistress prodded
+sharply--"Louisa said that she heard the lady say that she had thought
+Miss Viola would marry him, but she hadn't, and she had more sense than
+she had thought."
+
+"Mrs. Longstreet would never for one moment have entertained the thought
+of marrying Mr. Lind; he was young enough to be her grandson," said
+Jane, severely.
+
+"Yes, ma'am," said Margaret.
+
+It so happened that Jane went to New York that day week, and at a
+jewelry counter in one of the shops she discovered the amethyst comb.
+There were on sale a number of bits of antique jewelry, the precious
+flotsam and jetsam of old and wealthy families which had drifted, nobody
+knew before what currents of adversity, into that harbor of sale for
+all the world to see. Jane made no inquiries; the saleswoman volunteered
+simply the information that the comb was a real antique, and the stones
+were real amethysts and pearls, and the setting was solid gold, and
+the price was thirty dollars; and Jane bought it. She carried her old
+amethyst comb home, but she did not show it to anybody. She replaced it
+in its old compartment in her jewelcase and thought of it with wonder,
+with a hint of joy at regaining it, and with much sadness. She was still
+fond of Viola Longstreet. Jane did not easily part with her loves. She
+did not know where Viola was. Margaret had inquired of Louisa, who did
+not know. Poor Viola had probably drifted into some obscure harbor of
+life wherein she was hiding until life was over.
+
+And then Jane met Viola one spring day on Fifth Avenue.
+
+"It is a very long time since I have seen you," said Jane with a
+reproachful accent, but her eyes were tenderly inquiring.
+
+"Yes," agreed Viola. Then she added, "I have seen nobody. Do you know
+what a change has come in my life?" she asked.
+
+"Yes, dear," replied Jane, gently. "My Margaret met Louisa once and she
+told her."
+
+"Oh yes--Louisa," said Viola. "I had to discharge her. My money is about
+gone. I have only just enough to keep the wolf from entering the door
+of a hall bedroom in a respectable boarding-house. However, I often
+hear him howl, but I do not mind at all. In fact, the howling has become
+company for me. I rather like it. It is queer what things one can learn
+to like. There are a few left yet, like the awful heat in summer, and
+the food, which I do not fancy, but that is simply a matter of time."
+
+Viola's laugh was like a bird's song--a part of her--and nothing except
+death could silence it for long.
+
+"Then," said Jane, "you stay in New York all summer?"
+
+Viola laughed again. "My dear," she replied, "of course. It is all very
+simple. If I left New York, and paid board anywhere, I would never have
+enough money to buy my return fare, and certainly not to keep that wolf
+from my hall-bedroom door."
+
+"Then," said Jane, "you are going home with me."
+
+"I cannot consent to accept charity, Jane," said Viola. "Don't ask me."
+
+Then, for the first time in her life, Viola Longstreet saw Jane Carew's
+eyes blaze with anger. "You dare to call it charity coming from me to
+you?" she said, and Viola gave in.
+
+When Jane saw the little room where Viola lived, she marveled, with the
+exceedingly great marveling of a woman to whom love of a man has never
+come, at a woman who could give so much and with no return.
+
+Little enough to pack had Viola. Jane understood with a shudder of
+horror that it was almost destitution, not poverty, to which her old
+friend was reduced.
+
+"You shall have that northeast room which you always liked," she told
+Viola when they were on the train.
+
+"The one with the old-fashioned peacock paper, and the pine-tree growing
+close to one window?" said Viola, happily.
+
+Jane and Viola settled down to life together, and Viola, despite the
+tragedy which she had known, realized a peace and happiness beyond her
+imagination. In reality, although she still looked so youthful, she was
+old enough to enjoy the pleasures of later life. Enjoy them she did to
+the utmost. She and Jane made calls together, entertained friends at
+small and stately dinners, and gave little teas. They drove about in the
+old Carew carriage. Viola had some new clothes. She played very well on
+Jane's old piano. She embroidered, she gardened. She lived the sweet,
+placid life of an older lady in a little village, and loved it. She
+never mentioned Harold Lind.
+
+Not among the vicious of the earth was poor Harold Lind; rather among
+those of such beauty and charm that the earth spoils them, making
+them, in their own estimation, free guests at all its tables of bounty.
+Moreover, the young man had, deeply rooted in his character, the traits
+of a mischievous child, rejoicing in his mischief more from a sense of
+humor so keen that it verged on cruelty than from any intention to
+harm others. Over that affair of the amethyst comb, for instance, his
+irresponsible, selfish, childish soul had fairly reveled in glee. He had
+not been fond of Viola, but he liked her fondness for himself. He had
+made sport of her, but only for his own entertainment--never for the
+entertainment of others. He was a beautiful creature, seeking out paths
+of pleasure and folly for himself alone, which ended as do all paths of
+earthly pleasure and folly. Harold had admired Viola, but from the same
+point of view as Jane Carew's. Viola had, when she looked her youngest
+and best, always seemed so old as to be venerable to him. He had at
+times compunctions, as if he were making a jest of his grandmother.
+Viola never knew the truth about the amethyst comb. He had considered
+that one of the best frolics of his life. He had simply purloined it and
+presented it to Viola, and merrily left matters to settle themselves.
+
+Viola and Jane had lived together a month before the comb was mentioned.
+Then one day Viola was in Jane's room and the jewel-case was out, and
+she began examining its contents. When she found the amethyst comb she
+gave a little cry. Jane, who had been seated at her desk and had not
+seen what was going on, turned around.
+
+Viola stood holding the comb, and her cheeks were burning. She fondled
+the trinket as if it had been a baby. Jane watched her. She began to
+understand the bare facts of the mystery of the disappearance of her
+amethyst comb, but the subtlety of it was forever beyond her. Had the
+other woman explained what was in her mind, in her heart--how that
+reckless young man whom she had loved had given her the treasure because
+he had heard her admire Jane's amethysts, and she, all unconscious
+of any wrong-doing, had ever regarded it as the one evidence of his
+thoughtful tenderness, it being the one gift she had ever received from
+him; how she parted with it, as she had parted with her other jewels,
+in order to obtain money to purchase comforts for him while he was in
+prison--Jane could not have understood. The fact of an older woman being
+fond of a young man, almost a boy, was beyond her mental grasp. She had
+no imagination with which to comprehend that innocent, pathetic, almost
+terrible love of one who has trodden the earth long for one who has just
+set dancing feet upon it. It was noble of Jane Carew that, lacking all
+such imagination, she acted as she did: that, although she did not,
+could not, formulate it to herself, she would no more have deprived the
+other woman and the dead man of that one little unscathed bond of tender
+goodness than she would have robbed his grave of flowers.
+
+Viola looked at her. "I cannot tell you all about it; you would laugh at
+me," she whispered; "but this was mine once."
+
+"It is yours now, dear," said Jane.
+
+
+
+
+THE UMBRELLA MAN
+
+IT was an insolent day. There are days which, to imaginative minds, at
+least, possess strangely human qualities. Their atmospheres predispose
+people to crime or virtue, to the calm of good will, to sneaking vice,
+or fierce, unprovoked aggression. The day was of the last description.
+A beast, or a human being in whose veins coursed undisciplined blood,
+might, as involuntarily as the boughs of trees lash before storms,
+perform wild and wicked deeds after inhaling that hot air, evil with the
+sweat of sinevoked toil, with nitrogen stored from festering sores of
+nature and the loathsome emanations of suffering life.
+
+It had not rained for weeks, but the humidity was great. The clouds of
+dust which arose beneath the man's feet had a horrible damp stickiness.
+His face and hands were grimy, as were his shoes, his cheap, ready-made
+suit, and his straw hat. However, the man felt a pride in his clothes,
+for they were at least the garb of freedom. He had come out of prison
+the day before, and had scorned the suit proffered him by the officials.
+He had given it away, and bought a new one with a goodly part of his
+small stock of money. This suit was of a small-checked pattern. Nobody
+could tell from it that the wearer had just left jail. He had been there
+for several years for one of the minor offenses against the law. His
+term would probably have been shorter, but the judge had been careless,
+and he had no friends. Stebbins had never been the sort to make many
+friends, although he had never cherished animosity toward any human
+being. Even some injustice in his sentence had not caused him to feel
+any rancor.
+
+During his stay in the prison he had not been really unhappy. He had
+accepted the inevitable-the yoke of the strong for the weak--with a
+patience which brought almost a sense of enjoyment. But, now that he
+was free, he had suddenly become alert, watchful of chances for his
+betterment. From being a mere kenneled creature he had become as a
+hound on the scent, the keenest on earth--that of self-interest. He was
+changed, while yet living, from a being outside the world to one with
+the world before him. He felt young, although he was a middle-aged,
+almost elderly man. He had in his pocket only a few dollars. He might
+have had more had he not purchased the checked suit and had he not given
+much away. There was another man whose term would be up in a week, and
+he had a sickly wife and several children. Stebbins, partly from native
+kindness and generosity, partly from a sentiment which almost amounted
+to superstition, had given him of his slender store. He had been
+deprived of his freedom because of money; he said to himself that his
+return to it should be heralded by the music of it scattered abroad for
+the good of another.
+
+Now and then as he walked Stebbins removed his new straw hat, wiped his
+forehead with a stiff new handkerchief, looked with some concern at the
+grime left upon it, then felt anxiously of his short crop of grizzled
+hair. He would be glad when it grew only a little, for it was at present
+a telltale to observant eyes. Also now and then he took from another
+pocket a small mirror which he had just purchased, and scrutinized his
+face. Every time he did so he rubbed his cheeks violently, then viewed
+with satisfaction the hard glow which replaced the yellow prison pallor.
+Every now and then, too, he remembered to throw his shoulders back, hold
+his chin high, and swing out his right leg more freely. At such times
+he almost swaggered, he became fairly insolent with his new sense of
+freedom. He felt himself the equal if not the peer of all creation.
+Whenever a carriage or a motor-car passed him on the country road he
+assumed, with the skill of an actor, the air of a business man hastening
+to an important engagement. However, always his mind was working over a
+hard problem. He knew that his store of money was scanty, that it would
+not last long even with the strictest economy; he had no friends; a
+prison record is sure to leak out when a man seeks a job. He was facing
+the problem of bare existence.
+
+Although the day was so hot, it was late summer; soon would come the
+frost and the winter. He wished to live to enjoy his freedom, and all he
+had for assets was that freedom; which was paradoxical, for it did not
+signify the ability to obtain work, which was the power of life.
+Outside the stone wall of the prison he was now inclosed by a subtle,
+intangible, yet infinitely more unyielding one--the prejudice of his
+kind against the released prisoner. He was to all intents and purposes
+a prisoner still, for all his spurts of swagger and the youthful leap
+of his pulses, and while he did not admit that to himself, yet always,
+since he had the hard sense of the land of his birth--New England--he
+pondered that problem of existence. He felt instinctively that it
+would be a useless proceeding for him to approach any human being for
+employment. He knew that even the freedom, which he realized through all
+his senses like an essential perfume, could not yet overpower the reek
+of the prison. As he walked through the clogging dust he thought of one
+after another whom he had known before he had gone out of the world of
+free men and had bent his back under the hand of the law. There were, of
+course, people in his little native village, people who had been friends
+and neighbors, but there were none who had ever loved him sufficiently
+for him to conquer his resolve to never ask aid of them. He had no
+relatives except cousins more or less removed, and they would have
+nothing to do with him.
+
+There had been a woman whom he had meant to marry, and he had been sure
+that she would marry him; but after he had been a year in prison the
+news had come to him in a roundabout fashion that she had married
+another suitor. Even had she remained single he could not have
+approached her, least of all for aid. Then, too, through all his term
+she had made no sign, there had been no letter, no message; and he had
+received at first letters and flowers and messages from sentimental
+women. There had been nothing from her. He had accepted nothing, with
+the curious patience, carrying an odd pleasure with it, which had come
+to him when the prison door first closed upon him. He had not forgotten
+her, but he had not consciously mourned her. His loss, his ruin, had
+been so tremendous that she had been swallowed up in it. When one's
+whole system needs to be steeled to trouble and pain, single pricks lose
+importance. He thought of her that day without any sense of sadness.
+He imagined her in a pretty, well-ordered home with her husband and
+children. Perhaps she had grown stout. She had been a slender woman. He
+tried idly to imagine how she would look stout, then by the sequence
+of self-preservation the imagination of stoutness in another led to the
+problem of keeping the covering of flesh and fatness upon his own bones.
+The question now was not of the woman; she had passed out of his
+life. The question was of the keeping that life itself, the life which
+involved everything else, in a hard world, which would remorselessly as
+a steel trap grudge him life and snap upon him, now he was become its
+prey.
+
+He walked and walked, and it was high noon, and he was hungry. He had in
+his pocket a small loaf of bread and two frankfurters, and he heard the
+splashing ripple of a brook. At that juncture the road was bordered
+by thick woodland. He followed, pushing his way through the trees and
+undergrowth, the sound of the brook, and sat down in a cool, green
+solitude with a sigh of relief. He bent over the clear run, made a cup
+of his hand, and drank, then he fell to eating. Close beside him grew
+some wintergreen, and when he had finished his bread and frankfurters
+he began plucking the glossy, aromatic leaves and chewing them
+automatically. The savor reached his palate, and his memory awakened
+before it as before a pleasant tingling of a spur. As a boy how he
+had loved this little green low-growing plant! It had been one of the
+luxuries of his youth. Now, as he tasted it, joy and pathos stirred in
+his very soul. What a wonder youth had been, what a splendor, what an
+immensity to be rejoiced over and regretted! The man lounging beside the
+brook, chewing wintergreen leaves, seemed to realize antipodes. He
+lived for the moment in the past, and the immutable future, which might
+contain the past in the revolution of time. He smiled, and his face fell
+into boyish, almost childish, contours. He plucked another glossy leaf
+with his hard, veinous old hands. His hands would not change to suit his
+mood, but his limbs relaxed like those of a boy. He stared at the brook
+gurgling past in brown ripples, shot with dim prismatic lights, showing
+here clear green water lines, here inky depths, and he thought of the
+possibility of trout. He wished for fishing-tackle.
+
+Then suddenly out of a mass of green looked two girls, with wide,
+startled eyes, and rounded mouths of terror which gave vent to screams.
+There was a scuttling, then silence. The man wondered why the girls were
+so silly, why they ran. He did not dream of the possibility of their
+terror of him. He ate another wintergreen leaf, and thought of the woman
+he had expected to marry when he was arrested and imprisoned. She did
+not go back to his childish memories. He had met her when first youth
+had passed, and yet, somehow, the savor of the wintergreen leaves
+brought her face before him. It is strange how the excitement of one
+sense will sometimes act as stimulant for the awakening of another. Now
+the sense of taste brought into full activity that of sight. He saw the
+woman just as she had looked when he had last seen her. She had not
+been pretty, but she was exceedingly dainty, and possessed of a certain
+elegance of carriage which attracted. He saw quite distinctly her small,
+irregular face and the satin-smooth coils of dark hair around her head;
+he saw her slender, dusky hands with the well-cared-for nails and the
+too prominent veins; he saw the gleam of the diamond which he had given
+her. She had sent it to him just after his arrest, and he had returned
+it. He wondered idly whether she still owned it and wore it, and what
+her husband thought of it. He speculated childishly-somehow imprisonment
+had encouraged the return of childish speculations--as to whether the
+woman's husband had given her a larger and costlier diamond than his,
+and he felt a pang of jealousy. He refused to see another diamond than
+his own upon that slender, dark hand. He saw her in a black silk gown
+which had been her best. There had been some red about it, and a glitter
+of jet. He had thought it a magnificent gown, and the woman in it like
+a princess. He could see her leaning back, in her long slim grace, in a
+corner of a sofa, and the soft dark folds starry with jet sweeping over
+her knees and just allowing a glimpse of one little foot. Her feet had
+been charming, very small and highly arched. Then he remembered that
+that evening they had been to a concert in the town hall, and that
+afterward they had partaken of an oyster stew in a little restaurant.
+Then back his mind traveled to the problem of his own existence, his
+food and shelter and clothes. He dismissed the woman from his thought.
+He was concerned now with the primal conditions of life itself. How was
+he to eat when his little stock of money was gone? He sat staring at the
+brook; he chewed wintergreen leaves no longer. Instead he drew from
+his pocket an old pipe and a paper of tobacco. He filled his pipe with
+care--tobacco was precious; then he began to smoke, but his face now
+looked old and brooding through the rank blue vapor. Winter was coming,
+and he had not a shelter. He had not money enough to keep him long from
+starvation. He knew not how to obtain employment. He thought vaguely of
+wood-piles, of cutting winter fuel for people. His mind traveled in a
+trite strain of reasoning. Somehow wood-piles seemed the only available
+tasks for men of his sort.
+
+Presently he finished his filled pipe, and arose with an air of
+decision. He went at a brisk pace out of the wood and was upon the road
+again. He progressed like a man with definite business in view until he
+reached a house. It was a large white farm-house with many outbuildings.
+It looked most promising. He approached the side door, and a dog sprang
+from around a corner and barked, but he spoke, and the dog's tail became
+eloquent. He was patting the dog, when the door opened and a man stood
+looking at him. Immediately the taint of the prison became evident. He
+had not cringed before the dog, but he did cringe before the man who
+lived in that fine white house, and who had never known what it was to
+be deprived of liberty. He hung his head, he mumbled. The house-owner,
+who was older than he, was slightly deaf. He looked him over curtly.
+The end of it was he was ordered off the premises, and went; but the dog
+trailed, wagging at his heels, and had to be roughly called back. The
+thought of the dog comforted Stebbins as he went on his way. He had
+always liked animals. It was something, now he was past a hand-shake, to
+have the friendly wag of a dog's tail.
+
+The next house was an ornate little cottage with bay-windows, through
+which could be seen the flower patterns of lace draperies; the Virginia
+creeper which grew over the house walls was turning crimson in places.
+Stebbins went around to the back door and knocked, but nobody came. He
+waited a long time, for he had spied a great pile of uncut wood. Finally
+he slunk around to the front door. As he went he suddenly reflected upon
+his state of mind in days gone by; if he could have known that the time
+would come when he, Joseph Stebbins, would feel culpable at approaching
+any front door! He touched the electric bell and stood close to the
+door, so that he might not be discovered from the windows. Presently the
+door opened the length of a chain, and a fair girlish head appeared.
+She was one of the girls who had been terrified by him in the woods, but
+that he did not know. Now again her eyes dilated and her pretty mouth
+rounded! She gave a little cry and slammed the door in his face, and he
+heard excited voices. Then he saw two pale, pretty faces, the faces of
+the two girls who had come upon him in the wood, peering at him around
+a corner of the lace in the bay-window, and he understood what it
+meant--that he was an object of terror to them. Directly he experienced
+such a sense of mortal insult as he had never known, not even when the
+law had taken hold of him. He held his head high and went away, his very
+soul boiling with a sort of shamed rage. "Those two girls are afraid of
+me," he kept saying to himself. His knees shook with the horror of it.
+This terror of him seemed the hardest thing to bear in a hard life.
+He returned to his green nook beside the brook and sat down again. He
+thought for the moment no more of woodpiles, of his life. He thought
+about those two young girls who had been afraid of him. He had never
+had an impulse to harm any living thing. A curious hatred toward these
+living things who had accused him of such an impulse came over him. He
+laughed sardonically. He wished that they would again come and peer
+at him through the bushes; he would make a threatening motion for the
+pleasure of seeing the silly things scuttle away.
+
+After a while he put it all out of mind, and again returned to his
+problem. He lay beside the brook and pondered, and finally fell asleep
+in the hot air, which increased in venom, until the rattle of
+thunder awoke him. It was very dark--a strange, livid darkness.
+"A thunder-storm," he muttered, and then he thought of his new
+clothes--what a misfortune it would be to have them soaked. He arose and
+pushed through the thicket around him into a cart path, and it was then
+that he saw the thing which proved to be the stepping-stone toward his
+humble fortunes. It was only a small silk umbrella with a handle tipped
+with pearl. He seized upon it with joy, for it meant the salvation of
+his precious clothes. He opened it and held it over his head, although
+the rain had not yet begun. One rib of the umbrella was broken, but it
+was still serviceable. He hastened along the cart path; he did not know
+why, only the need for motion, to reach protection from the storm, was
+upon him; and yet what protection could be ahead of him in that woodland
+path? Afterward he grew to think of it as a blind instinct which led him
+on.
+
+He had not gone far, not more than half a mile, when he saw something
+unexpected--a small untenanted house. He gave vent to a little cry of
+joy, which had in it something child-like and pathetic, and pushed open
+the door and entered. It was nothing but a tiny, unfinished shack, with
+one room and a small one opening from it. There was no ceiling; overhead
+was the tent-like slant of the roof, but it was tight. The dusty floor
+was quite dry. There was one rickety chair. Stebbins, after looking into
+the other room to make sure that the place was empty, sat down, and a
+wonderful wave of content and self-respect came over him. The poor human
+snail had found his shell; he had a habitation, a roof of shelter. The
+little dim place immediately assumed an aspect of home. The rain
+came down in torrents, the thunder crashed, the place was filled with
+blinding blue lights. Stebbins filled his pipe more lavishly this time,
+tilted his chair against the wall, smoked, and gazed about him with
+pitiful content. It was really so little, but to him it was so much.
+He nodded with satisfaction at the discovery of a fireplace and a rusty
+cooking-stove.
+
+He sat and smoked until the storm passed over. The rainfall had been
+very heavy, there had been hail, but the poor little house had not
+failed of perfect shelter. A fairly cold wind from the northwest blew
+through the door. The hail had brought about a change of atmosphere. The
+burning heat was gone. The night would be cool, even chilly.
+
+Stebbins got up and examined the stove and the pipe. They were rusty,
+but appeared trustworthy. He went out and presently returned with some
+fuel which he had found unwet in a thick growth of wood. He laid a
+fire handily and lit it. The little stove burned well, with no smoke.
+Stebbins looked at it, and was perfectly happy. He had found other
+treasures outside--a small vegetable-garden in which were potatoes and
+some corn. A man had squatted in this little shack for years, and had
+raised his own garden-truck. He had died only a few weeks ago, and
+his furniture had been pre-empted with the exception of the stove, the
+chair, a tilting lounge in the small room, and a few old iron pots and
+fryingpans. Stebbins gathered corn, dug potatoes, and put them on the
+stove to cook, then he hurried out to the village store and bought a few
+slices of bacon, half a dozen eggs, a quarter of a pound of cheap tea,
+and some salt. When he re-entered the house he looked as he had not for
+years. He was beaming. "Come, this is a palace," he said to himself,
+and chuckled with pure joy. He had come out of the awful empty spaces of
+homeless life into home. He was a man who had naturally strong domestic
+instincts. If he had spent the best years of his life in a home instead
+of a prison, the finest in him would have been developed. As it was,
+this was not even now too late. When he had cooked his bacon and eggs
+and brewed his tea, when the vegetables were done and he was seated upon
+the rickety chair, with his supper spread before him on an old board
+propped on sticks, he was supremely happy. He ate with a relish which
+seemed to reach his soul. He was at home, and eating, literally, at his
+own board. As he ate he glanced from time to time at the two windows,
+with broken panes of glass and curtainless. He was not afraid--that
+was nonsense; he had never been a cowardly man, but he felt the need of
+curtains or something before his windows to shut out the broad vast face
+of nature, or perhaps prying human eyes. Somebody might espy the light
+in the house and wonder. He had a candle stuck in an old bottle by
+way of illumination. Still, although he would have preferred to have
+curtains before those windows full of the blank stare of night, he WAS
+supremely happy.
+
+After he had finished his supper he looked longingly at his pipe. He
+hesitated for a second, for he realized the necessity of saving his
+precious tobacco; then he became reckless: such enormous good fortune
+as a home must mean more to follow; it must be the first of a series of
+happy things. He filled his pipe and smoked. Then he went to bed on the
+old couch in the other room, and slept like a child until the sun shone
+through the trees in flickering lines. Then he rose, went out to the
+brook which ran near the house, splashed himself with water, returned
+to the house, cooked the remnant of the eggs and bacon, and ate his
+breakfast with the same exultant peace with which he had eaten his
+supper the night before. Then he sat down in the doorway upon the sunken
+sill and fell again to considering his main problem. He did not smoke.
+His tobacco was nearly exhausted and he was no longer reckless. His head
+was not turned now by the feeling that he was at home. He considered
+soberly as to the probable owner of the house and whether he would be
+allowed to remain its tenant. Very soon, however, his doubt concerning
+that was set at rest. He saw a disturbance of the shadows cast by the
+thick boughs over the cart path by a long outreach of darker shadow
+which he knew at once for that of a man. He sat upright, and his face
+at first assumed a defiant, then a pleading expression, like that of
+a child who desires to retain possession of some dear thing. His heart
+beat hard as he watched the advance of the shadow. It was slow, as
+if cast by an old man. The man was old and very stout, supporting
+one lopping side by a stick, who presently followed the herald of his
+shadow. He looked like a farmer. Stebbins rose as he approached; the two
+men stood staring at each other.
+
+"Who be you, neighbor?" inquired the newcomer.
+
+The voice essayed a roughness, but only achieved a tentative
+friendliness. Stebbins hesitated for a second; a suspicious look came
+into the farmer's misty blue eyes. Then Stebbins, mindful of his prison
+record and fiercely covetous of his new home, gave another name. The
+name of his maternal grandfather seemed suddenly to loom up in printed
+characters before his eyes, and he gave it glibly. "David Anderson," he
+said, and he did not realize a lie. Suddenly the name seemed his own.
+Surely old David Anderson, who had been a good man, would not grudge the
+gift of his unstained name to replace the stained one of his grandson.
+"David Anderson," he replied, and looked the other man in the face
+unflinchingly.
+
+"Where do ye hail from?" inquired the farmer; and the new David Anderson
+gave unhesitatingly the name of the old David Anderson's birth and life
+and death place--that of a little village in New Hampshire.
+
+"What do you do for your living?" was the next question, and the new
+David Anderson had an inspiration. His eyes had lit upon the umbrella
+which he had found the night before.
+
+"Umbrellas," he replied, laconically, and the other man nodded. Men
+with sheaves of umbrellas, mended or in need of mending, had always been
+familiar features for him.
+
+Then David assumed the initiative; possessed of an honorable business
+as well as home, he grew bold. "Any objection to my staying here?" he
+asked.
+
+The other man eyed him sharply. "Smoke much?" he inquired.
+
+"Smoke a pipe sometimes."
+
+"Careful with your matches?"
+
+David nodded.
+
+"That's all I think about," said the farmer. "These woods is apt to
+catch fire jest when I'm about ready to cut. The man that squatted here
+before--he died about a month ago--didn't smoke. He was careful, he
+was."
+
+"I'll be real careful," said David, humbly and anxiously.
+
+"I dun'no' as I have any objections to your staying, then," said the
+farmer. "Somebody has always squat here. A man built this shack about
+twenty year ago, and he lived here till he died. Then t'other feller
+he came along. Reckon he must have had a little money; didn't work at
+nothin'! Raised some garden-truck and kept a few chickens. I took them
+home after he died. You can have them now if you want to take care of
+them. He rigged up that little chicken-coop back there."
+
+"I'll take care of them," answered David, fervently.
+
+"Well, you can come over by and by and get 'em. There's nine hens and a
+rooster. They lay pretty well. I ain't no use for 'em. I've got all the
+hens of my own I want to bother with."
+
+"All right," said David. He looked blissful.
+
+The farmer stared past him into the house. He spied the solitary
+umbrella. He grew facetious. "Guess the umbrellas was all mended up
+where you come from if you've got down to one," said he.
+
+David nodded. It was tragically true, that guess.
+
+"Well, our umbrella got turned last week," said the farmer. "I'll give
+you a job to start on. You can stay here as long as you want if you're
+careful about your matches." Again he looked into the house. "Guess
+some boys have been helpin' themselves to the furniture, most of it," he
+observed. "Guess my wife can spare ye another chair, and there's an old
+table out in the corn-house better than that one you've rigged up, and I
+guess she'll give ye some old bedding so you can be comfortable.
+
+"Got any money?"
+
+"A little."
+
+"I don't want any pay for things, and my wife won't; didn't mean that;
+was wonderin' whether ye had anything to buy vittles with."
+
+"Reckon I can manage till I get some work," replied David, a trifle
+stiffly. He was a man who had never lived at another than the state's
+expense.
+
+"Don't want ye to be too short, that's all," said the other, a little
+apologetically.
+
+"I shall be all right. There are corn and potatoes in the garden,
+anyway."
+
+"So there be, and one of them hens had better be eat. She don't lay.
+She'll need a good deal of b'ilin'. You can have all the wood you want
+to pick up, but I don't want any cut. You mind that or there'll be
+trouble."
+
+"I won't cut a stick."
+
+"Mind ye don't. Folks call me an easy mark, and I guess myself I am easy
+up to a certain point, and cuttin' my wood is one of them points. Roof
+didn't leak in that shower last night, did it?"
+
+"Not a bit."
+
+"Didn't s'pose it would. The other feller was handy, and he kept
+tinkerin' all the time. Well, I'll be goin'; you can stay here and
+welcome if you're careful about matches and don't cut my wood. Come over
+for them hens any time you want to. I'll let my hired man drive you back
+in the wagon."
+
+"Much obliged," said David, with an inflection that was almost tearful.
+
+"You're welcome," said the other, and ambled away.
+
+The new David Anderson, the good old grandfather revived in his
+unfortunate, perhaps graceless grandson, reseated himself on the
+door-step and watched the bulky, receding figure of his visitor through
+a pleasant blur of tears, which made the broad, rounded shoulders
+and the halting columns of legs dance. This David Anderson had almost
+forgotten that there was unpaid kindness in the whole world, and it
+seemed to him as if he had seen angels walking up and down. He sat for a
+while doing nothing except realizing happiness of the present and of
+the future. He gazed at the green spread of forest boughs, and saw in
+pleased anticipation their red and gold tints of autumn; also in pleased
+anticipation their snowy and icy mail of winter, and himself, the
+unmailed, defenseless human creature, housed and sheltered, sitting
+before his own fire. This last happy outlook aroused him. If all this
+was to be, he must be up and doing. He got up, entered the house, and
+examined the broken umbrella which was his sole stock in trade. David
+was a handy man. He at once knew that he was capable of putting it in
+perfect repair. Strangely enough, for his sense of right and wrong was
+not blunted, he had no compunction whatever in keeping this umbrella,
+although he was reasonably certain that it belonged to one of the two
+young girls who had been so terrified by him. He had a conviction that
+this monstrous terror of theirs, which had hurt him more than many
+apparently crueler things, made them quits.
+
+After he had washed his dishes in the brook, and left them in the sun
+to dry, he went to the village store and purchased a few simple things
+necessary for umbrella-mending. Both on his way to the store and back he
+kept his eyes open. He realized that his capital depended largely upon
+chance and good luck. He considered that he had extraordinary good
+luck when he returned with three more umbrellas. He had discovered one
+propped against the counter of the store, turned inside out. He had
+inquired to whom it belonged, and had been answered to anybody who
+wanted it. David had seized upon it with secret glee. Then, unheard-of
+good fortune, he had found two more umbrellas on his way home; one was
+in an ash-can, the other blowing along like a belated bat beside the
+trolley track. It began to seem to David as if the earth might be
+strewn with abandoned umbrellas. Before he began his work he went to
+the farmer's and returned in triumph, driven in the farm-wagon, with
+his cackling hens and quite a load of household furniture, besides some
+bread and pies. The farmer's wife was one of those who are able to give,
+and make receiving greater than giving. She had looked at David, who
+was older than she, with the eyes of a mother, and his pride had melted
+away, and he had held out his hands for her benefits, like a child who
+has no compunctions about receiving gifts because he knows that they are
+his right of childhood.
+
+Henceforth David prospered--in a humble way, it is true, still he
+prospered. He journeyed about the country, umbrellas over his shoulder,
+little bag of tools in hand, and reaped an income more than sufficient
+for his simple wants. His hair had grown, and also his beard. Nobody
+suspected his history. He met the young girls whom he had terrified
+on the road often, and they did not know him. He did not, during the
+winter, travel very far afield. Night always found him at home, warm,
+well fed, content, and at peace. Sometimes the old farmer on whose land
+he lived dropped in of an evening and they had a game of checkers. The
+old man was a checker expert. He played with unusual skill, but David
+made for himself a little code of honor. He would never beat the old
+man, even if he were able, oftener than once out of three evenings. He
+made coffee on these convivial occasions. He made very good coffee, and
+they sipped as they moved the men and kings, and the old man chuckled,
+and David beamed with peaceful happiness.
+
+But the next spring, when he began to realize that he had mended for a
+while all the umbrellas in the vicinity and that his trade was flagging,
+he set his precious little home in order, barricaded door and windows,
+and set forth for farther fields. He was lucky, as he had been from the
+start. He found plenty of employment, and slept comfortably enough in
+barns, and now and then in the open. He had traveled by slow stages for
+several weeks before he entered a village whose familiar look gave him
+a shock. It was not his native village, but near it. In his younger life
+he had often journeyed there. It was a little shopping emporium, almost
+a city. He recognized building after building. Now and then he thought
+he saw a face which he had once known, and he was thankful that there
+was hardly any possibility of any one recognizing him. He had grown
+gaunt and thin since those far-off days; he wore a beard, grizzled, as
+was his hair. In those days he had not been an umbrella man. Sometimes
+the humor of the situation struck him. What would he have said, he the
+spruce, plump, head-in-the-air young man, if anybody had told him that
+it would come to pass that he would be an umbrella man lurking humbly in
+search of a job around the back doors of houses? He would laugh softly
+to himself as he trudged along, and the laugh would be without the
+slightest bitterness. His lot had been so infinitely worse, and he had
+such a happy nature, yielding sweetly to the inevitable, that he saw now
+only cause for amusement.
+
+He had been in that vicinity about three weeks when one day he met the
+woman. He knew her at once, although she was greatly changed. She had
+grown stout, although, poor soul! it seemed as if there had been no
+reason for it. She was not unwieldy, but she was stout, and all the
+contours of earlier life had disappeared beneath layers of flesh. Her
+hair was not gray, but the bright brown had faded, and she wore it
+tightly strained back from her seamed forehead, although it was thin.
+One had only to look at her hair to realize that she was a woman who
+had given up, who no longer cared. She was humbly clad in a blue-cotton
+wrapper, she wore a dingy black hat, and she carried a tin pail half
+full of raspberries. When the man and woman met they stopped with a sort
+of shock, and each changed face grew like the other in its pallor. She
+recognized him and he her, but along with that recognition was awakened
+a fierce desire to keep it secret. His prison record loomed up before
+the man, the woman's past loomed up before her. She had possibly not
+been guilty of much, but her life was nothing to waken pride in her.
+She felt shamed before this man whom she had loved, and who felt shamed
+before her. However, after a second the silence was broken. The man
+recovered his self-possession first.
+
+He spoke casually.
+
+"Nice day," said he.
+
+The woman nodded.
+
+"Been berrying?" inquired David. The woman nodded again.
+
+David looked scrutinizingly at her pail. "I saw better berries real
+thick a piece back," said he.
+
+The woman murmured something. In spite of herself, a tear trickled over
+her fat, weather-beaten cheek. David saw the tear, and something warm
+and glorious like sunlight seemed to waken within him. He felt such
+tenderness and pity for this poor feminine thing who had not the
+strength to keep the tears back, and was so pitiably shorn of youth and
+grace, that he himself expanded. He had heard in the town something of
+her history. She had made a dreadful marriage, tragedy and suspicion had
+entered her life, and the direst poverty. However, he had not known that
+she was in the vicinity. Somebody had told him she was out West.
+
+"Living here?" he inquired.
+
+"Working for my board at a house back there," she muttered. She did not
+tell him that she had come as a female "hobo" in a freight-car from the
+Western town where she had been finally stranded. "Mrs. White sent me
+out for berries," she added. "She keeps boarders, and there were no
+berries in the market this morning."
+
+"Come back with me and I will show you where I saw the berries real
+thick," said David.
+
+He turned himself about, and she followed a little behind, the female
+failure in the dust cast by the male. Neither spoke until David stopped
+and pointed to some bushes where the fruit hung thick on bending,
+slender branches.
+
+"Here," said David. Both fell to work. David picked handfuls of berries
+and cast them gaily into the pail. "What is your name?" he asked, in an
+undertone.
+
+"Jane Waters," she replied, readily. Her husband's name had been Waters,
+or the man who had called himself her husband, and her own middle name
+was Jane. The first was Sara. David remembered at once. "She is taking
+her own middle name and the name of the man she married," he thought.
+Then he asked, plucking berries, with his eyes averted:
+
+"Married?"
+
+"No," said the woman, flushing deeply.
+
+David's next question betrayed him. "Husband dead?"
+
+"I haven't any husband," she replied, like the Samaritan woman.
+
+She had married a man already provided with another wife, although
+she had not known it. The man was not dead, but she spoke the entire
+miserable truth when she replied as she did. David assumed that he was
+dead. He felt a throb of relief, of which he was ashamed, but he
+could not down it. He did not know what it was that was so alive and
+triumphant within him: love, or pity, or the natural instinct of the
+decent male to shelter and protect. Whatever it was, it was dominant.
+
+"Do you have to work hard?" he asked.
+
+"Pretty hard, I guess. I expect to."
+
+"And you don't get any pay?"
+
+"That's all right; I don't expect to get any," said she, and there was
+bitterness in her voice.
+
+In spite of her stoutness she was not as strong as the man. She was not
+at all strong, and, moreover, the constant presence of a sense of injury
+at the hands of life filled her very soul with a subtle poison, to her
+weakening vitality. She was a child hurt and worried and bewildered,
+although she was to the average eye a stout, able-bodied, middle-aged
+woman; but David had not the average eye, and he saw her as she really
+was, not as she seemed. There had always been about her a little
+weakness and dependency which had appealed to him. Now they seemed
+fairly to cry out to him like the despairing voices of the children whom
+he had never had, and he knew he loved her as he had never loved her
+before, with a love which had budded and flowered and fruited and
+survived absence and starvation. He spoke abruptly.
+
+"I've about got my business done in these parts," said he. "I've got
+quite a little money, and I've got a little house, not much, but mighty
+snug, back where I come from. There's a garden. It's in the woods. Not
+much passing nor going on."
+
+The woman was looking at him with incredulous, pitiful eyes like a
+dog's. "I hate much goin' on," she whispered.
+
+"Suppose," said David, "you take those berries home and pack up your
+things. Got much?"
+
+"All I've got will go in my bag."
+
+"Well, pack up; tell the madam where you live that you're sorry, but
+you're worn out--"
+
+"God knows I am," cried the woman, with sudden force, "worn out!"
+
+"Well, you tell her that, and say you've got another chance, and--"
+
+"What do you mean?" cried the woman, and she hung upon his words like a
+drowning thing.
+
+"Mean? Why, what I mean is this. You pack your bag and come to the
+parson's back there, that white house."
+
+"I know--"
+
+"In the mean time I'll see about getting a license, and--"
+
+Suddenly the woman set her pail down and clutched him by both hands.
+"Say you are not married," she demanded; "say it, swear it!"
+
+"Yes, I do swear it," said David. "You are the only woman I ever asked
+to marry me. I can support you. We sha'n't be rolling in riches, but we
+can be comfortable, and--I rather guess I can make you happy."
+
+"You didn't say what your name was," said the woman.
+
+"David Anderson."
+
+The woman looked at him with a strange expression, the expression of
+one who loves and respects, even reveres, the isolation and secrecy
+of another soul. She understood, down to the depths of her being she
+understood. She had lived a hard life, she had her faults, but she was
+fine enough to comprehend and hold sacred another personality. She was
+very pale, but she smiled. Then she turned to go.
+
+"How long will it take you?" asked David.
+
+"About an hour."
+
+"All right. I will meet you in front of the parson's house in an hour.
+We will go back by train. I have money enough."
+
+"I'd just as soon walk." The woman spoke with the utmost humility of
+love and trust. She had not even asked where the man lived. All her life
+she had followed him with her soul, and it would go hard if her poor
+feet could not keep pace with her soul.
+
+"No, it is too far; we will take the train. One goes at half past four."
+
+At half past four the couple, made man and wife, were on the train
+speeding toward the little home in the woods. The woman had frizzled her
+thin hair pathetically and ridiculously over her temples; on her left
+hand gleamed a white diamond. She had kept it hidden; she had almost
+starved rather than part with it. She gazed out of the window at the
+flying landscape, and her thin lips were curved in a charming smile. The
+man sat beside her, staring straight ahead as if at happy visions.
+
+They lived together afterward in the little house in the woods, and were
+happy with a strange crystallized happiness at which they would have
+mocked in their youth, but which they now recognized as the essential of
+all happiness upon earth. And always the woman knew what she knew about
+her husband, and the man knew about his wife, and each recognized the
+other as old lover and sweetheart come together at last, but always
+each kept the knowledge from the other with an infinite tenderness
+of delicacy which was as a perfumed garment veiling the innermost
+sacredness of love.
+
+
+
+
+THE BALKING OF CHRISTOPHER
+
+THE spring was early that year. It was only the last of March, but the
+trees were filmed with green and paling with promise of bloom; the front
+yards were showing new grass pricking through the old. It was high
+time to plow the south field and the garden, but Christopher sat in his
+rocking-chair beside the kitchen window and gazed out, and did absolutely
+nothing about it.
+
+Myrtle Dodd, Christopher's wife, washed the breakfast dishes, and later
+kneaded the bread, all the time glancing furtively at her husband. She
+had a most old-fashioned deference with regard to Christopher. She was
+always a little afraid of him. Sometimes Christopher's mother, Mrs.
+Cyrus Dodd, and his sister Abby, who had never married, reproached her
+for this attitude of mind. "You are entirely too much cowed down by
+Christopher," Mrs. Dodd said.
+
+"I would never be under the thumb of any man," Abby said.
+
+"Have you ever seen Christopher in one of his spells?" Myrtle would ask.
+
+Then Mrs. Cyrus Dodd and Abby would look at each other. "It is all your
+fault, mother," Abby would say. "You really ought not to have allowed
+your son to have his own head so much."
+
+"You know perfectly well, Abby, what I had to contend against," replied
+Mrs. Dodd, and Abby became speechless. Cyrus Dodd, now deceased some
+twenty years, had never during his whole life yielded to anything but
+birth and death. Before those two primary facts even his terrible will
+was powerless. He had come into the world without his consent being
+obtained; he had passed in like manner from it. But during his life
+he had ruled, a petty monarch, but a most thorough one. He had spoiled
+Christopher, and his wife, although a woman of high spirit, knew of no
+appealing.
+
+"I could never go against your father, you know that," said Mrs. Dodd,
+following up her advantage.
+
+"Then," said Abby, "you ought to have warned poor Myrtle. It was a shame
+to let her marry a man as spoiled as Christopher."
+
+"I would have married him, anyway," declared Myrtle with sudden
+defiance; and her mother-inlaw regarded her approvingly.
+
+"There are worse men than Christopher, and Myrtle knows it," said she.
+
+"Yes, I do, mother," agreed Myrtle. "Christopher hasn't one bad habit."
+
+"I don't know what you call a bad habit," retorted Abby. "I call having
+your own way in spite of the world, the flesh, and the devil rather a
+bad habit. Christopher tramples on everything in his path, and he always
+has. He tramples on poor Myrtle."
+
+At that Myrtle laughed. "I don't think I look trampled on," said she;
+and she certainly did not. Pink and white and plump was Myrtle, although
+she had, to a discerning eye, an expression which denoted extreme
+nervousness.
+
+This morning of spring, when her husband sat doing nothing, she wore
+this nervous expression. Her blue eyes looked dark and keen; her
+forehead was wrinkled; her rosy mouth was set. Myrtle and Christopher
+were not young people; they were a little past middle age, still far
+from old in look or ability.
+
+Myrtle had kneaded the bread to rise for the last time before it was put
+into the oven, and had put on the meat to boil for dinner, before she
+dared address that silent figure which had about it something tragic.
+Then she spoke in a small voice. "Christopher," said she.
+
+Christopher made no reply.
+
+"It is a good morning to plow, ain't it?" said Myrtle.
+
+Christopher was silent.
+
+"Jim Mason got over real early; I suppose he thought you'd want to get
+at the south field. He's been sitting there at the barn door for 'most
+two hours."
+
+Then Christopher rose. Myrtle's anxious face lightened. But to her
+wonder her husband went into the front entry and got his best hat. "He
+ain't going to wear his best hat to plow," thought Myrtle. For an awful
+moment it occurred to her that something had suddenly gone wrong with
+her husband's mind. Christopher brushed the hat carefully, adjusted it
+at the little looking-glass in the kitchen, and went out.
+
+"Be you going to plow the south field?" Myrtle said, faintly.
+
+"No, I ain't."
+
+"Will you be back to dinner?"
+
+"I don't know--you needn't worry if I'm not." Suddenly Christopher did
+an unusual thing for him. He and Myrtle had lived together for years,
+and outward manifestations of affection were rare between them. He put
+his arm around her and kissed her.
+
+After he had gone, Myrtle watched him out of sight down the road; then
+she sat down and wept. Jim Mason came slouching around from his station
+at the barn door. He surveyed Myrtle uneasily.
+
+"Mr. Dodd sick?" said he at length.
+
+"Not that I know of," said Myrtle, in a weak quaver. She rose and,
+keeping her tear-stained face aloof, lifted the lid off the kettle on
+the stove.
+
+"D'ye know am he going to plow to-day?"
+
+"He said he wasn't."
+
+Jim grunted, shifted his quid, and slouched out of the yard.
+
+Meantime Christopher Dodd went straight down the road to the minister's,
+the Rev. Stephen Wheaton. When he came to the south field, which he was
+neglecting, he glanced at it turning emerald upon the gentle slopes. He
+set his face harder. Christopher Dodd's face was in any case hard-set.
+Now it was tragic, to be pitied, but warily, lest it turn fiercely upon
+the one who pitied. Christopher was a handsome man, and his face had an
+almost classic turn of feature. His forehead was noble; his eyes full of
+keen light. He was only a farmer, but in spite of his rude clothing he
+had the face of a man who followed one of the professions. He was in
+sore trouble of spirit, and he was going to consult the minister and ask
+him for advice. Christopher had never done this before. He had a sort
+of incredulity now that he was about to do it. He had always associated
+that sort of thing with womankind, and not with men like himself.
+And, moreover, Stephen Wheaton was a younger man than himself. He was
+unmarried, and had only been settled in the village for about a year.
+"He can't think I'm coming to set my cap at him, anyway," Christopher
+reflected, with a sort of grim humor, as he drew near the parsonage. The
+minister was haunted by marriageable ladies of the village.
+
+"Guess you are glad to see a man coming, instead of a woman who has
+doubts about some doctrine," was the first thing Christopher said to the
+minister when he had been admitted to his study. The study was a small
+room, lined with books, and only one picture hung over the fireplace,
+the portrait of the minister's mother--Stephen was so like her that a
+question concerning it was futile.
+
+Stephen colored a little angrily at Christopher's remark--he was a
+hot-tempered man, although a clergyman; then he asked him to be seated.
+
+Christopher sat down opposite the minister. "I oughtn't to have spoken
+so," he apologized, "but what I am doing ain't like me."
+
+"That's all right," said Stephen. He was a short, athletic man, with an
+extraordinary width of shoulders and a strong-featured and ugly face,
+still indicative of goodness and a strange power of sympathy. Three
+little mongrel dogs were sprawled about the study. One, small and alert,
+came and rested his head on Christopher's knee. Animals all liked him.
+Christopher mechanically patted him. Patting an appealing animal was as
+unconscious with the man as drawing his breath. But he did not even look
+at the little dog while he stroked it after the fashion which pleased it
+best. He kept his large, keen, melancholy eyes fixed upon the minister;
+at length he spoke. He did not speak with as much eagerness as he did
+with force, bringing the whole power of his soul into his words, which
+were the words of a man in rebellion against the greatest odds on earth
+and in all creation--the odds of fate itself.
+
+"I have come to say a good deal, Mr. Wheaton," he began.
+
+"Then say it, Mr. Dodd," replied Stephen, without a smile.
+
+Christopher spoke. "I am going back to the very beginning of things,"
+said he, "and maybe you will think it blasphemy, but I don't mean it for
+that. I mean it for the truth, and the truth which is too much for my
+comprehension."
+
+"I have heard men swear when it did not seem blasphemy to me," said
+Stephen.
+
+"Thank the Lord, you ain't so deep in your rut you can't see the stars!"
+said Christopher. "But I guess you see them in a pretty black sky
+sometimes. In the beginning, why did I have to come into the world
+without any choice?"
+
+"You must not ask a question of me which can only be answered by the
+Lord," said Stephen.
+
+"I am asking the Lord," said Christopher, with his sad, forceful voice.
+"I am asking the Lord, and I ask why?"
+
+"You have no right to expect your question to be answered in your time,"
+said Stephen.
+
+"But here am I," said Christopher, "and I was a question to the Lord
+from the first, and fifty years and more I have been on the earth."
+
+"Fifty years and more are nothing for the answer to such a question,"
+said Stephen.
+
+Christopher looked at him with mournful dissent; there was no anger
+about him. "There was time before time," said he, "before the fifty
+years and more began. I don't mean to blaspheme, Mr. Wheaton, but it is
+the truth. I came into the world whether I would or not; I was forced,
+and then I was told I was a free agent. I am no free agent. For fifty
+years and more I have thought about it, and I have found out that, at
+least. I am a slave--a slave of life."
+
+"For that matter," said Stephen, looking curiously at him, "so am I. So
+are we all."
+
+"That makes it worse," agreed Christopher--"a whole world of slaves. I
+know I ain't talking in exactly what you might call an orthodox strain.
+I have got to a point when it seems to me I shall go mad if I don't talk
+to somebody. I know there is that awful why, and you can't answer it;
+and no man living can. I'm willing to admit that sometime, in another
+world, that why will get an answer, but meantime it's an awful thing to
+live in this world without it if a man has had the kind of life I have.
+My life has been harder for me than a harder life might be for another
+man who was different. That much I know. There is one thing I've got
+to be thankful for. I haven't been the means of sending any more slaves
+into this world. I am glad my wife and I haven't any children to ask
+'why?'
+
+"Now, I've begun at the beginning; I'm going on. I have never had
+what men call luck. My folks were poor; father and mother were good,
+hardworking people, but they had nothing but trouble, sickness, and
+death, and losses by fire and flood. We lived near the river, and one
+spring our house went, and every stick we owned, and much as ever we
+all got out alive. Then lightning struck father's new house, and the
+insurance company had failed, and we never got a dollar of insurance.
+Then my oldest brother died, just when he was getting started in
+business, and his widow and two little children came on father to
+support. Then father got rheumatism, and was all twisted, and wasn't
+good for much afterward; and my sister Sarah, who had been expecting to
+get married, had to give it up and take in sewing and stay at home and
+take care of the rest. There was father and George's widow--she was
+never good for much at work--and mother and Abby. She was my youngest
+sister. As for me, I had a liking for books and wanted to get an
+education; might just as well have wanted to get a seat on a throne. I
+went to work in the grist-mill of the place where we used to live when I
+was only a boy. Then, before I was twenty, I saw that Sarah wasn't going
+to hold out. She had grieved a good deal, poor thing, and worked too
+hard, so we sold out and came here and bought my farm, with the mortgage
+hitching it, and I went to work for dear life. Then Sarah died, and then
+father. Along about then there was a girl I wanted to marry, but, Lord,
+how could I even ask her? My farm started in as a failure, and it has
+kept it up ever since. When there wasn't a drought there was so much
+rain everything mildewed; there was a hail-storm that cut everything to
+pieces, and there was the caterpillar year. I just managed to pay the
+interest on the mortgage; as for paying the principal, I might as well
+have tried to pay the national debt.
+
+"Well, to go back to that girl. She is married and don't live here, and
+you ain't like ever to see her, but she was a beauty and something more.
+I don't suppose she ever looked twice at me, but losing what you've
+never had sometimes is worse than losing everything you've got. When she
+got married I guess I knew a little about what the martyrs went through.
+
+"Just after that George's widow got married again and went away to
+live. It took a burden off the rest of us, but I had got attached to the
+children. The little girl, Ellen, seemed 'most like my own. Then poor
+Myrtle came here to live. She did dressmaking and boarded with our
+folks, and I begun to see that she was one of the nervous sort of women
+who are pretty bad off alone in the world, and I told her about the
+other girl, and she said she didn't mind, and we got married. By that
+time mother's brother John--he had never got married-died and left her
+a little money, so she and my sister Abby could screw along. They bought
+the little house they live in and left the farm, for Abby was always
+hard to get along with, though she is a good woman. Mother, though
+she is a smart woman, is one of the sort who don't feel called upon to
+interfere much with men-folks. I guess she didn't interfere any too
+much for my good, or father's, either. Father was a set man. I guess if
+mother had been a little harsh with me I might not have asked that awful
+'why?' I guess I might have taken my bitter pills and held my tongue,
+but I won't blame myself on poor mother.
+
+"Myrtle and I get on well enough. She seems contented--she has never
+said a word to make me think she wasn't. She isn't one of the kind of
+women who want much besides decent treatment and a home. Myrtle is
+a good woman. I am sorry for her that she got married to me, for she
+deserved somebody who could make her a better husband. All the time,
+every waking minute, I've been growing more and more rebellious.
+
+"You see, Mr. Wheaton, never in this world have I had what I wanted,
+and more than wanted-needed, and needed far more than happiness. I have
+never been able to think of work as anything but a way to get money,
+and it wasn't right, not for a man like me, with the feelings I was born
+with. And everything has gone wrong even about the work for the money.
+I have been hampered and hindered, I don't know whether by Providence
+or the Evil One. I have saved just six hundred and forty dollars, and
+I have only paid the interest on the mortgage. I knew I ought to have a
+little ahead in case Myrtle or I got sick, so I haven't tried to pay
+the mortgage, but put a few dollars at a time in the savings-bank, which
+will come in handy now."
+
+The minister regarded him uneasily. "What," he asked, "do you mean to
+do?"
+
+"I mean," replied Christopher, "to stop trying to do what I am hindered
+in doing, and do just once in my life what I want to do. Myrtle asked
+me this morning if I wasn't going to plow the south field. Well, I ain't
+going to plow the south field. I ain't going to make a garden. I ain't
+going to try for hay in the ten-acre lot. I have stopped. I have worked
+for nothing except just enough to keep soul and body together. I have
+had bad luck. But that isn't the real reason why I have stopped. Look
+at here, Mr. Wheaton, spring is coming. I have never in my life had a
+chance at the spring nor the summer. This year I'm going to have the
+spring and the summer, and the fall, too, if I want it. My apples may
+fall and rot if they want to. I am going to get as much good of the
+season as they do."
+
+"What are you going to do?" asked Stephen.
+
+"Well, I will tell you. I ain't a man to make mystery if I am doing
+right, and I think I am. You know, I've got a little shack up on Silver
+Mountain in the little sugar-orchard I own there; never got enough sugar
+to say so, but I put up the shack one year when I was fool enough to
+think I might get something. Well, I'm going up there, and I'm going
+to live there awhile, and I'm going to sense the things I have had to
+hustle by for the sake of a few dollars and cents."
+
+"But what will your wife do?"
+
+"She can have the money I've saved, all except enough to buy me a few
+provisions. I sha'n't need much. I want a little corn meal, and I will
+have a few chickens, and there is a barrel of winter apples left over
+that she can't use, and a few potatoes. There is a spring right near the
+shack, and there are trout-pools, and by and by there will be berries,
+and there's plenty of fire-wood, and there's an old bed and a stove and
+a few things in the shack. Now, I'm going to the store and buy what
+I want, and I'm going to fix it so Myrtle can draw the money when she
+wants it, and then I am going to the shack, and"--Christopher's voice
+took on a solemn tone--"I will tell you in just a few words the gist of
+what I am going for. I have never in my life had enough of the bread
+of life to keep my soul nourished. I have tried to do my duties, but I
+believe sometimes duties act on the soul like weeds on a flower. They
+crowd it out. I am going up on Silver Mountain to get once, on this
+earth, my fill of the bread of life."
+
+Stephen Wheaton gasped. "But your wife, she will be alone, she will
+worry."
+
+"I want you to go and tell her," said Christopher, "and I've got my
+bank-book here; I'm going to write some checks that she can get cashed
+when she needs money. I want you to tell her. Myrtle won't make a fuss.
+She ain't the kind. Maybe she will be a little lonely, but if she is,
+she can go and visit somewhere." Christopher rose. "Can you let me have
+a pen and ink?" said he, "and I will write those checks. You can tell
+Myrtle how to use them. She won't know how."
+
+Stephen Wheaton, an hour later, sat in his study, the checks in his
+hand, striving to rally his courage. Christopher had gone; he had seen
+him from his window, laden with parcels, starting upon the ascent of
+Silver Mountain. Christopher had made out many checks for small amounts,
+and Stephen held the sheaf in his hand, and gradually his courage to
+arise and go and tell Christopher's wife gained strength. At last he
+went.
+
+Myrtle was looking out of the window, and she came quickly to the door.
+She looked at him, her round, pretty face gone pale, her plump hands
+twitching at her apron.
+
+"What is it?" said she.
+
+"Nothing to be alarmed about," replied Stephen.
+
+Then the two entered the house. Stephen found his task unexpectedly
+easy. Myrtle Dodd was an unusual woman in a usual place.
+
+"It is all right for my husband to do as he pleases," she said with an
+odd dignity, as if she were defending him.
+
+"Mr. Dodd is a strange man. He ought to have been educated and led a
+different life," Stephen said, lamely, for he reflected that the words
+might be hard for the woman to hear, since she seemed obviously quite
+fitted to her life, and her life to her.
+
+But Myrtle did not take it hardly, seemingly rather with pride. "Yes,"
+said she, "Christopher ought to have gone to college. He had the head
+for it. Instead of that he has just stayed round here and dogged round
+the farm, and everything has gone wrong lately. He hasn't had any luck
+even with that." Then poor Myrtle Dodd said an unexpectedly wise thing.
+"But maybe," said Myrtle, "his bad luck may turn out the best thing for
+him in the end."
+
+Stephen was silent. Then he began explaining about the checks.
+
+"I sha'n't use any more of his savings than I can help," said Myrtle,
+and for the first time her voice quavered. "He must have some clothes
+up there," said she. "There ain't bed-coverings, and it is cold nights,
+late as it is in the spring. I wonder how I can get the bedclothes and
+other things to him. I can't drive, myself, and I don't like to hire
+anybody; aside from its being an expense, it would make talk. Mother
+Dodd and Abby won't make talk outside the family, but I suppose it will
+have to be known."
+
+"Mr. Dodd didn't want any mystery made over it," Stephen Wheaton said.
+
+"There ain't going to be any mystery. Christopher has got a right to
+live awhile on Silver Mountain if he wants to," returned Myrtle with her
+odd, defiant air.
+
+"But I will take the things up there to him, if you will let me have a
+horse and wagon," said Stephen.
+
+"I will, and be glad. When will you go?"
+
+"To-morrow."
+
+"I'll have them ready," said Myrtle.
+
+After the minister had gone she went into her own bedroom and cried a
+little and made the moan of a loving woman sadly bewildered by the ways
+of man, but loyal as a soldier. Then she dried her tears and began to
+pack a load for the wagon.
+
+The next morning early, before the dew was off the young grass, Stephen
+Wheaton started with the wagon-load, driving the great gray farm-horse
+up the side of Silver Mountain. The road was fairly good, making many
+winds in order to avoid steep ascents, and Stephen drove slowly. The
+gray farmhorse was sagacious. He knew that an unaccustomed hand held
+the lines; he knew that of a right he should be treading the plowshares
+instead of climbing a mountain on a beautiful spring morning.
+
+But as for the man driving, his face was radiant, his eyes of young
+manhood lit with the light of the morning. He had not owned it, but he
+himself had sometimes chafed under the dull necessity of his life, but
+here was excitement, here was exhilaration. He drew the sweet air into
+his lungs, and the deeper meaning of the spring morning into his soul.
+Christopher Dodd interested him to the point of enthusiasm. Not even the
+uneasy consideration of the lonely, mystified woman in Dodd's deserted
+home could deprive him of admiration for the man's flight into the
+spiritual open. He felt that these rights of the man were of the
+highest, and that other rights, even human and pitiful ones, should give
+them the right of way.
+
+It was not a long drive. When he reached the shack--merely a one-roomed
+hut, with a stovepipe chimney, two windows, and a door--Christopher
+stood at the entrance and seemed to illuminate it. Stephen for a minute
+doubted his identity. Christopher had lost middle age in a day's time.
+He had the look of a triumphant youth. Blue smoke was curling from the
+chimney. Stephen smelled bacon frying, and coffee.
+
+Christopher greeted him with the joyousness of a child. "Lord!" said
+he, "did Myrtle send you up with all those things? Well, she is a good
+woman. Guess I would have been cold last night if I hadn't been so
+happy. How is Myrtle?"
+
+"She seemed to take it very sensibly when I told her."
+
+Christopher nodded happily and lovingly. "She would. She can understand
+not understanding, and that is more than most women can. It was mighty
+good of you to bring the things. You are in time for breakfast. Lord!
+Mr. Wheaton, smell the trees, and there are blooms hidden somewhere that
+smell sweet. Think of having the common food of man sweetened this way!
+First time I fully sensed I was something more than just a man. Lord, I
+am paid already. It won't be so very long before I get my fill, at this
+rate, and then I can go back. To think I needn't plow to-day! To think
+all I have to do is to have the spring! See the light under those
+trees!"
+
+Christopher spoke like a man in ecstasy. He tied the gray horse to a
+tree and brought a pail of water for him from the spring near by.
+
+Then he said to Stephen: "Come right in. The bacon's done, and the
+coffee and the corn-cake and the eggs won't take a minute."
+
+The two men entered the shack. There was nothing there except the little
+cooking-stove, a few kitchen utensils hung on pegs on the walls, an old
+table with a few dishes, two chairs, and a lounge over which was spread
+an ancient buffalo-skin.
+
+Stephen sat down, and Christopher fried the eggs. Then he bade the
+minister draw up, and the two men breakfasted.
+
+"Ain't it great, Mr. Wheaton?" said Christopher.
+
+"You are a famous cook, Mr. Dodd," laughed Stephen. He was thoroughly
+enjoying himself, and the breakfast was excellent.
+
+"It ain't that," declared Christopher in his exalted voice. "It ain't
+that, young man. It's because the food is blessed."
+
+Stephen stayed all day on Silver Mountain. He and Christopher went
+fishing, and had fried trout for dinner. He took some of the trout home
+to Myrtle.
+
+Myrtle received them with a sort of state which defied the imputation of
+sadness. "Did he seem comfortable?" she asked.
+
+"Comfortable, Mrs. Dodd? I believe it will mean a new lease of life to
+your husband. He is an uncommon man."
+
+"Yes, Christopher is uncommon; he always was," assented Myrtle.
+
+"You have everything you want? You were not timid last night alone?"
+asked the minister.
+
+"Yes, I was timid. I heard queer noises," said Myrtle, "but I sha'n't
+be alone any more. Christopher's niece wrote me she was coming to make
+a visit. She has been teaching school, and she lost her school. I rather
+guess Ellen is as uncommon for a girl as Christopher is for a man.
+Anyway, she's lost her school, and her brother's married, and she don't
+want to go there. Besides, they live in Boston, and Ellen, she says
+she can't bear the city in spring and summer. She wrote she'd saved a
+little, and she'd pay her board, but I sha'n't touch a dollar of her
+little savings, and neither would Christopher want me to. He's always
+thought a sight of Ellen, though he's never seen much of her. As for me,
+I was so glad when her letter came I didn't know what to do. Christopher
+will be glad. I suppose you'll be going up there to see him off and on."
+Myrtle spoke a bit wistfully, and Stephen did not tell her he had been
+urged to come often.
+
+"Yes, off and on," he replied.
+
+"If you will just let me know when you are going, I will see that you
+have something to take to him--some bread and pies."
+
+"He has some chickens there," said Stephen.
+
+"Has he got a coop for them?"
+
+"Yes, he had one rigged up. He will have plenty of eggs, and he carried
+up bacon and corn meal and tea and coffee."
+
+"I am glad of that," said Myrtle. She spoke with a quiet dignity, but
+her face never lost its expression of bewilderment and resignation.
+
+The next week Stephen Wheaton carried Myrtle's bread and pies to
+Christopher on his mountainside. He drove Christopher's gray horse
+harnessed in his old buggy, and realized that he himself was getting
+much pleasure out of the other man's idiosyncrasy. The morning was
+beautiful, and Stephen carried in his mind a peculiar new beauty,
+besides. Ellen, Christopher's niece, had arrived the night before, and,
+early as it was, she had been astir when he reached the Dodd house. She
+had opened the door for him, and she was a goodly sight: a tall girl,
+shaped like a boy, with a fearless face of great beauty crowned with
+compact gold braids and lit by unswerving blue eyes. Ellen had a square,
+determined chin and a brow of high resolve.
+
+"Good morning," said she, and as she spoke she evidently rated Stephen
+and approved, for she smiled genially. "I am Mr. Dodd's niece," said
+she. "You are the minister?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"And you have come for the things aunt is to send him?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Aunt said you were to drive uncle's horse and take the buggy," said
+Ellen. "It is very kind of you. While you are harnessing, aunt and I
+will pack the basket."
+
+Stephen, harnessing the gray horse, had a sense of shock; whether
+pleasant or otherwise, he could not determine. He had never seen a girl
+in the least like Ellen. Girls had never impressed him. She did.
+
+When he drove around to the kitchen door she and Myrtle were both there,
+and he drank a cup of coffee before starting, and Myrtle introduced him.
+"Only think, Mr. Wheaton," said she, "Ellen says she knows a great deal
+about farming, and we are going to hire Jim Mason and go right ahead."
+Myrtle looked adoringly at Ellen.
+
+Stephen spoke eagerly. "Don't hire anybody," he said. "I used to work on
+a farm to pay my way through college. I need the exercise. Let me help."
+
+"You may do that," said Ellen, "on shares. Neither aunt nor I can think
+of letting you work without any recompense."
+
+"Well, we will settle that," Stephen replied. When he drove away, his
+usually calm mind was in a tumult.
+
+"Your niece has come," he told Christopher, when the two men were
+breakfasting together on Silver Mountain.
+
+"I am glad of that," said Christopher. "All that troubled me about being
+here was that Myrtle might wake up in the night and hear noises."
+
+Christopher had grown even more radiant. He was effulgent with pure
+happiness.
+
+"You aren't going to tap your sugar-maples?" said Stephen, looking up
+at the great symmetrical efflorescence of rose and green which towered
+about them.
+
+Christopher laughed. "No, bless 'em," said he, "the trees shall keep
+their sugar this season. This week is the first time I've had a chance
+to get acquainted with them and sort of enter into their feelings. Good
+Lord! I've seen how I can love those trees, Mr. Wheaton! See the pink on
+their young leaves! They know more than you and I. They know how to grow
+young every spring."
+
+Stephen did not tell Christopher how Ellen and Myrtle were to work the
+farm with his aid. The two women had bade him not. Christopher seemed to
+have no care whatever about it. He was simply happy. When Stephen left,
+he looked at him and said, with the smile of a child, "Do you think I am
+crazy?"
+
+"Crazy? No," replied Stephen.
+
+"Well, I ain't. I'm just getting fed. I was starving to death. Glad
+you don't think I'm crazy, because I couldn't help matters by saying I
+wasn't. Myrtle don't think I am, I know. As for Ellen, I haven't seen
+her since she was a little girl. I don't believe she can be much like
+Myrtle; but I guess if she is what she promised to turn out she wouldn't
+think anybody ought to go just her way to have it the right way."
+
+"I rather think she is like that, although I saw her for the first time
+this morning," said Stephen.
+
+"I begin to feel that I may not need to stay here much longer,"
+Christopher called after him. "I begin to feel that I am getting what I
+came for so fast that I can go back pretty soon."
+
+But it was the last day of July before he came. He chose the cool of
+the evening after a burning day, and descended the mountain in the full
+light of the moon. He had gone up the mountain like an old man; he came
+down like a young one.
+
+When he came at last in sight of his own home, he paused and stared.
+Across the grass-land a heavily laden wagon was moving toward his barn.
+Upon this wagon heaped with hay, full of silver lights from the moon,
+sat a tall figure all in white, which seemed to shine above all things.
+Christopher did not see the man on the other side of the wagon leading
+the horses; he saw only this wonderful white figure. He hurried forward
+and Myrtle came down the road to meet him. She had been watching for
+him, as she had watched every night.
+
+"Who is it on the load of hay?" asked Christopher.
+
+"Ellen," replied Myrtle.
+
+"Oh!" said Christopher. "She looked like an angel of the Lord, come to
+take up the burden I had dropped while I went to learn of Him."
+
+"Be you feeling pretty well, Christopher?" asked Myrtle. She thought
+that what her husband had said was odd, but he looked well, and he might
+have said it simply because he was a man.
+
+Christopher put his arm around Myrtle. "I am better than I ever was in
+my whole life, Myrtle, and I've got more courage to work now than I had
+when I was young. I had to go away and get rested, but I've got rested
+for all my life. We shall get along all right as long as we live."
+
+"Ellen and the minister are going to get married come Christmas," said
+Myrtle.
+
+"She is lucky. He is a man that can see with the eyes of other people,"
+said Christopher.
+
+It was after the hay had been unloaded and Christopher had been shown
+the garden full of lusty vegetables, and told of the great crop with no
+drawback, that he and the minister had a few minutes alone together at
+the gate.
+
+"I want to tell you, Mr. Wheaton, that I am settled in my mind now. I
+shall never complain again, no matter what happens. I have found that
+all the good things and all the bad things that come to a man who tries
+to do right are just to prove to him that he is on the right path. They
+are just the flowers and sunbeams, and the rocks and snakes, too, that
+mark the way. And--I have found out more than that. I have found out the
+answer to my 'why?'"
+
+"What is it?" asked Stephen, gazing at him curiously from the
+wonder-height of his own special happiness.
+
+"I have found out that the only way to heaven for the children of men is
+through the earth," said Christopher.
+
+
+
+
+DEAR ANNIE
+
+ANNIE HEMPSTEAD lived on a large family canvas, being the eldest of six
+children. There was only one boy. The mother was long since dead. If
+one can imagine the Hempstead family, the head of which was the Reverend
+Silas, pastor of the Orthodox Church in Lynn Corners, as being the
+subject of a mild study in village history, the high light would
+probably fall upon Imogen, the youngest daughter. As for Annie, she
+would apparently supply only a part of the background.
+
+This afternoon in late July, Annie was out in the front yard of the
+parsonage, assisting her brother Benny to rake hay. Benny had not cut
+it. Annie had hired a man, although the Hempsteads could not afford to
+hire a man, but she had said to Benny, "Benny, you can rake the hay and
+get it into the barn if Jim Mullins cuts it, can't you?" And Benny had
+smiled and nodded acquiescence. Benny Hempstead always smiled and nodded
+acquiescence, but there was in him the strange persistency of a willow
+bough, the persistency of pliability, which is the most unconquerable
+of all. Benny swayed gracefully in response to all the wishes of others,
+but always he remained in his own inadequate attitude toward life.
+
+Now he was raking to as little purpose as he could and rake at all. The
+clover-tops, the timothy grass, and the buttercups moved before his rake
+in a faint foam of gold and green and rose, but his sister Annie raised
+whirlwinds with hers. The Hempstead yard was large and deep, and had two
+great squares given over to wild growths on either side of the gravel
+walk, which was bordered with shrubs, flowering in their turn, like a
+class of children at school saying their lessons. The spring shrubs had
+all spelled out their floral recitations, of course, but great clumps
+of peonies were spreading wide skirts of gigantic bloom, like dancers
+courtesying low on the stage of summer, and shafts of green-white Yucca
+lilies and Japan lilies and clove-pinks still remained in their school
+of bloom.
+
+Benny often stood still, wiped his forehead, leaned on his rake, and
+inhaled the bouquet of sweet scents, but Annie raked with never-ceasing
+energy. Annie was small and slender and wiry, and moved with angular
+grace, her thin, peaked elbows showing beneath the sleeves of her pink
+gingham dress, her thin knees outlining beneath the scanty folds of the
+skirt. Her neck was long, her shoulder-blades troubled the back of
+her blouse at every movement. She was a creature full of ostentatious
+joints, but the joints were delicate and rhythmical and charming. Annie
+had a charming face, too. It was thin and sunburnt, but still charming,
+with a sweet, eager, intent-to-please outlook upon life. This last was
+the real attitude of Annie's mind; it was, in fact, Annie. She was
+intent to please from her toes to the crown of her brown head. She
+radiated good will and loving-kindness as fervently as a lily in the
+border radiated perfume.
+
+It was very warm, and the northwest sky had a threatening mountain
+of clouds. Occasionally Annie glanced at it and raked the faster, and
+thought complacently of the water-proof covers in the little barn. This
+hay was valuable for the Reverend Silas's horse.
+
+Two of the front windows of the house were filled with girls' heads, and
+the regular swaying movement of white-clad arms sewing. The girls sat in
+the house because it was so sunny on the piazza in the afternoon. There
+were four girls in the sittingroom, all making finery for themselves.
+On the other side of the front door one of the two windows was blank; in
+the other was visible a nodding gray head, that of Annie's father taking
+his afternoon nap.
+
+Everything was still except the girls' tongues, an occasional burst of
+laughter, and the crackling shrill of locusts. Nothing had passed on the
+dusty road since Benny and Annie had begun their work. Lynn Corners was
+nothing more than a hamlet. It was even seldom that an automobile got
+astray there, being diverted from the little city of Anderson, six miles
+away, by turning to the left instead of the right.
+
+Benny stopped again and wiped his forehead, all pink and beaded with
+sweat. He was a pretty young man--as pretty as a girl, although large.
+He glanced furtively at Annie, then he went with a soft, padding glide,
+like a big cat, to the piazza and settled down. He leaned his head
+against a post, closed his eyes, and inhaled the sweetness of flowers
+alive and dying, of new-mown hay. Annie glanced at him and an angelic
+look came over her face. At that moment the sweetness of her nature
+seemed actually visible.
+
+"He is tired, poor boy!" she thought. She also thought that probably
+Benny felt the heat more because he was stout. Then she raked faster
+and faster. She fairly flew over the yard, raking the severed grass
+and flowers into heaps. The air grew more sultry. The sun was not yet
+clouded, but the northwest was darker and rumbled ominously.
+
+The girls in the sitting-room continued to chatter and sew. One of them
+might have come out to help this little sister toiling alone, but Annie
+did not think of that. She raked with the uncomplaining sweetness of an
+angel until the storm burst. The rain came down in solid drops, and the
+sky was a sheet of clamoring flame. Annie made one motion toward the
+barn, but there was no use. The hay was not half cocked. There was no
+sense in running for covers. Benny was up and lumbering into the house,
+and her sisters were shutting windows and crying out to her. Annie
+deserted her post and fled before the wind, her pink skirts lashing her
+heels, her hair dripping.
+
+When she entered the sitting-room her sisters, Imogen, Eliza, Jane, and
+Susan, were all there; also her father, Silas, tall and gaunt and gray.
+To the Hempsteads a thunder-storm partook of the nature of a religious
+ceremony. The family gathered together, and it was understood that they
+were all offering prayer and recognizing God as present on the wings of
+the tempest. In reality they were all very nervous in thunder-storms,
+with the exception of Annie. She always sent up a little silent petition
+that her sisters and brother and father, and the horse and dog and cat,
+might escape danger, although she had never been quite sure that she was
+not wicked in including the dog and cat. She was surer about the horse
+because he was the means by which her father made pastoral calls upon
+his distant sheep. Then afterward she just sat with the others and
+waited until the storm was over and it was time to open windows and see
+if the roof had leaked. Today, however, she was intent upon the hay. In
+a lull of the tempest she spoke.
+
+"It is a pity," she said, "that I was not able to get the hay cocked and
+the covers on."
+
+Then Imogen turned large, sarcastic blue eyes upon her. Imogen was
+considered a beauty, pink and white, golden-haired, and dimpled, with
+a curious calculating hardness of character and a sharp tongue, so at
+variance with her appearance that people doubted the evidence of their
+senses.
+
+"If," said Imogen, "you had only made Benny work instead of encouraging
+him to dawdle and finally to stop altogether, and if you had gone
+out directly after dinner, the hay would have been all raked up and
+covered."
+
+Nothing could have exceeded the calm and instructive superiority of
+Imogen's tone. A mass of soft white fabric lay upon her lap, although
+she had removed scissors and needle and thimble to a safe distance. She
+tilted her chin with a royal air. When the storm lulled she had stopped
+praying.
+
+Imogen's sisters echoed her and joined in the attack upon Annie.
+
+"Yes," said Jane, "if you had only started earlier, Annie. I told Eliza
+when you went out in the yard that it looked like a shower."
+
+Eliza nodded energetically.
+
+"It was foolish to start so late," said Susan, with a calm air of wisdom
+only a shade less exasperating than Imogen's.
+
+"And you always encourage Benny so in being lazy," said Eliza.
+
+Then the Reverend Silas joined in. "You should have more sense of
+responsibility toward your brother, your only brother, Annie," he said,
+in his deep pulpit voice.
+
+"It was after two o'clock when you went out," said Imogen.
+
+"And all you had to do was the dinner-dishes, and there were very few
+to-day," said Jane.
+
+Then Annie turned with a quick, cat-like motion. Her eyes blazed under
+her brown toss of hair. She gesticulated with her little, nervous hands.
+Her voice was as sweet and intense as a reed, and withal piercing with
+anger.
+
+"It was not half past one when I went out," said she, "and there was a
+whole sinkful of dishes."
+
+"It was after two. I looked at the clock," said Imogen.
+
+"It was not."
+
+"And there were very few dishes," said Jane.
+
+"A whole sinkful," said Annie, tense with wrath.
+
+"You always are rather late about starting," said Susan.
+
+"I am not! I was not! I washed the dishes, and swept the kitchen, and
+blacked the stove, and cleaned the silver."
+
+"I swept the kitchen," said Imogen, severely. "Annie, I am surprised at
+you."
+
+"And you know I cleaned the silver yesterday," said Jane.
+
+Annie gave a gasp and looked from one to the other.
+
+"You know you did not sweep the kitchen," said Imogen.
+
+Annie's father gazed at her severely. "My dear," he said, "how long must
+I try to correct you of this habit of making false statements?"
+
+"Dear Annie does not realize that they are false statements, father,"
+said Jane. Jane was not pretty, but she gave the effect of a long,
+sweet stanza of some fine poetess. She was very tall and slender and
+large-eyed, and wore always a serious smile. She was attired in a purple
+muslin gown, cut V-shaped at the throat, and, as always, a black velvet
+ribbon with a little gold locket attached. The locket contained a coil
+of hair. Jane had been engaged to a young minister, now dead three
+years, and he had given her the locket.
+
+Jane no doubt had mourned for her lover, but she had a covert pleasure
+in the romance of her situation. She was a year younger than Annie, and
+she had loved and lost, and so had achieved a sentimental distinction.
+Imogen always had admirers. Eliza had been courted at intervals
+half-heartedly by a widower, and Susan had had a few fleeting chances.
+But Jane was the only one who had been really definite in her heart
+affairs. As for Annie, nobody ever thought of her in such a connection.
+It was supposed that Annie had no thought of marriage, that she was
+foreordained to remain unwed and keep house for her father and Benny.
+
+When Jane said that dear Annie did not realize that she made false
+statements, she voiced an opinion of the family before which Annie was
+always absolutely helpless. Defense meant counter-accusation. Annie
+could not accuse her family. She glanced from one to the other. In her
+blue eyes were still sparks of wrath, but she said nothing. She felt, as
+always, speechless, when affairs reached such a juncture. She began,
+in spite of her good sense, to feel guiltily responsible for
+everything--for the spoiling of the hay, even for the thunder-storm.
+What was more, she even wished to feel guiltily responsible. Anything
+was better than to be sure her sisters were not speaking the truth, that
+her father was blaming her unjustly.
+
+Benny, who sat hunched upon himself with the effect of one set of bones
+and muscles leaning upon others for support, was the only one who spoke
+for her, and even he spoke to little purpose.
+
+"One of you other girls," said he, in a thick, sweet voice, "might have
+come out and helped Annie; then she could have got the hay in."
+
+They all turned on him.
+
+"It is all very well for you to talk," said Imogen. "I saw you myself
+quit raking hay and sit down on the piazza."
+
+"Yes," assented Jane, nodding violently, "I saw you, too."
+
+"You have no sense of your responsibility, Benjamin, and your sister
+Annie abets you in evading it," said Silas Hempstead with dignity.
+
+"Benny feels the heat," said Annie.
+
+"Father is entirely right," said Eliza. "Benjamin has no sense of
+responsibility, and it is mainly owing to Annie."
+
+"But dear Annie does not realize it," said Jane.
+
+Benny got up lumberingly and left the room. He loved his sister Annie,
+but he hated the mild simmer of feminine rancor to which even his
+father's presence failed to add a masculine flavor. Benny was always
+leaving the room and allowing his sisters "to fight it out."
+
+Just after he left there was a tremendous peal of thunder and a blue
+flash, and they all prayed again, except Annie; who was occupied with
+her own perplexities of life, and not at all afraid. She wondered, as
+she had wondered many times before, if she could possibly be in the
+wrong, if she were spoiling Benny, if she said and did things without
+knowing that she did so, or the contrary. Then suddenly she tightened
+her mouth. She knew. This sweet-tempered, anxious-to-please Annie was
+entirely sane, she had unusual self-poise. She KNEW that she knew
+what she did and said, and what she did not do or say, and a strange
+comprehension of her family overwhelmed her. Her sisters were truthful;
+she would not admit anything else, even to herself; but they confused
+desires and impulses with accomplishment. They had done so all their
+lives, some of them from intense egotism, some possibly from slight
+twists in their mental organisms. As for her father, he had simply
+rather a weak character, and was swayed by the majority. Annie, as she
+sat there among the praying group, made the same excuse for her sisters
+that they made for her. "They don't realize it," she said to herself.
+
+When the storm finally ceased she hurried upstairs and opened the
+windows, letting in the rain-fresh air. Then she got supper, while her
+sisters resumed their needlework. A curious conviction seized her, as
+she was hurrying about the kitchen, that in all probability some, if
+not all, of her sisters considered that they were getting the supper.
+Possibly Jane had reflected that she ought to get supper, then she
+had taken another stitch in her work and had not known fairly that her
+impulse of duty had not been carried out. Imogen, presumably, was sewing
+with the serene consciousness that, since she was herself, it followed
+as a matter of course that she was performing all the tasks of the
+house.
+
+While Annie was making an omelet Benny came out into the kitchen and
+stood regarding her, hands in pockets, making, as usual, one set of
+muscles rest upon another. His face was full of the utmost good nature,
+but it also convicted him of too much sloth to obey its commands.
+
+"Say, Annie, what on earth makes them all pick on you so?" he observed.
+
+"Hush, Benny! They don't mean to. They don't know it."
+
+"But say, Annie, you must know that they tell whoppers. You DID sweep
+the kitchen."
+
+"Hush, Benny! Imogen really thinks she swept it."
+
+"Imogen always thinks she has done everything she ought to do, whether
+she has done it or not," said Benny, with unusual astuteness. "Why don't
+you up and tell her she lies, Annie?"
+
+"She doesn't really lie," said Annie.
+
+"She does lie, even if she doesn't know it," said Benny; "and what is
+more, she ought to be made to know it. Say, Annie, it strikes me that
+you are doing the same by the girls that they accuse you of doing by me.
+Aren't you encouraging them in evil ways?"
+
+Annie started, and turned and stared at him.
+
+Benny nodded. "I can't see any difference," he said. "There isn't a day
+but one of the girls thinks she has done something you have done, or
+hasn't done something you ought to have done, and they blame you all the
+time, when you don't deserve it, and you let them, and they don't know
+it, and I don't think myself that they know they tell whoppers; but they
+ought to know. Strikes me you are just spoiling the whole lot, father
+thrown in, Annie. You are a dear, just as they say, but you are too much
+of a dear to be good for them."
+
+Annie stared.
+
+"You are letting that omelet burn," said Benny. "Say, Annie, I will go
+out and turn that hay in the morning. I know I don't amount to much, but
+I ain't a girl, anyhow, and I haven't got a cross-eyed soul. That's
+what ails a lot of girls. They mean all right, but their souls have been
+cross-eyed ever since they came into the world, and it's just such
+girls as you who ought to get them straightened out. You know what has
+happened to-day. Well, here's what happened yesterday. I don't tell
+tales, but you ought to know this, for I believe Tom Reed has his eye
+on you, in spite of Imogen's being such a beauty, and Susan's having
+manners like silk, and Eliza's giving everybody the impression that she
+is too good for this earth, and Jane's trying to make everybody think
+she is a sweet martyr, without a thought for mortal man, when that is
+only her way of trying to catch one. You know Tom Reed was here last
+evening?"
+
+Annie nodded. Her face turned scarlet, then pathetically pale. She bent
+over her omelet, carefully lifting it around the edges.
+
+"Well," Benny went on, "I know he came to see you, and Imogen went to
+the door and ushered him into the parlor, and I was out on the piazza,
+and she didn't know it, but I heard her tell him that she thought you
+had gone out. She hinted, too, that George Wells had taken you to the
+concert in the town hall. He did ask you, didn't he?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Well, Imogen spoke in this way." Benny lowered his voice and imitated
+Imogen to the life. "'Yes, we are all well, thank you. Father is busy,
+of course; Jane has run over to Mrs. Jacobs's for a pattern; Eliza is
+writing letters; and Susan is somewhere about the house. Annie--well,
+Annie-George Wells asked her to go to the concert--I rather--' Then,"
+said Benny, in his natural voice, "Imogen stopped, and she could say
+truthfully that she didn't lie, but anybody would have thought from what
+she said that you had gone to the concert with George Wells."
+
+"Did Tom inquire for me?" asked Annie, in a low voice.
+
+"Didn't have a chance. Imogen got ahead of him."
+
+"Oh, well, then it doesn't matter. I dare say he did come to see
+Imogen."
+
+"He didn't," said Benny, stoutly. "And that isn't all. Say, Annie--"
+
+"What?"
+
+"Are you going to marry George Wells? It is none of my business, but are
+you?"
+
+Annie laughed a little, although her face was still pale. She had folded
+the omelet and was carefully watching it.
+
+"You need not worry about that, Benny dear," she said.
+
+"Then what right have the girls to tell so many people the nice things
+they hear you say about him?"
+
+Annie removed the omelet skilfully from the pan to a hot plate, which
+she set on the range shelf, and turned to her brother.
+
+"What nice things do they hear me say?"
+
+"That he is so handsome; that he has such a good position; that he is
+the very best young man in the place; that you should think every girl
+would be head over heels in love with him; that every word he speaks is
+so bright and clever."
+
+Annie looked at her brother.
+
+"I don't believe you ever said one of those things," remarked Benny.
+
+Annie continued to look at him.
+
+"Did you?"
+
+"Benny dear, I am not going to tell you."
+
+"You won't say you never did, because that would be putting your sisters
+in the wrong and admitting that they tell lies. Annie, you are a dear,
+but I do think you are doing wrong and spoiling them as much as they say
+you are spoiling me."
+
+"Perhaps I am," said Annie. There was a strange, tragic expression
+on her keen, pretty little face. She looked as if her mind was
+contemplating strenuous action which was changing her very features. She
+had covered the finished omelet and was now cooking another.
+
+"I wish you would see if everybody is in the house and ready, Benny,"
+said she. "When this omelet is done they must come right away, or
+nothing will be fit to eat. And, Benny dear, if you don't mind, please
+get the butter and the cream-pitcher out of the ice-chest. I have
+everything else on the table."
+
+"There is another thing," said Benny. "I don't go about telling tales,
+but I do think it is time you knew. The girls tell everybody that you
+like to do the housework so much that they don't dare interfere. And
+it isn't so. They may have taught themselves to think it is so, but it
+isn't. You would like a little time for fancy-work and reading as well
+as they do."
+
+"Please get the cream and butter, and see if they are all in the house,"
+said Annie. She spoke as usual, but the strange expression remained in
+her face. It was still there when the family were all gathered at the
+table and she was serving the puffy omelet. Jane noticed it first.
+
+"What makes you look so odd, Annie?" said she.
+
+"I don't know how I look odd," replied Annie.
+
+They all gazed at her then, her father with some anxiety. "You don't
+look yourself," he said. "You are feeling well, aren't you, Annie?"
+
+"Quite well, thank you, father."
+
+But after the omelet was served and the tea poured Annie rose.
+
+"Where are you going, Annie?" asked Imogen, in her sarcastic voice.
+
+"To my room, or perhaps out in the orchard."
+
+"It will be sopping wet out there after the shower," said Eliza. "Are
+you crazy, Annie?"
+
+"I have on my black skirt, and I will wear rubbers," said Annie,
+quietly. "I want some fresh air."
+
+"I should think you had enough fresh air. You were outdoors all the
+afternoon, while we were cooped up in the house," said Jane.
+
+"Don't you feel well, Annie?" her father asked again, a golden bit of
+omelet poised on his fork, as she was leaving the room.
+
+"Quite well, father dear."
+
+"But you are eating no supper."
+
+"I have always heard that people who cook don't need so much to eat,"
+said Imogen. "They say the essence of the food soaks in through the
+pores."
+
+"I am quite well," Annie repeated, and the door closed behind her.
+
+"Dear Annie! She is always doing odd things like this," remarked Jane.
+
+"Yes, she is, things that one cannot account for, but Annie is a dear,"
+said Susan.
+
+"I hope she is well," said Annie's father.
+
+"Oh, she is well enough. Don't worry, father," said Imogen. "Dear Annie
+is always doing the unexpected. She looks very well."
+
+"Yes, dear Annie is quite stout, for her," said Jane.
+
+"I think she is thinner than I have ever seen her, and the rest of you
+look like stuffed geese," said Benny, rudely.
+
+Imogen turned upon him in dignified wrath. "Benny, you insult your
+sisters," said she. "Father, you should really tell Benny that he should
+bridle his tongue a little."
+
+"You ought to bridle yours, every one of you," retorted Benny. "You
+girls nag poor Annie every single minute. You let her do all the work,
+then you pick at her for it."
+
+There was a chorus of treble voices. "We nag dear Annie! We pick at dear
+Annie! We make her do everything! Father, you should remonstrate with
+Benjamin. You know how we all love dear Annie!"
+
+"Benjamin," began Silas Hempstead, but Benny, with a smothered
+exclamation, was up and out of the room.
+
+Benny quite frankly disliked his sisters, with the exception of Annie.
+For his father he had a sort of respectful tolerance. He could not see
+why he should have anything else. His father had never done anything
+for him except to admonish him. His scanty revenue for his support and
+college expenses came from his maternal grandmother, who had been a
+woman of parts and who had openly scorned her son-in-law.
+
+Grandmother Loomis had left a will which occasioned much comment. By its
+terms she had provided sparsely but adequately for Benjamin's education
+and living until he should graduate; and her house, with all her
+personal property, and the bulk of the sum from which she had derived
+her own income, fell to her granddaughter Annie. Annie had always
+been her grandmother's favorite. There had been covert dismay when the
+contents of the will were made known, then one and all had congratulated
+the beneficiary, and said abroad that they were glad dear Annie was so
+well provided for. It was intimated by Imogen and Eliza that probably
+dear Annie would not marry, and in that case Grandmother Loomis's
+bequest was so fortunate. She had probably taken that into
+consideration. Grandmother Loomis had now been dead four years, and her
+deserted home had been for rent, furnished, but it had remained vacant.
+
+Annie soon came back from the orchard, and after she had cleared
+away the supper-table and washed the dishes she went up to her room,
+carefully rearranged her hair, and changed her dress. Then she sat down
+beside a window and waited and watched, her pointed chin in a cup of one
+little thin hand, her soft muslin skirts circling around her, and
+the scent of queer old sachet emanating from a flowered ribbon of her
+grandmother's which she had tied around her waist. The ancient scent
+always clung to the ribbon, suggesting faintly as a dream the musk and
+roses and violets of some old summer-time.
+
+Annie sat there and gazed out on the front yard, which was silvered over
+with moonlight. Annie's four sisters all sat out there. They had spread
+a rug over the damp grass and brought out chairs. There were five
+chairs, although there were only four girls. Annie gazed over the yard
+and down the street. She heard the chatter of the girls, which was
+inconsequent and absent, as if their minds were on other things than
+their conversation. Then suddenly she saw a small red gleam far down the
+street, evidently that of a cigar, and also a dark, moving figure. Then
+there ensued a subdued wrangle in the yard. Imogen insisted that her
+sisters should go into the house. They all resisted, Eliza the most
+vehemently. Imogen was arrogant and compelling. Finally she drove them
+all into the house except Eliza, who wavered upon the threshold of
+yielding. Imogen was obliged to speak very softly lest the approaching
+man hear, but Annie, in the window above her, heard every word.
+
+"You know he is coming to see me," said Imogen, passionately. "You
+know--you know, Eliza, and yet every single time he comes, here are you
+girls, spying and listening."
+
+"He comes to see Annie, I believe," said Eliza, in her stubborn voice,
+which yet had indecision in it.
+
+"He never asks for her."
+
+"He never has a chance. We all tell him, the minute he comes in, that
+she is out. But now I am going to stay, anyway."
+
+"Stay if you want to. You are all a jealous lot. If you girls can't have
+a beau yourselves, you begrudge one to me. I never saw such a house as
+this for a man to come courting in."
+
+"I will stay," said Eliza, and this time her voice was wholly firm.
+"There is no use in my going, anyway, for the others are coming back."
+
+It was true. Back flitted Jane and Susan, and by that time Tom Reed had
+reached the gate, and his cigar was going out in a shower of sparks on
+the gravel walk, and all four sisters were greeting him and urging upon
+his acceptance the fifth chair. Annie, watching, saw that the young man
+seemed to hesitate. Then her heart leaped and she heard him speak
+quite plainly, with a note of defiance and irritation, albeit with
+embarrassment.
+
+"Is Miss Annie in?" asked Tom Reed.
+
+Imogen answered first, and her harsh voice was honey-sweet.
+
+"I fear dear Annie is out," she said. "She will be so sorry to miss
+you."
+
+Annie, at her window, made a sudden passionate motion, then she sat
+still and listened. She argued fiercely that she was right in so doing.
+She felt that the time had come when she must know, for the sake of her
+own individuality, just what she had to deal with in the natures of her
+own kith and kin. Dear Annie had turned in her groove of sweetness and
+gentle yielding, as all must turn who have any strength of character
+underneath the sweetness and gentleness. Therefore Annie, at her window
+above, listened.
+
+At first she heard little that bore upon herself, for the conversation
+was desultory, about the weather and general village topics. Then Annie
+heard her own name. She was "dear Annie," as usual. She listened, fairly
+faint with amazement. What she heard from that quartette of treble
+voices down there in the moonlight seemed almost like a fairy-tale.
+The sisters did not violently incriminate her. They were too astute for
+that. They told half-truths. They told truths which were as shadows of
+the real facts, and yet not to be contradicted. They built up between
+them a story marvelously consistent, unless prearranged, and that Annie
+did not think possible. George Wells figured in the tale, and there were
+various hints and pauses concerning herself and her own character in
+daily life, and not one item could be flatly denied, even if the girl
+could have gone down there and, standing in the midst of that moonlit
+group, given her sisters the lie.
+
+Everything which they told, the whole structure of falsehood, had beams
+and rafters of truth. Annie felt helpless before it all. To her fancy,
+her sisters and Tom Reed seemed actually sitting in a fairy building
+whose substance was utter falsehood, and yet which could not be utterly
+denied. An awful sense of isolation possessed her. So these were her
+own sisters, the sisters whom she had loved as a matter of the simplest
+nature, whom she had admired, whom she had served.
+
+She made no allowance, since she herself was perfectly normal, for the
+motive which underlay it all. She could not comprehend the strife of the
+women over the one man. Tom Reed was in reality the one desirable match
+in the village. Annie knew, or thought she knew, that Tom Reed had it
+in mind to love her, and she innocently had it in mind to love him. She
+thought of a home of her own and his with delight. She thought of it as
+she thought of the roses coming into bloom in June, and she thought of
+it as she thought of the every-day happenings of life--cooking, setting
+rooms in order, washing dishes. However, there was something else
+to reckon with, and that Annie instinctively knew. She had been
+long-suffering, and her long-suffering was now regarded as endless. She
+had cast her pearls, and they had been trampled. She had turned her
+other cheek, and it had been promptly slapped. It was entirely true
+that Annie's sisters were not quite worthy of her, that they had taken
+advantage of her kindness and gentleness, and had mistaken them for
+weakness, to be despised. She did not understand them, nor they her.
+They were, on the whole, better than she thought, but with her there was
+a stern limit of endurance. Something whiter and hotter than mere wrath
+was in the girl's soul as she sat there and listened to the building of
+that structure of essential falsehood about herself.
+
+She waited until Tom Reed had gone. He did not stay long. Then she went
+down-stairs with flying feet, and stood among them in the moonlight. Her
+father had come out of the study, and Benny had just been entering the
+gate as Tom Reed left. Then dear Annie spoke. She really spoke for the
+first time in her life, and there was something dreadful about it all.
+A sweet nature is always rather dreadful when it turns and strikes,
+and Annie struck with the whole force of a nature with a foundation of
+steel. She left nothing unsaid. She defended herself and she accused her
+sisters as if before a judge. Then came her ultimatum.
+
+"To-morrow morning I am going over to Grandmother Loomis's house, and
+I am going to live there a whole year," she declared, in a slow, steady
+voice. "As you know, I have enough to live on, and--in order that no
+word of mine can be garbled and twisted as it has been to-night, I speak
+not at all. Everything which I have to communicate shall be written in
+black and white, and signed with my own name, and black and white cannot
+lie."
+
+It was Jane who spoke first. "What will people say?" she whimpered,
+feebly.
+
+"From what I have heard you all say to-night, whatever you make them,"
+retorted Annie--the Annie who had turned.
+
+Jane gasped. Silas Hempstead stood staring, quite dumb before the
+sudden problem. Imogen alone seemed to have any command whatever of the
+situation.
+
+"May I inquire what the butcher and grocer are going to think, no
+matter what your own sisters think and say, when you give your orders
+in writing?" she inquired, achieving a jolt from tragedy to the
+commonplace.
+
+"That is my concern," replied Annie, yet she recognized the difficulty
+of that phase of the situation. It is just such trifling matters which
+detract from the dignity of extreme attitudes toward existence. Annie
+had taken an extreme attitude, yet here were the butcher and the grocer
+to reckon with. How could she communicate with them in writing without
+appearing absurd to the verge of insanity? Yet even that difficulty had
+a solution.
+
+Annie thought it out after she had gone to bed that night. She had been
+imperturbable with her sisters, who had finally come in a body to
+make entreaties, although not apologies or retractions. There was
+a stiff-necked strain in the Hempstead family, and apologies and
+retractions were bitterer cuds for them to chew than for most. She had
+been imperturbable with her father, who had quoted Scripture and prayed
+at her during family worship. She had been imperturbable even with
+Benny, who had whispered to her: "Say, Annie, I don't blame you, but it
+will be a hell of a time without you. Can't you stick it out?"
+
+But she had had a struggle before her own vision of the butcher and the
+grocer, and their amazement when she ceased to speak to them. Then she
+settled that with a sudden leap of inspiration. It sounded too apropos
+to be life, but there was a little deaf-anddumb girl, a far-away
+relative of the Hempsteads, who lived with her aunt Felicia in
+Anderson. She was a great trial to her aunt Felicia, who was a widow
+and well-to-do, and liked the elegancies and normalities of life. This
+unfortunate little Effie Hempstead could not be placed in a charitable
+institution on account of the name she bore. Aunt Felicia considered it
+her worldly duty to care for her, but it was a trial.
+
+Annie would take Effie off Aunt Felicia's hands, and no comment would
+be excited by a deaf-anddumb girl carrying written messages to the
+tradesmen, since she obviously could not give them orally. The only
+comment would be on Annie's conduct in holding herself aloof from her
+family and the village people generally.
+
+The next morning, when Annie went away, there was an excited conclave
+among the sisters.
+
+"She means to do it," said Susan, and she wept.
+
+Imogen's handsome face looked hard and set. "Let her, if she wants to,"
+said she.
+
+"Only think what people will say!" wailed Jane.
+
+Imogen tossed her head. "I shall have something to say myself," she
+returned. "I shall say how much we all regret that dear Annie has such
+a difficult disposition that she felt she could not live with her own
+family and must be alone."
+
+"But," said Jane, blunt in her distress, "will they believe it?"
+
+"Why will they not believe it, pray?"
+
+"Why, I am afraid people have the impression that dear Annie has--" Jane
+hesitated.
+
+"What?" asked Imogen, coldly. She looked very handsome that morning. Not
+a waved golden hair was out of place on her carefully brushed head. She
+wore the neatest of blue linen skirts and blouses, with a linen collar
+and white tie. There was something hard but compelling about her blond
+beauty.
+
+"I am afraid," said Jane, "that people have a sort of general impression
+that dear Annie has perhaps as sweet a disposition as any of us, perhaps
+sweeter."
+
+"Nobody says that dear Annie has not a sweet disposition," said Imogen,
+taking a careful stitch in her embroidery. "But a sweet disposition is
+very often extremely difficult for other people. It constantly puts them
+in the wrong. I am well aware of the fact that dear Annie does a great
+deal for all of us, but it is sometimes irritating. Of course it is
+quite certain that she must have a feeling of superiority because of it,
+and she should not have it."
+
+Sometimes Eliza made illuminating speeches. "I suppose it follows,
+then," said she, with slight irony, "that only an angel can have a very
+sweet disposition without offending others."
+
+But Imogen was not in the least nonplussed. She finished her line of
+thought. "And with all her sweet disposition," said she, "nobody can
+deny that dear Annie is peculiar, and peculiarity always makes people
+difficult for other people. Of course it is horribly peculiar what she
+is proposing to do now. That in itself will be enough to convince people
+that dear Annie must be difficult. Only a difficult person could do such
+a strange thing."
+
+"Who is going to get up and get breakfast in the morning, and wash the
+dishes?" inquired Jane, irrelevantly.
+
+"All I ever want for breakfast is a bit of fruit, a roll, and an egg,
+besides my coffee," said Imogen, with her imperious air.
+
+"Somebody has to prepare it."
+
+"That is a mere nothing," said Imogen, and she took another stitch.
+
+After a little, Jane and Eliza went by themselves and discussed the
+problem.
+
+"It is quite evident that Imogen means to do nothing," said Jane.
+
+"And also that she will justify herself by the theory that there is
+nothing to be done," said Eliza.
+
+"Oh, well," said Jane, "I will get up and get breakfast, of course. I
+once contemplated the prospect of doing it the rest of my life."
+
+Eliza assented. "I can understand that it will not be so hard for you,"
+she said, "and although I myself always aspired to higher things than
+preparing breakfasts, still, you did not, and it is true that you would
+probably have had it to do if poor Henry had lived, for he was not one
+to ever have a very large salary."
+
+"There are better things than large salaries," said Jane, and her face
+looked sadly reminiscent. After all, the distinction of being the only
+one who had been on the brink of preparing matrimonial breakfasts was
+much. She felt that it would make early rising and early work endurable
+to her, although she was not an active young woman.
+
+"I will get a dish-mop and wash the dishes," said Eliza. "I can manage
+to have an instructive book propped open on the kitchen table, and keep
+my mind upon higher things as I do such menial tasks."
+
+Then Susan stood in the doorway, a tall figure gracefully swaying
+sidewise, long-throated and prominent-eyed. She was the least
+attractive-looking of any of the sisters, but her manners were so
+charming, and she was so perfectly the lady, that it made up for any
+lack of beauty.
+
+"I will dust," said Susan, in a lovely voice, and as she spoke she
+involuntarily bent and swirled her limp muslins in such a way that she
+fairly suggested a moral duster. There was the making of an actress in
+Susan. Nobody had ever been able to decide what her true individual self
+was. Quite unconsciously, like a chameleon, she took upon herself the
+characteristics of even inanimate things. Just now she was a duster, and
+a wonderfully creditable duster.
+
+"Who," said Jane, "is going to sweep? Dear Annie has always done that."
+
+"I am not strong enough to sweep. I am very sorry," said Susan, who
+remained a duster, and did not become a broom.
+
+"If we have system," said Eliza, vaguely, "the work ought not to be so
+very hard."
+
+"Of course not," said Imogen. She had come in and seated herself. Her
+three sisters eyed her, but she embroidered imperturbably. The same
+thought was in the minds of all. Obviously Imogen was the very one to
+take the task of sweeping upon herself. That hard, compact, young body
+of hers suggested strenuous household work. Embroidery did not seem to
+be her role at all.
+
+But Imogen had no intention of sweeping. Indeed, the very imagining of
+such tasks in connection with herself was beyond her. She did not even
+dream that her sisters expected it of her.
+
+"I suppose," said Jane, "that we might be able to engage Mrs. Moss to
+come in once a week and do the sweeping."
+
+"It would cost considerable," said Susan.
+
+"But it has to be done."
+
+"I should think it might be managed, with system, if you did not hire
+anybody," said Imogen, calmly.
+
+"You talk of system as if it were a suction cleaner," said Eliza, with
+a dash of asperity. Sometimes she reflected how she would have hated
+Imogen had she not been her sister.
+
+"System is invaluable," said Imogen. She looked away from her embroidery
+to the white stretch of country road, arched over with elms, and
+her beautiful eyes had an expression as if they sighted system, the
+justified settler of all problems.
+
+Meantime, Annie Hempstead was traveling to Anderson in the jolting
+trolley-car, and trying to settle her emotions and her outlook upon
+life, which jolted worse than the car upon a strange new track. She
+had not the slightest intention of giving up her plan, but she realized
+within herself the sensations of a revolutionist. Who in her family,
+for generations and generations, had ever taken the course which she was
+taking? She was not exactly frightened--Annie had splendid courage when
+once her blood was up--but she was conscious of a tumult and grind of
+adjustment to a new level which made her nervous.
+
+She reached the end of the car line, then walked about half a mile to
+her Aunt Felicia Hempstead's house. It was a handsome house, after the
+standard of nearly half a century ago. It had an opulent air, with
+its swelling breasts of bay windows, through which showed fine lace
+curtains; its dormer-windows, each with its carefully draped curtains;
+its black-walnut front door, whose side-lights were screened with
+medallioned lace. The house sat high on three terraces of velvet-like
+grass, and was surmounted by stone steps in three instalments, each of
+which was flanked by stone lions.
+
+Annie mounted the three tiers of steps between the stone lions and rang
+the front-door bell, which was polished so brightly that it winked
+at her like a brazen eye. Almost directly the door was opened by an
+immaculate, white-capped and white-aproned maid, and Annie was ushered
+into the parlor. When Annie had been a little thing she had been
+enamoured of and impressed by the splendor of this parlor. Now she had
+doubts of it, in spite of the long, magnificent sweep of lace curtains,
+the sheen of carefully kept upholstery, the gleam of alabaster
+statuettes, and the even piles of gilt-edged books upon the polished
+tables.
+
+Soon Mrs. Felicia Hempstead entered, a tall, well-set-up woman, with
+a handsome face and keen eyes. She wore her usual morning costume--a
+breakfast sacque of black silk profusely trimmed with lace, and a black
+silk skirt. She kissed Annie, with a slight peck of closely set lips,
+for she liked her. Then she sat down opposite her and regarded her with
+as much of a smile as her sternly set mouth could manage, and inquired
+politely regarding her health and that of the family. When Annie
+broached the subject of her call, the set calm of her face relaxed, and
+she nodded.
+
+"I know what your sisters are. You need not explain to me," she said.
+
+"But," returned Annie, "I do not think they realize. It is only because
+I--"
+
+"Of course," said Felicia Hempstead. "It is because they need a dose
+of bitter medicine, and you hope they will be the better for it. I
+understand you, my dear. You have spirit enough, but you don't get it
+up often. That is where they make their mistake. Often the meek are meek
+from choice, and they are the ones to beware of. I don't blame you for
+trying it. And you can have Effie and welcome. I warn you that she is a
+little wearing. Of course she can't help her affliction, poor child, but
+it is dreadful. I have had her taught. She can read and write very
+well now, poor child, and she is not lacking, and I have kept her well
+dressed. I take her out to drive with me every day, and am not ashamed
+to have her seen with me. If she had all her faculties she would not be
+a bad-looking little girl. Now, of course, she has something of a vacant
+expression. That comes, I suppose, from her not being able to hear. She
+has learned to speak a few words, but I don't encourage her doing that
+before people. It is too evident that there is something wrong. She
+never gets off one tone. But I will let her speak to you. She will be
+glad to go with you. She likes you, and I dare say you can put up with
+her. A woman when she is alone will make a companion of a brazen image.
+You can manage all right for everything except her clothes and lessons.
+I will pay for them."
+
+"Can't I give her lessons?"
+
+"Well, you can try, but I am afraid you will need to have Mr. Freer come
+over once a week. It seems to me to be quite a knack to teach the deaf
+and dumb. You can see. I will have Effie come in and tell her about
+the plan. I wanted to go to Europe this summer, and did not know how to
+manage about Effie. It will be a godsend to me, this arrangement, and of
+course after the year is up she can come back."
+
+With that Felicia touched a bell, the maid appeared with automatic
+readiness, and presently a tall little girl entered. She was very well
+dressed. Her linen frock was hand-embroidered, and her shoes were ultra.
+Her pretty shock of fair hair was tied with French ribbon in a fetching
+bow, and she made a courtesy which would have befitted a little
+princess. Poor Effie's courtesy was the one feature in which Felicia
+Hempstead took pride. After making it the child always glanced at her
+for approval, and her face lighted up with pleasure at the faint smile
+which her little performance evoked. Effie would have been a pretty
+little girl had it not been for that vacant, bewildered expression of
+which Felicia had spoken. It was the expression of one shut up with
+the darkest silence of life, that of her own self, and beauty was
+incompatible with it.
+
+Felicia placed her stiff forefinger upon her own lips and nodded, and
+the child's face became transfigured. She spoke in a level, awful voice,
+utterly devoid of inflection, and full of fright. Her voice was as the
+first attempt of a skater upon ice. However, it was intelligible.
+
+"Good morning," said she. "I hope you are well." Then she courtesied
+again. That little speech and one other, "Thank you, I am very well,"
+were all she had mastered. Effie's instruction had begun rather late,
+and her teacher was not remarkably skilful.
+
+When Annie's lips moved in response, Effie's face fairly glowed with
+delight and affection. The little girl loved Annie. Then her questioning
+eyes sought Felicia, who beckoned, and drew from the pocket of her
+rustling silk skirt a tiny pad and pencil. Effie crossed the room and
+stood at attention while Felicia wrote. When she had read the words on
+the pad she gave one look at Annie, then another at Felicia, who nodded.
+
+Effie courtesied before Annie like a fairy dancer. "Good morning. I hope
+you are well," she said. Then she courtesied again and said, "Thank you,
+I am very well." Her pretty little face was quite eager with love and
+pleasure, and yet there was an effect as of a veil before the happy
+emotion in it. The contrast between the awful, level voice and the grace
+of motion and evident delight at once shocked and compelled pity. Annie
+put her arms around Effie and kissed her.
+
+"You dear little thing," she said, quite forgetting that Effie could not
+hear.
+
+Felicia Hempstead got speedily to work, and soon Effie's effects were
+packed and ready for transportation upon the first express to Lynn
+Corners, and Annie and the little girl had boarded the trolley thither.
+
+Annie Hempstead had the sensation of one who takes a cold plunge--half
+pain and fright, half exhilaration and triumph--when she had fairly
+taken possession of her grandmother's house. There was genuine girlish
+pleasure in looking over the stock of old china and linen and ancient
+mahoganies, in starting a fire in the kitchen stove, and preparing a
+meal, the written order for which Effie had taken to the grocer and
+butcher. There was genuine delight in sitting down with Effie at her
+very own table, spread with her grandmother's old damask and pretty
+dishes, and eating, without hearing a word of unfavorable comment upon
+the cookery. But there was a certain pain and terror in trampling upon
+that which it was difficult to define, either her conscience or sense of
+the divine right of the conventional.
+
+But that night after Effie had gone to bed, and the house was set to
+rights, and she in her cool muslin was sitting on the front-door step,
+under the hooded trellis covered with wistaria, she was conscious of
+entire emancipation. She fairly gloated over her new estate.
+
+"To-night one of the others will really have to get the supper, and wash
+the dishes, and not be able to say she did it and I didn't, when I
+did," Annie thought with unholy joy. She knew perfectly well that her
+viewpoint was not sanctified, but she felt that she must allow her
+soul to have its little witch-caper or she could not answer for the
+consequences. There might result spiritual atrophy, which would be much
+more disastrous than sin and repentance. It was either the continuance
+of her old life in her father's house, which was the ignominious and
+harmful one of the scapegoat, or this. She at last reveled in this. Here
+she was mistress. Here what she did, she did, and what she did not do
+remained undone. Here her silence was her invincible weapon. Here she
+was free.
+
+The soft summer night enveloped her. The air was sweet with flowers
+and the grass which lay still unraked in her father's yard. A momentary
+feeling of impatience seized her; then she dismissed it, and peace came.
+What had she to do with that hay? Her father would be obliged to buy hay
+if it were not raked over and dried, but what of that? She had nothing
+to do with it.
+
+She heard voices and soft laughter. A dark shadow passed along the
+street. Her heart quickened its beat. The shadow turned in at her
+father's gate. There was a babel of welcoming voices, of which Annie
+could not distinguish one articulate word. She sat leaning forward, her
+eyes intent upon the road. Then she heard the click of her father's gate
+and the dark, shadowy figure reappeared in the road. Annie knew who it
+was; she knew that Tom Reed was coming to see her. For a second, rapture
+seized her, then dismay. How well she knew her sisters-how very well!
+Not one of them would have given him the slightest inkling of the true
+situation. They would have told him, by the sweetest of insinuations,
+rather than by straight statements, that she had left her father's roof
+and come over here, but not one word would have been told him concerning
+her vow of silence. They would leave that for him to discover, to his
+amazement and anger.
+
+Annie rose and fled. She closed the door, turned the key softly, and ran
+up-stairs in the dark. Kneeling before a window on the farther side from
+her old home, she watched with eager eyes the young man open the gate
+and come up the path between the old-fashioned shrubs. The clove-like
+fragrance of the pinks in the border came in her face. Annie watched
+Tom Reed disappear beneath the trellised hood of the door; then the bell
+tinkled through the house. It seemed to Annie that she heard it as she
+had never heard anything before. Every nerve in her body seemed urging
+her to rise and go down-stairs and admit this young man whom she loved.
+But her will, turned upon itself, kept her back. She could not rise
+and go down; something stronger than her own wish restrained her. She
+suffered horribly, but she remained. The bell tinkled again. There was a
+pause, then it sounded for the third time.
+
+Annie leaned against the window, faint and trembling. It was rather
+horrible to continue such a fight between will and inclination, but she
+held out. She would not have been herself had she not done so. Then she
+saw Tom Reed's figure emerge from under the shadow of the door, pass
+down the path between the sweet-flowering shrubs, seeming to stir up
+the odor of the pinks as he did so. He started to go down the road;
+then Annie heard a loud, silvery call, with a harsh inflection, from her
+father's house. "Imogen is calling him back," she thought.
+
+Annie was out of the room, and, slipping softly down-stairs and out into
+the yard, crouched close to the fence overgrown with sweetbrier, its
+foundation hidden in the mallow, and there she listened. She wanted to
+know what Imogen and her other sisters were about to say to Tom Reed,
+and she meant to know. She heard every word. The distance was not great,
+and her sisters' voices carried far, in spite of their honeyed tones
+and efforts toward secrecy. By the time Tom had reached the gate of
+the parsonage they had all crowded down there, a fluttering assembly in
+their snowy summer muslins, like white doves. Annie heard Imogen first.
+Imogen was always the ringleader.
+
+"Couldn't you find her?" asked Imogen.
+
+"No. Rang three times," replied Tom. He had a boyish voice, and his
+chagrin showed plainly in it. Annie knew just how he looked, how dear
+and big and foolish, with his handsome, bewildered face, blurting out to
+her sisters his disappointment, with innocent faith in their sympathy.
+
+Then Annie heard Eliza speak in a small, sweet voice, which yet, to one
+who understood her, carried in it a sting of malice. "How very strange!"
+said Eliza.
+
+Jane spoke next. She echoed Eliza, but her voice was more emphatic and
+seemed multiple, as echoes do. "Yes, very strange indeed," said Jane.
+
+"Dear Annie is really very singular lately. It has distressed us all,
+especially father," said Susan, but deprecatingly.
+
+Then Imogen spoke, and to the point. "Annie must be in that house," said
+she. "She went in there, and she could not have gone out without our
+seeing her."
+
+Annie could fairly see the toss of Imogen's head as she spoke.
+
+"What in thunder do you all mean?" asked Tom Reed, and there was a
+bluntness, almost a brutality, in his voice which was refreshing.
+
+"I do not think such forcible language is becoming, especially at the
+parsonage," said Jane.
+
+Annie distinctly heard Tom Reed snort. "Hang it if I care whether it is
+becoming or not," said he.
+
+"You seem to forget that you are addressing ladies, sir," said Jane.
+
+"Don't forget it for a blessed minute," returned Tom Reed. "Wish I
+could. You make it too evident that you are--ladies, with every word you
+speak, and all your beating about the bush. A man would blurt it out,
+and then I would know where I am at. Hang it if I know now. You all say
+that your sister is singular and that she distresses your father, and
+you"--addressing Imogen--"say that she must be in that house. You are
+the only one who does make a dab at speaking out; I will say that much
+for you. Now, if she is in that house, what in thunder is the matter?"
+
+"I really cannot stay here and listen to such profane language," said
+Jane, and she flitted up the path to the house like an enraged white
+moth. She had a fleecy white shawl over her head, and her pale outline
+was triangular.
+
+"If she calls that profane, I pity her," said Tom Reed. He had known the
+girls since they were children, and had never liked Jane. He continued,
+still addressing Imogen. "For Heaven's sake, if she is in that house,
+what is the matter?" said he. "Doesn't the bell ring? Yes, it does ring,
+though it is as cracked as the devil. I heard it. Has Annie gone deaf?
+Is she sick? Is she asleep? It is only eight o'clock. I don't believe
+she is asleep. Doesn't she want to see me? Is that the trouble? What
+have I done? Is she angry with me?"
+
+Eliza spoke, smoothly and sweetly. "Dear Annie is singular," said she.
+
+"What the dickens do you mean by singular? I have known Annie ever since
+she was that high. It never struck me that she was any more singular
+than other girls, except she stood an awful lot of nagging without
+making a kick. Here you all say she is singular, as if you meant she
+was"--Tom hesitated a second--"crazy," said he. "Now, I know that Annie
+is saner than any girl around here, and that simply does not go down.
+What do you all mean by singular?"
+
+"Dear Annie may not be singular, but her actions are sometimes
+singular," said Susan. "We all feel badly about this."
+
+"You mean her going over to her grandmother's house to live? I don't
+know whether I think that is anything but horse-sense. I have eyes in my
+head, and I have used them. Annie has worked like a dog here; I suppose
+she needed a rest."
+
+"We all do our share of the work," said Eliza, calmly, "but we do it in
+a different way from dear Annie. She makes very hard work of work.
+She has not as much system as we could wish. She tires herself
+unnecessarily."
+
+"Yes, that is quite true," assented Imogen. "Dear Annie gets very tired
+over the slightest tasks, whereas if she went a little more slowly
+and used more system the work would be accomplished well and with no
+fatigue. There are five of us to do the work here, and the house is very
+convenient."
+
+There was a silence. Tom Reed was bewildered. "But--doesn't she want to
+see me?" he asked, finally.
+
+"Dear Annie takes very singular notions sometimes," said Eliza, softly.
+
+"If she took a notion not to go to the door when she heard the bell
+ring, she simply wouldn't," said Imogen, whose bluntness of speech was,
+after all, a relief.
+
+"Then you mean that you think she took a notion not to go to the door?"
+asked Tom, in a desperate tone.
+
+"Dear Annie is very singular," said Eliza, with such softness and
+deliberation that it was like a minor chord of music.
+
+"Do you know of anything she has against me?" asked Tom of Imogen; but
+Eliza answered for her.
+
+"Dear Annie is not in the habit of making confidantes of her sisters,"
+said she, "but we do know that she sometimes takes unwarranted
+dislikes."
+
+"Which time generally cures," said Susan.
+
+"Oh yes," assented Eliza, "which time generally cures. She can have no
+reason whatever for avoiding you. You have always treated her well."
+
+"I have always meant to," said Tom, so miserably and helplessly that
+Annie, listening, felt her heart go out to this young man, badgered by
+females, and she formed a sudden resolution.
+
+"You have not seen very much of her, anyway," said Imogen.
+
+"I have always asked for her, but I understood she was busy," said Tom,
+"and that was the reason why I saw her so seldom."
+
+"Oh," said Eliza, "busy!" She said it with an indescribable tone.
+
+"If," supplemented Imogen, "there was system, there would be no need of
+any one of us being too busy to see our friends."
+
+"Then she has not been busy? She has not wanted to see me?" said Tom. "I
+think I understand at last. I have been a fool not to before. You girls
+have broken it to me as well as you could. Much obliged, I am sure. Good
+night."
+
+"Won't you come in?" asked Imogen.
+
+"We might have some music," said Eliza.
+
+"And there is an orange cake, and I will make coffee," said Susan.
+
+Annie reflected rapidly how she herself had made that orange cake, and
+what queer coffee Susan would be apt to concoct.
+
+"No, thank you," said Tom Reed, briskly. "I will drop in another
+evening. Think I must go home now. I have some important letters. Good
+night, all."
+
+Annie made a soft rush to the gate, crouching low that her sisters might
+not see her. They flocked into the house with irascible murmurings, like
+scolding birds, while Annie stole across the grass, which had begun to
+glisten with silver wheels of dew. She held her skirts closely wrapped
+around her, and stepped through a gap in the shrubs beside the walk,
+then sped swiftly to the gate. She reached it just as Tom Reed was
+passing with a quick stride.
+
+"Tom," said Annie, and the young man stopped short.
+
+He looked in her direction, but she stood close to a great
+snowball-bush, and her dress was green muslin, and he did not see her.
+Thinking that he had been mistaken, he started on, when she called
+again, and this time she stepped apart from the bush and her voice
+sounded clear as a flute.
+
+"Tom," she said. "Stop a minute, please."
+
+Tom stopped and came close to her. In the dim light she could see that
+his face was all aglow, like a child's, with delight and surprise.
+
+"Is that you, Annie?" he said.
+
+"Yes. I want to speak to you, please."
+
+"I have been here before, and I rang the bell three times. Then you were
+out, although your sisters thought not."
+
+"No, I was in the house."
+
+"You did not hear the bell?"
+
+"Yes, I heard it every time."
+
+"Then why--?"
+
+"Come into the house with me and I will tell you; at least I will tell
+you all I can."
+
+Annie led the way and the young man followed. He stood in the dark entry
+while Annie lit the parlor lamp. The room was on the farther side of the
+house from the parsonage.
+
+"Come in and sit down," said Annie. Then the young man stepped into
+a room which was pretty in spite of itself. There was an old Brussels
+carpet with an enormous rose pattern. The haircloth furniture gave out
+gleams like black diamonds under the light of the lamp. In a corner
+stood a what-not piled with branches of white coral and shells. Annie's
+grandfather had been a sea-captain, and many of his spoils were in the
+house. Possibly Annie's own occupation of it was due to an adventurous
+strain inherited from him. Perhaps the same impulse which led him to
+voyage to foreign shores had led her to voyage across a green yard to
+the next house.
+
+Tom Reed sat down on the sofa. Annie sat in a rocking-chair near by. At
+her side was a Chinese teapoy, a nest of lacquer tables, and on it stood
+a small, squat idol. Annie's grandmother had been taken to task by her
+son-in-law, the Reverend Silas, for harboring a heathen idol, but she
+had only laughed,
+
+"Guess as long as I don't keep heathen to bow down before him, he can't
+do much harm," she had said.
+
+Now the grotesque face of the thing seemed to stare at the two
+Occidental lovers with the strange, calm sarcasm of the Orient, but they
+had no eyes or thought for it.
+
+"Why didn't you come to the door if you heard the bell ring?" asked Tom
+Reed, gazing at Annie, slender as a blade of grass in her clinging green
+gown.
+
+"Because I was not able to break my will then. I had to break it to go
+out in the yard and ask you to come in, but when the bell rang I hadn't
+got to the point where I could break it."
+
+"What on earth do you mean, Annie?"
+
+Annie laughed. "I don't wonder you ask," she said, "and the worst of
+it is I can't half answer you. I wonder how much, or rather how little
+explanation will content you?"
+
+Tom Reed gazed at her with the eyes of a man who might love a woman and
+have infinite patience with her, relegating his lack of understanding of
+her woman's nature to the background, as a thing of no consequence.
+
+"Mighty little will do for me," he said, "mighty little, Annie dear, if
+you will only tell a fellow you love him."
+
+Annie looked at him, and her thin, sweet face seemed to have a luminous
+quality, like a crescent moon. Her look was enough.
+
+"Then you do?" said Tom Reed.
+
+"You have never needed to ask," said Annie. "You knew."
+
+"I haven't been so sure as you think," said Tom. "Suppose you come over
+here and sit beside me. You look miles away."
+
+Annie laughed and blushed, but she obeyed. She sat beside Tom and
+let him put his arm around her. She sat up straight, by force of her
+instinctive maidenliness, but she kissed him back when he kissed her.
+
+"I haven't been so sure," repeated Tom. "Annie darling, why have I been
+unable to see more of you? I have fairly haunted your house, and seen
+the whole lot of your sisters, especially Imogen, but somehow or other
+you have been as slippery as an eel. I have always asked for you, but
+you were always out or busy."
+
+"I have been very busy," said Annie, evasively. She loved this young man
+with all her heart, but she had an enduring loyalty to her own flesh and
+blood.
+
+Tom was very literal. "Say, Annie," he blurted out, "I begin to think
+you have had to do most of the work over there. Now, haven't you? Own
+up."
+
+Annie laughed sweetly. She was so happy that no sense of injury could
+possibly rankle within her. "Oh, well," she said, lightly. "Perhaps. I
+don't know. I guess housekeeping comes rather easier to me than to the
+others. I like it, you know, and work is always easier when one likes
+it. The other girls don't take to it so naturally, and they get very
+tired, and it has seemed often that I was the one who could hurry the
+work through and not mind."
+
+"I wonder if you will stick up for me the way you do for your sisters
+when you are my wife?" said Tom, with a burst of love and admiration.
+Then he added: "Of course you are going to be my wife, Annie? You know
+what this means?"
+
+"If you think I will make you as good a wife as you can find," said
+Annie.
+
+"As good a wife! Annie, do you really know what you are?"
+
+"Just an ordinary girl, with no special talent for anything."
+
+"You are the most wonderful girl that ever walked the earth," exclaimed
+Tom. "And as for talent, you have the best talent in the whole world;
+you can love people who are not worthy to tie your shoestrings, and
+think you are looking up when in reality you are looking down. That is
+what I call the best talent in the whole world for a woman." Tom Reed
+was becoming almost subtle.
+
+Annie only laughed happily again. "Well, you will have to wait and find
+out," said she.
+
+"I suppose," said Tom, "that you came over here because you were tired
+out, this hot weather. I think you were sensible, but I don't think you
+ought to be here alone."
+
+"I am not alone," replied Annie. "I have poor little Effie Hempstead
+with me."
+
+"That deaf-and-dumb child? I should think this heathen god would be
+about as much company."
+
+"Why, Tom, she is human, if she is deaf and dumb."
+
+Tom eyed her shrewdly. "What did you mean when you said you had broken
+your will?" he inquired.
+
+"My will not to speak for a while," said Annie, faintly.
+
+"Not to speak--to any one?"
+
+Annie nodded.
+
+"Then you have broken your resolution by speaking to me?"
+
+Annie nodded again.
+
+"But why shouldn't you speak? I don't understand."
+
+"I wondered how little I could say, and have you satisfied," Annie
+replied, sadly.
+
+Tom tightened his arm around her. "You precious little soul," he said.
+"I am satisfied. I know you have some good reason for not wanting to
+speak, but I am plaguey glad you spoke to me, for I should have been
+pretty well cast down if you hadn't, and to-morrow I have to go away."
+
+Annie leaned toward him. "Go away!"
+
+"Yes; I have to go to California about that confounded Ames will case.
+And I don't know exactly where, on the Pacific coast, the parties I have
+to interview may be, and I may have to be away weeks, possibly months.
+Annie darling, it did seem to me a cruel state of things to have to go
+so far, and leave you here, living in such a queer fashion, and not
+know how you felt. Lord! but I'm glad you had sense enough to call me,
+Annie."
+
+"I couldn't let you go by, when it came to it, and Tom--"
+
+"What, dear?"
+
+"I did an awful mean thing: something I never was guilty of before.
+I--listened."
+
+"Well, I don't see what harm it did. You didn't hear much to your or
+your sisters' disadvantage, that I can remember. They kept calling you
+'dear.'"
+
+"Yes," said Annie, quickly. Again, such was her love and thankfulness
+that a great wave of love and forgiveness for her sisters swept over
+her. Annie had a nature compounded of depths of sweetness; nobody
+could be mistaken with regard to that. What they did mistake was the
+possibility of even sweetness being at bay at times, and remaining
+there.
+
+"You don't mean to speak to anybody else?" asked Tom.
+
+"Not for a year, if I can avoid it without making comment which might
+hurt father."
+
+"Why, dear?"
+
+"That is what I cannot tell you," replied Annie, looking into his face
+with a troubled smile.
+
+Tom looked at her in a puzzled way, then he kissed her.
+
+"Oh, well, dear," he said, "it is all right. I know perfectly well you
+would do nothing in which you were not justified, and you have spoken to
+me, anyway, and that is the main thing. I think if I had been obliged
+to start to-morrow without a word from you I shouldn't have cared a hang
+whether I ever came back or not. You are the only soul to hold me here;
+you know that, darling."
+
+"Yes," replied Annie.
+
+"You are the only one," repeated Tom, "but it seems to me this minute as
+if you were a whole host, you dear little soul. But I don't quite like
+to leave you here living alone, except for Effie."
+
+"Oh, I am within a stone's-throw of father's," said Annie, lightly.
+
+"I admit that. Still, you are alone. Annie, when are you going to marry
+me?"
+
+Annie regarded him with a clear, innocent look. She had lived such a
+busy life that her mind was unfilmed by dreams. "Whenever you like,
+after you come home," said she.
+
+"It can't be too soon for me. I want my wife and I want my home. What
+will you do while I am gone, dear?"
+
+Annie laughed. "Oh, I shall do what I have seen other girls do--get
+ready to be married."
+
+"That means sewing, lots of hemming and tucking and stitching, doesn't
+it?"
+
+"Of course."
+
+"Girls are so funny," said Tom. "Now imagine a man sitting right down
+and sewing like mad on his collars and neckties and shirts the minute a
+girl said she'd marry him!"
+
+"Girls like it."
+
+"Well, I suppose they do," said Tom, and he looked down at Annie from
+a tender height of masculinity, and at the same time seemed to look up
+from the valley of one who cannot understand the subtle and poetical
+details in a woman's soul.
+
+He did not stay long after that, for it was late. As he passed through
+the gate, after a tender farewell, Annie watched him with shining eyes.
+She was now to be all alone, but two things she had, her freedom and her
+love, and they would suffice.
+
+The next morning Silas Hempstead, urged by his daughters, walked
+solemnly over to the next house, but he derived little satisfaction.
+Annie did not absolutely refuse to speak. She had begun to realize that
+carrying out her resolution to the extreme letter was impossible. But
+she said as little as she could.
+
+"I have come over here to live for the present. I am of age, and have a
+right to consult my own wishes. My decision is unalterable." Having said
+this much, Annie closed her mouth and said no more. Silas argued and
+pleaded. Annie sat placidly sewing beside one front window of the sunny
+sittingroom. Effie, with a bit of fancy-work, sat at another. Finally
+Silas went home defeated, with a last word, half condemnatory, half
+placative. Silas was not the sort to stand firm against such feminine
+strength as his daughter Annie's. However, he secretly held her dearer
+than all his other children.
+
+After her father had gone, Annie sat taking even stitch after even
+stitch, but a few tears ran over her cheeks and fell upon the soft mass
+of muslin. Effie watched with shrewd, speculative silence, like a pet
+cat. Then suddenly she rose and went close to Annie, with her little
+arms around her neck, and the poor dumb mouth repeating her little
+speeches: "Thank you, I am very well, thank you, I am very well," over
+and over.
+
+Annie kissed her fondly, and was aware of a sense of comfort and of love
+for this poor little Effie. Still, after being nearly two months with
+the child, she was relieved when Felicia Hempstead came, the first of
+September, and wished to take Effie home with her. She had not gone to
+Europe, after all, but to the mountains, and upon her return had missed
+the little girl.
+
+Effie went willingly enough, but Annie discovered that she too missed
+her. Now loneliness had her fairly in its grip. She had a telephone
+installed, and gave her orders over that. Sometimes the sound of a
+human voice made her emotional to tears. Besides the voices over the
+telephone, Annie had nobody, for Benny returned to college soon after
+Effie left. Benny had been in the habit of coming in to see Annie, and
+she had not had the heart to check him. She talked to him very little,
+and knew that he was no telltale as far as she was concerned, although
+he waxed most communicative with regard to the others. A few days before
+he left he came over and begged her to return.
+
+"I know the girls have nagged you till you are fairly worn out," he
+said. "I know they don't tell things straight, but I don't believe they
+know it, and I don't see why you can't come home, and insist upon your
+rights, and not work so hard."
+
+"If I come home now it will be as it was before," said Annie.
+
+"Can't you stand up for yourself and not have it the same?"
+
+Annie shook her head.
+
+"Seems as if you could," said Benny. "I always thought a girl knew how
+to manage other girls. It is rather awful the way things go now over
+there. Father must be uncomfortable enough trying to eat the stuff they
+set before him and living in such a dirty house."
+
+Annie winced. "Is it so very dirty?"
+
+Benny whistled.
+
+"Is the food so bad?"
+
+Benny whistled again.
+
+"You advised me--or it amounted to the same thing--to take this stand,"
+said Annie.
+
+"I know I did, but I didn't know how bad it would be. Guess I didn't
+half appreciate you myself, Annie. Well, you must do as you think best,
+but if you could look in over there your heart would ache."
+
+"My heart aches as it is," said Annie, sadly.
+
+Benny put an arm around her. "Poor girl!" he said. "It is a shame, but
+you are going to marry Tom. You ought not to have the heartache."
+
+"Marriage isn't everything," said Annie, "and my heart does ache, but--I
+can't go back there, unless--I can't make it clear to you, Benny, but
+it seems to me as if I couldn't go back there until the year is up, or
+I shouldn't be myself, and it seems, too, as if I should not be doing
+right by the girls. There are things more important even than doing
+work for others. I have got it through my head that I can be dreadfully
+selfish being unselfish."
+
+"Well, I suppose you are right," admitted Benny with a sigh.
+
+Then he kissed Annie and went away, and the blackness of loneliness
+settled down upon her. She had wondered at first that none of the
+village people came to see her, although she did not wish to talk to
+them; then she no longer wondered. She heard, without hearing, just what
+her sisters had said about her.
+
+That was a long winter for Annie Hempstead. Letters did not come very
+regularly from Tom Reed, for it was a season of heavy snowfalls and the
+mails were often delayed. The letters were all that she had for comfort
+and company. She had bought a canary-bird, adopted a stray kitten, and
+filled her sunny windows with plants. She sat beside them and sewed, and
+tried to be happy and content, but all the time there was a frightful
+uncertainty deep down within her heart as to whether or not she was
+doing right. She knew that her sisters were unworthy, and yet her love
+and longing for them waxed greater and greater. As for her father, she
+loved him as she had never loved him before. The struggle grew terrible.
+Many a time she dressed herself in outdoor array and started to go
+home, but something always held her back. It was a strange conflict
+that endured through the winter months, the conflict of a loving,
+self-effacing heart with its own instincts.
+
+Toward the last of February her father came over at dusk. Annie ran to
+the door, and he entered. He looked unkempt and dejected. He did not
+say much, but sat down and looked about him with a half-angry,
+half-discouraged air. Annie went out into the kitchen and broiled some
+beefsteak, and creamed some potatoes, and made tea and toast. Then she
+called him into the sitting-room, and he ate like one famished.
+
+"Your sister Susan does the best she can," he said, when he had
+finished, "and lately Jane has been trying, but they don't seem to have
+the knack. I don't want to urge you, Annie, but--"
+
+"You know when I am married you will have to get on without me," Annie
+said, in a low voice.
+
+"Yes, but in the mean time you might, if you were home, show Susan and
+Jane."
+
+"Father," said Annie, "you know if I came home now it would be just
+the same as it was before. You know if I give in and break my word with
+myself to stay away a year what they will think and do."
+
+"I suppose they might take advantage," admitted Silas, heavily. "I fear
+you have always given in to them too much for their own good."
+
+"Then I shall not give in now," said Annie, and she shut her mouth
+tightly.
+
+There came a peal of the cracked door-bell, and Silas started with a
+curious, guilty look. Annie regarded him sharply. "Who is it, father?"
+
+"Well, I heard Imogen say to Eliza that she thought it was very foolish
+for them all to stay over there and have the extra care and expense,
+when you were here."
+
+"You mean that the girls--?"
+
+"I think they did have a little idea that they might come here and make
+you a little visit--"
+
+Annie was at the front door with a bound. The key turned in the lock and
+a bolt shot into place. Then she returned to her father, and her face
+was very white.
+
+"You did not lock your door against your own sisters?" he gasped.
+
+"God forgive me, I did."
+
+The bell pealed again. Annie stood still, her mouth quivering in a
+strange, rigid fashion. The curtains in the dining-room windows were
+not drawn. Suddenly one window showed full of her sisters' faces. It was
+Susan who spoke.
+
+"Annie, you can't mean to lock us out?" Susan's face looked strange and
+wild, peering in out of the dark. Imogen's handsome face towered over
+her shoulder.
+
+"We think it advisable to close our house and make you a visit," she
+said, quite distinctly through the glass.
+
+Then Jane said, with an inaudible sob, "Dear Annie, you can't mean to
+keep us out!"
+
+Annie looked at them and said not a word. Their half-commanding,
+half-imploring voices continued a while. Then the faces disappeared.
+
+Annie turned to her father. "God knows if I have done right," she said,
+"but I am doing what you have taken me to account for not doing."
+
+"Yes, I know," said Silas. He sat for a while silent. Then he rose,
+kissed Annie--something he had seldom done--and went home. After he had
+gone Annie sat down and cried. She did not go to bed that night. The cat
+jumped up in her lap, and she was glad of that soft, purring comfort. It
+seemed to her as if she had committed a great crime, and as if she
+had suffered martyrdom. She loved her father and her sisters with such
+intensity that her heart groaned with the weight of pure love. For the
+time it seemed to her that she loved them more than the man whom she was
+to marry. She sat there and held herself, as with chains of agony, from
+rushing out into the night, home to them all, and breaking her vow.
+
+It was never quite so bad after that night, for Annie compromised. She
+baked bread and cake and pies, and carried them over after nightfall
+and left them at her father's door. She even, later on, made a pot of
+coffee, and hurried over with it in the dawn-light, always watching
+behind a corner of a curtain until she saw an arm reached out for it.
+All this comforted Annie, and, moreover, the time was drawing near when
+she could go home.
+
+Tom Reed had been delayed much longer than he expected. He would not be
+home before early fall. They would not be married until November, and
+she would have several months at home first.
+
+At last the day came. Out in Silas Hempstead's front yard the grass
+waved tall, dotted with disks of clover. Benny was home, and he had been
+over to see Annie every day since his return. That morning when Annie
+looked out of her window the first thing she saw was Benny waving a
+scythe in awkward sweep among the grass and clover. An immense pity
+seized her at the sight. She realized that he was doing this for her,
+conquering his indolence. She almost sobbed.
+
+"Dear, dear boy, he will cut himself," she thought. Then she conquered
+her own love and pity, even as her brother was conquering his sloth. She
+understood clearly that it was better for Benny to go on with his task
+even if he did cut himself.
+
+The grass was laid low when she went home, and Benny stood, a conqueror
+in a battle-field of summer, leaning on his scythe.
+
+"Only look, Annie," he cried out, like a child. "I have cut all the
+grass."
+
+Annie wanted to hug him. Instead she laughed. "It was time to cut it,"
+she said. Her tone was cool, but her eyes were adoring.
+
+Benny laid down his scythe, took her by the arm, and led her into the
+house. Silas and his other daughters were in the sitting-room, and the
+room was so orderly it was painful. The ornaments on the mantel-shelf
+stood as regularly as soldiers on parade, and it was the same with the
+chairs. Even the cushions on the sofa were arranged with one corner
+overlapping another. The curtains were drawn at exactly the same height
+from the sill. The carpet looked as if swept threadbare.
+
+Annie's first feeling was of worried astonishment; then her eye caught
+a glimpse of Susan's kitchen apron tucked under a sofa pillow, and of
+layers of dust on the table, and she felt relieved. After all, what she
+had done had not completely changed the sisters, whom she loved, faults
+and all. Annie realized how horrible it would have been to find her
+loved ones completely changed, even for the better. They would have
+seemed like strange, aloof angels to her.
+
+They all welcomed her with a slight stiffness, yet with cordiality. Then
+Silas made a little speech.
+
+"Your father and your sisters are glad to welcome you home, dear Annie,"
+he said, "and your sisters wish me to say for them that they realize
+that possibly they may have underestimated your tasks and overestimated
+their own. In short, they may not have been--"
+
+Silas hesitated, and Benny finished. "What the girls want you to know,
+Annie, is that they have found out they have been a parcel of pigs."
+
+"We fear we have been selfish without realizing it," said Jane, and she
+kissed Annie, as did Susan and Eliza. Imogen, looking very handsome
+in her blue linen, with her embroidery in her hands, did not kiss her
+sister. She was not given to demonstrations, but she smiled complacently
+at her.
+
+"We are all very glad to have dear Annie back, I am sure," said she,
+"and now that it is all over, we all feel that it has been for the best,
+although it has seemed very singular, and made, I fear, considerable
+talk. But, of course, when one person in a family insists upon taking
+everything upon herself, it must result in making the others selfish."
+
+Annie did not hear one word that Imogen said. She was crying on Susan's
+shoulder.
+
+"Oh, I am so glad to be home," she sobbed.
+
+And they all stood gathered about her, rejoicing and fond of her, but
+she was the one lover among them all who had been capable of hurting
+them and hurting herself for love's sake.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Copy-Cat and Other Stories, by 
+Mary E. Wilkins Freeman
+
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