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diff --git a/24874.txt b/24874.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..412fe8e --- /dev/null +++ b/24874.txt @@ -0,0 +1,8940 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Lucy Maud Montgomery Short Stories, 1902 to +1903, by Lucy Maud Montgomery + +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: Lucy Maud Montgomery Short Stories, 1902 to 1903 + +Author: Lucy Maud Montgomery + +Release Date: March 19, 2008 [EBook #24874] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MONTGOMERY SHORT STORIES *** + + + + +Produced by Alicia Williams, Jeannie Howse and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + +Lucy Maud Montgomery Short Stories, 1902 to 1903 + + +Lucy Maud Montgomery was born at Clifton (now New London), Prince +Edward Island, Canada, on November 30, 1874. She achieved +international fame in her lifetime, putting Prince Edward Island and +Canada on the world literary map. Best known for her "Anne of Green +Gables" books, she was also a prolific writer of short stories and +poetry. She published some 500 short stories and poems and twenty +novels before her death in 1942. The Project Gutenberg collection of +her short stories was gathered from numerous sources and is presented +in chronological publishing order: + +Lucy Maud Montgomery Short Stories, 1896 to 1901 +Lucy Maud Montgomery Short Stories, 1902 to 1903 +Lucy Maud Montgomery Short Stories, 1904 +Lucy Maud Montgomery Short Stories, 1905 to 1906 +Lucy Maud Montgomery Short Stories, 1907 to 1908 +Lucy Maud Montgomery Short Stories, 1909 to 1922 + + + * * * * * + + + + +Short Stories 1902 to 1903 + + A Patent Medicine Testimonial 1903 + A Sandshore Wooing 1903 + After Many Days 1903 + An Unconventional Confidence 1903 + Aunt Cyrilla's Christmas Basket 1903 + Davenport's Story 1902 + Emily's Husband 1903 + Min 1903 + Miss Cordelia's Accommodation 1903 + Ned's Stroke of Business 1903 + Our Runaway Kite 1903 + The Bride Roses 1903 + The Josephs' Christmas 1902 + The Magical Bond of the Sea 1903 + The Martyrdom of Estella 1902 + The Old Chest at Wyther Grange 1903 + The Osborne's Christmas 1903 + The Romance of Aunt Beatrice 1902 + The Running Away of Chester 1903 + The Strike at Putney 1903 + The Unhappiness of Miss Farquhar 1903 + Why Mr. Cropper Changed His Mind 1903 + + + + +A Patent Medicine Testimonial + + +"You might as well try to move the rock of Gibraltar as attempt to +change Uncle Abimelech's mind when it is once made up," said Murray +gloomily. + +Murray is like dear old Dad; he gets discouraged rather easily. Now, +I'm not like that; I'm more like Mother's folks. As Uncle Abimelech +has never failed to tell me when I have annoyed him, I'm "all Foster." +Uncle Abimelech doesn't like the Fosters. But I'm glad I take after +them. If I had folded my hands and sat down meekly when Uncle +Abimelech made known his good will and pleasure regarding Murray and +me after Father's death, Murray would never have got to college--nor I +either, for that matter. Only I wouldn't have minded that very much. I +just wanted to go to college because Murray did. I couldn't be +separated from him. We were twins and had always been together. + +As for Uncle Abimelech's mind, I knew that he never had been known to +change it. But, as he himself was fond of saying, there has to be a +first time for everything, and I had determined that this was to be +the first time for him. I hadn't any idea how I was going to bring it +about; but it just had to be done, and I'm not "all Foster" for +nothing. + +I knew I would have to depend on my own thinkers. Murray is clever at +books and dissecting dead things, but he couldn't help me out in this, +even if he hadn't settled beforehand that there was no use in opposing +Uncle Abimelech. + +"I'm going up to the garret to think this out, Murray," I said +solemnly. "Don't let anybody disturb me, and if Uncle Abimelech comes +over don't tell him where I am. If I don't come down in time to get +tea, get it yourself. I shall not leave the garret until I have +thought of some way to change Uncle Abimelech's mind." + +"Then you'll be a prisoner there for the term of your natural life, +dear sis," said Murray sceptically. "You're a clever girl, Prue--and +you've got enough decision for two--but you'll never get the better of +Uncle Abimelech." + +"We'll see," I said resolutely, and up to the garret I went. I shut +the door and bolted it good and fast to make sure. Then I piled some +old cushions in the window seat--for one might as well be comfortable +when one is thinking as not--and went over the whole ground from the +beginning. + +Outside the wind was thrashing the broad, leafy top of the maple whose +tallest twigs reached to the funny grey eaves of our old house. One +roly-poly little sparrow blew or flew to the sill and sat there for a +minute, looking at me with knowing eyes. Down below I could see Murray +in a corner of the yard, pottering over a sick duck. He had set its +broken leg and was nursing it back to health. Anyone except Uncle +Abimelech could see that Murray was simply born to be a doctor and +that it was flying in the face of Providence to think of making him +anything else. + +From the garret windows I could see all over the farm, for the house +is on the hill end of it. I could see all the dear old fields and the +spring meadow and the beech woods in the southwest corner. And beyond +the orchard were the two grey barns and down below at the right-hand +corner was the garden with all my sweet peas fluttering over the +fences and trellises like a horde of butterflies. It was a dear old +place and both Murray and I loved every stick and stone on it, but +there was no reason why we should go on living there when Murray +didn't like farming. And it wasn't our own, anyhow. It all belonged to +Uncle Abimelech. + +Father and Murray and I had always lived here together. Father's +health broke down during his college course. That was one reason why +Uncle Abimelech was set against Murray going to college, although +Murray is as chubby and sturdy a fellow as you could wish to see. +Anybody with Foster in him would be that. + +To go back to Father. The doctors told him that his only chance of +recovering his strength was an open-air life, so Father rented one of +Uncle Abimelech's farms and there he lived for the rest of his days. +He did not get strong again until it was too late for college, and he +was a square peg in a round hole all his life, as he used to tell us. +Mother died before we could remember, so Murray and Dad and I were +everything to each other. We were very happy too, although we were +bossed by Uncle Abimelech more or less. But he meant it well and +Father didn't mind. + +Then Father died--oh, that was a dreadful time! I hurried over it in +my thinking-out. Of course when Murray and I came to look our position +squarely in the face we found that we were dependent on Uncle +Abimelech for everything, even the roof over our heads. We were +literally as poor as church mice and even poorer, for at least they +get churches rent-free. + +Murray's heart was set on going to college and studying medicine. He +asked Uncle Abimelech to lend him enough money to get a start with and +then he could work his own way along and pay back the loan in due +time. Uncle Abimelech is rich, and Murray and I are his nearest +relatives. But he simply wouldn't listen to Murray's plan. + +"I put my foot firmly down on such nonsense," he said. "And you know +that when I put my foot down something squashes." + +It was not that Uncle Abimelech was miserly or that he grudged us +assistance. Not at all. He was ready to deal generously by us, but it +must be in his own way. His way was this. Murray and I were to stay on +the farm, and when Murray was twenty-one Uncle Abimelech said he would +deed the farm to him--make him a present of it out and out. + +"It's a good farm, Murray," he said. "Your father never made more than +a bare living out of it because he wasn't strong enough to work it +properly--that's what _he_ got out of a college course, by the way. +But you are strong enough and ambitious enough to do well." + +But Murray couldn't be a farmer, that was all there was to it. I told +Uncle Abimelech so, firmly, and I talked to him for days about it, but +Uncle Abimelech never wavered. He sat and listened to me with a +quizzical smile on that handsome, clean-shaven, ruddy old face of his, +with its cut-granite features. And in the end he said, + +"You ought to be the one to go to college if either of you did, Prue. +You would make a capital lawyer, if I believed in the higher education +of women, but I don't. Murray can take or leave the farm as he +chooses. If he prefers the latter alternative, well and good. But he +gets no help from me. You're a foolish little girl, Prue, to back him +up in this nonsense of his." + +It makes me angry to be called a little girl when I put up my hair a +year ago, and Uncle Abimelech knows it. I gave up arguing with him. I +knew it was no use anyway. + +I thought it all over in the garret. But no way out of the dilemma +could I see. I had eaten up all the apples I had brought with me and I +felt flabby and disconsolate. The sight of Uncle Abimelech stalking up +the lane, as erect and lordly as usual, served to deepen my gloom. + +I picked up the paper my apples had been wrapped in and looked it over +gloomily. Then I saw something, and Uncle Abimelech was delivered into +my hand. + +The whole plan of campaign unrolled itself before me, and I fairly +laughed in glee, looking out of the garret window right down on the +little bald spot on the top of Uncle Abimelech's head, as he stood +laying down the law to Murray about something. + +When Uncle Abimelech had gone I went down to Murray. + +"Buddy," I said, "I've thought of a plan. I'm not going to tell you +what it is, but you are to consent to it without knowing. I think it +will quench Uncle Abimelech, but you must have perfect confidence in +me. You must back me up no matter what I do and let me have my own way +in it all." + +"All right, sis," said Murray. + +"That isn't solemn enough," I protested. "I'm serious. Promise +solemnly." + +"I promise solemnly, 'cross my heart,'" said Murray, looking like an +owl. + +"Very well. Remember that your role is to lie low and say nothing, +like Brer Rabbit. Alloway's Anodyne Liniment is pretty good stuff, +isn't it, Murray? It cured your sprain after you had tried everything +else, didn't it?" + +"Yes. But I don't see the connection." + +"It isn't necessary that you should. Well, what with your sprain and +my rheumatics I think I can manage it." + +"Look here, Prue. Are you sure that long brooding over our troubles up +in the garret hasn't turned your brain?" + +"My brain is all right. Now leave me, minion. There is that which I +would do." + +Murray grinned and went. I wrote a letter, took it down to the office, +and mailed it. For a week there was nothing more to do. + +There is just one trait of Uncle Abimelech's disposition more marked +than his fondness for having his own way and that one thing is family +pride. The Melvilles are a very old family. The name dates back to the +Norman conquest when a certain Roger de Melville, who was an ancestor +of ours, went over to England with William the Conqueror. I don't +think the Melvilles ever did anything worth recording in history +since. To be sure, as far back as we can trace, none of them has ever +done anything bad either. They have been honest, respectable folks and +I think that is something worth being proud of. + +But Uncle Abimelech pinned his family pride to Roger de Melville. He +had the Melville coat of arms and our family tree, made out by an +eminent genealogist, framed and hung up in his library, and he would +not have done anything that would not have chimed in with that coat of +arms and a conquering ancestor for the world. + +At the end of a week I got an answer to my letter. It was what I +wanted. I wrote again and sent a parcel. In three weeks' time the +storm burst. + +One day I saw Uncle Abimelech striding up the lane. He had a big +newspaper clutched in his hand. I turned to Murray, who was poring +over a book of anatomy in the corner. + +"Murray, Uncle Abimelech is coming. There is going to be a battle +royal between us. Allow me to remind you of your promise." + +"To lie low and say nothing? That's the cue, isn't it, sis?" + +"Unless Uncle Abimelech appeals to you. In that case you are to back +me up." + +Then Uncle Abimelech stalked in. He was purple with rage. Old Roger de +Melville himself never could have looked fiercer. I _did_ feel a quake +or two, but I faced Uncle Abimelech undauntedly. No use in having your +name on the roll of Battle Abbey if you can't stand your ground. + +"Prudence, what does this mean?" thundered Uncle Abimelech, as he +flung the newspaper down on the table. Murray got up and peered over. +Then he whistled. He started to say something but remembered just in +time and stopped. But he did give me a black look. Murray has a +sneaking pride of name too, although he won't own up to it and laughs +at Uncle Abimelech. + +I looked at the paper and began to laugh. We did look so funny, Murray +and I, in that advertisement. It took up the whole page. At the top +were our photos, half life-size, and underneath our names and +addresses printed out in full. Below was the letter I had written to +the Alloway Anodyne Liniment folks. It was a florid testimonial to the +virtues of their liniment. I said that it had cured Murray's sprain +after all other remedies had failed and that, when I had been left a +partial wreck from a very bad attack of rheumatic fever, the only +thing that restored my joints and muscles to working order was +Alloway's Anodyne Liniment, and so on. + +It was all true enough, although I dare say old Aunt +Sarah-from-the-Hollow's rubbing had as much to do with the cures as +the liniment. But that is neither here nor there. + +"What does this mean, Prudence?" said Uncle Abimelech again. He was +quivering with wrath, but I was as cool as a cucumber, and Murray +stood like a graven image. + +"Why, that, Uncle Abimelech," I said calmly, "well, it just means one +of my ways of making money. That liniment company pays for those +testimonials and photos, you know. They gave me fifty dollars for the +privilege of publishing them. Fifty dollars will pay for books and +tuition for Murray and me at Kentville Academy next winter, and Mrs. +Tredgold is kind enough to say she will board me for what help I can +give her around the house, and wait for Murray's until he can earn it +by teaching." + +I rattled all this off glibly before Uncle Abimelech could get in a +word. + +"It's disgraceful!" he stormed. "Disgraceful! Think of Sir Roger de +Melville--and a patent medicine advertisement! Murray Melville, what +were you about, sir, to let your sister disgrace herself and her +family name by such an outrageous transaction?" + +I quaked a bit. If Murray should fail me! But Murray was true-blue. + +"I gave Prue a free hand, sir. It's an honest business transaction +enough--and the family name alone won't send us to college, you know, +sir." + +Uncle Abimelech glared at us. + +"This must be put an end to," he said. "This advertisement must not +appear again. I won't have it!" + +"But I've signed a contract that it is to run for six months," I said +sturdily. "And I've others in view. You remember the Herb Cure you +recommended one spring and that it did me so much good! I'm +negotiating with the makers of that and--" + +"The girl's mad!" said Uncle Abimelech. "Stark, staring mad!" + +"Oh, no, I'm not, Uncle Abimelech. I'm merely a pretty good +businesswoman. You won't help Murray to go to college, so I must. This +is the only way I have, and I'm going to see it through." + +After Uncle Abimelech had gone, still in a towering rage, Murray +remonstrated. But I reminded him of his promise and he had to succumb. + +Next day Uncle Abimelech returned--a subdued and chastened Uncle +Abimelech. + +"See here, Prue," he said sternly. "This thing must be stopped. I say +it _must_. I am not going to have the name of Melville dragged all +over the country in a patent medicine advertisement. You've played +your game and won it--take what comfort you can out of the confession: +If you will agree to cancel this notorious contract of yours I'll +settle it with the company--and I'll put Murray through college--and +you too if you want to go! Something will have to be done with you, +that's certain. Is this satisfactory?" + +"Perfectly," I said promptly. "If you will add thereto your promise +that you will forget and forgive, Uncle Abimelech. There are to be no +hard feelings." + +Uncle Abimelech shrugged his shoulders. + +"In for a penny, in for a pound," he said. "Very well, Prue. We wipe +off all scores and begin afresh. But there must be no more such +doings. You've worked your little scheme through--trust a Foster for +that! But in future you've got to remember that in law you're a +Melville whatever you are in fact." + +I nodded dutifully. "I'll remember, Uncle Abimelech," I promised. + +After everything had been arranged and Uncle Abimelech had gone I +looked at Murray. "Well?" I said. + +Murray twinkled. "You've accomplished the impossible, sis. But, as +Uncle Abimelech intimated--don't you try it again." + + + + +A Sandshore Wooing + + + Fir Cottage, Plover Sands. + July Sixth. + +We arrived here late last night, and all day Aunt Martha has kept her +room to rest. So I had to keep mine also, although I felt as fresh as +a morning lark, and just in the mood for enjoyment. + +My name is Marguerite Forrester--an absurdly long name for so small a +girl. Aunt Martha always calls me Marguer_ite_, with an accent of +strong disapproval. She does not like my name, but she gives me the +full benefit of it. Connie Shelmardine used to call me Rita. Connie +was my roommate last year at the Seminary. We correspond occasionally, +but Aunt Martha frowns on it. + +I have always lived with Aunt Martha--my parents died when I was a +baby. Aunt Martha says I am to be her heiress if I please her--which +means--but, oh, you do not know what "pleasing" Aunt Martha means. + +Aunt is a determined and inveterate man-hater. She has no particular +love for women, indeed, and trusts nobody but Mrs. Saxby, her maid. I +rather like Mrs. Saxby. She is not quite so far gone in petrifaction +as Aunt, although she gets a little stonier every year. I expect the +process will soon begin on me, but it hasn't yet. My flesh and blood +are still unreasonably warm and pulsing and rebellious. + +Aunt Martha would be in danger of taking a fit if she ever saw me +talking to a man. She watches me jealously, firmly determined to guard +me from any possible attack of a roaring and ravening lion in the +disguise of nineteenth-century masculine attire. So I have to walk +demurely and assume a virtue, if I have it not, while I pine after the +untested flesh-pots of Egypt in secret. + +We have come down to spend a few weeks at Fir Cottage. Our good +landlady is a capacious, kindly-souled creature, and I think she has +rather a liking for me. I have been chattering to her all day, for +there are times when I absolutely must talk to someone or go mad. + + + July Tenth. + + +This sort of life is decidedly dull. The program of every day is the +same. I go to the sandshore with Aunt Martha and Mrs. Saxby in the +morning, read to Aunt in the afternoons, and mope around by my +disconsolate self in the evenings. Mrs. Blake has lent me, for shore +use, a very fine spyglass which she owns. She says her "man" brought +it home from "furrin' parts" before he died. While Aunt and Mrs. Saxby +meander up and down the shore, leaving me free to a certain extent, I +amuse myself by examining distant seas and coasts through it, thus +getting a few peeps into a forbidden world. We see few people, +although there is a large summer hotel about a mile up the beach. Our +shore haunts do not seem to be popular with its guests. They prefer +the rocks. This suits Aunt Martha admirably. I may also add that it +doesn't suit her niece--but that is a matter of small importance. + +The first morning I noticed a white object on the rocks, about half a +mile away, and turned my glass on it. There--apparently within a +stone's throw of me--was a young man. He was lounging on a rock, +looking dreamily out to sea. There was something about his face that +reminded me of someone I know, but I cannot remember whom. + +Every morning he has reappeared on the same spot. He seems to be a +solitary individual, given to prowling by himself. I wonder what Aunt +would say if she knew what I am so earnestly watching through my glass +at times. + + + July Eleventh. + +I shall have to cease looking at the Unknown, I am afraid. + +This morning I turned my glass, as usual, on his pet haunt. I nearly +fell over in my astonishment, for he was also looking through a +spyglass straight at me, too, it seemed. How foolish I felt! And yet +my curiosity was so strong that a few minutes afterward I peeped back +again, just to see what he was doing. Then he coolly laid down his +glass, rose, lifted his cap and bowed politely to me--or, at least, in +my direction. I dropped my glass and smiled in a mixture of dismay and +amusement. Then I remembered that he was probably watching me again, +and might imagine my smile was meant for him. I banished it +immediately, shut my glass up and did not touch it again. Soon after +we came home. + + + July Twelfth. + +Something has happened at last. Today I went to the shore as usual, +fully resolved not even to glance in the forbidden direction. But in +the end I had to take a peep, and saw him on the rocks with his glass +levelled at me. When he saw that I was looking he laid down the glass, +held up his hands, and began to spell out something in the deaf-mute +alphabet. Now, I know that same alphabet. Connie taught it to me last +year, so that we might hold communication across the schoolroom. I +gave one frantic glance at Aunt Martha's rigid back, and then watched +him while he deftly spelled: "I am Francis Shelmardine. Are you not +Miss Forrester, my sister's friend?" + +Francis Shelmardine! Now I knew whom he resembled. And have I not +heard endless dissertations from Connie on this wonderful brother of +hers, Francis the clever, the handsome, the charming, until he has +become the only hero of dreams I have ever had? It was too wonderful. +I could only stare dazedly back through my glass. + +"May we know each other?" he went on. "May I come over and introduce +myself? Right hand, yes; left, no." + +I gasped! Suppose he were to come? _What_ would happen? I waved my +left hand sorrowfully. He looked quite crestfallen and disappointed as +he spelled out: "Why not? Would your friends disapprove?" + +I signalled: "Yes." + +"Are you displeased at my boldness?" was his next question. + +Where had all Aunt Martha's precepts flown to then? I blush to record +that I lifted my left hand shyly and had just time to catch his +pleased expression when Aunt Martha came up and said it was time to go +home. So I picked myself meekly up, shook the sand from my dress, and +followed my good aunt dutifully home. + + + July Thirteenth. + +When we went to the shore this morning I had to wait in spasms of +remorse and anxiety until Aunt got tired of reading and set off along +the shore with Mrs. Saxby. Then I reached for my glass. + +Mr. Shelmardine and I had quite a conversation. Under the +circumstances there could be no useless circumlocution in our exchange +of ideas. It was religiously "boiled down," and ran something like +this: + +"You are not displeased with me?" + +"No--but I should be." + +"Why?" + +"It is wrong to deceive Aunt." + +"I am quite respectable." + +"That is not the question." + +"Cannot her prejudices be overcome?" + +"Absolutely no." + +"Mrs. Allardyce, who is staying at the hotel, knows her well. Shall I +bring her over to vouch for my character?" + +"It would not do a bit of good." + +"Then it is hopeless." + +"Yes." + +"Would you object to knowing me on your own account?" + +"No." + +"Do you ever come to the shore alone?" + +"No. Aunt would not permit me." + +"Must she know?" + +"Yes. I would not come without her permission." + +"You will not refuse to chat with me thus now and then?" + +"I don't know. Perhaps not." + +I had to go home then. As we went Mrs. Saxby complimented me on my +good colour. Aunt Martha looked her disapproval. If I were really ill +Aunt would spend her last cent in my behalf, but she would be just as +well pleased to see me properly pale and subdued at all times, and not +looking as if I were too well contented in this vale of tears. + + + July Seventeenth. + +I have "talked" a good deal with Mr. Shelmardine these past four days. +He is to be at the beach for some weeks longer. This morning he +signalled across from the rocks: "I mean to see you at last. Tomorrow +I will walk over and pass you." + +"You must not. Aunt will suspect." + +"No danger. Don't be alarmed. I will do nothing rash." + +I suppose he will. He seems to be very determined. Of course, I cannot +prevent him from promenading on our beach all day if he chooses. But +then if he did, Aunt would speedily leave him in sole possession of +it. + +I wonder what I had better wear tomorrow. + + + July Nineteenth. + +Yesterday morning Aunt Martha was serene and unsuspicious. It is +dreadful of me to be deceiving her and I do feel guilty. I sat down on +the sand and pretended to read the "Memoirs of a Missionary"--Aunt +likes cheerful books like that--in an agony of anticipation. Presently +Aunt said, majestically: "Marguer_ite_, there is a man coming this +way. We will move further down." + +And we moved. Poor Aunt! + +Mr. Shelmardine came bravely on. I felt my heart beating to my very +finger tips. He halted by the fragment of an old stranded boat. Aunt +had turned her back on him. + +I ventured on a look. He lifted his hat with a twinkle in his eye. +Just then Aunt said, icily: "We will go home, Marguer_ite_. That +creature evidently intends to persist in his intrusion." + +Home we came accordingly. + +This morning he signalled across: "Letter from Connie. Message for +you. I mean to deliver it personally. Do you ever go to church?" + +Now, I _do_ go regularly to church at home. But Aunt Martha and Mrs. +Saxby are both such rigid church people that they would not darken the +doors of the Methodist church at Plover Sands for any consideration. +Needless to say, I am not allowed to go either. But it was impossible +to make this long explanation, so I merely replied: "Not here." + +"Will you not go tomorrow morning?" + +"Aunt will not let me." + +"Coax her." + +"Coaxing never has any effect on her." + +"Would she relent if Mrs. Allardyce were to call for you?" + +Now, I have been cautiously sounding Aunt about Mrs. Allardyce, and I +have discovered that she disapproves of her. So I said: "It would be +useless. I will ask Aunt if I may go, but I feel almost sure that she +will not consent." + +This evening, when Aunt was in an unusually genial mood, I plucked up +heart of grace and asked her. + +"Marguer_ite_," she said impressively, "you know that I do not attend +church here." + +"But, Aunt," I persisted, quakingly, "couldn't I go alone? It is not +very far--and I will be very careful." + +Aunt merely gave me a look that said about forty distinct and separate +things, and I was turning away in despair when Mrs. Saxby--bless her +heart--said: "I really think it would be no harm to let the child go." + +As Aunt attaches great importance to Mrs. Saxby's opinion, she looked +at me relentingly and said: "Well, I will think it over and let you +know in the morning, Marguer_ite_." + +Now, everything depends on the sort of humour Aunt is in in the +morning. + + + July Twentieth. + +This morning was perfect, and after breakfast Aunt said, +condescendingly: "I think you may attend church if you wish, +Marguer_ite_. Remember that I expect you to conduct yourself with +becoming prudence and modesty." + +I flew upstairs and pulled my prettiest dress out of my trunk. It is a +delicate, shimmering grey stuff with pearly tints about it. Every time +I get anything new, Aunt Martha and I have a battle royal over it. I +verily believe that Aunt would like me to dress in the fashions in +vogue in her youth. There is always a certain flavour of +old-fashionedness about my gowns and hats. Connie used to say that it +was delicious and gave me a piquant uniqueness--a certain unlikeness +to other people that possessed a positive charm. That is only Connie's +view of it, however. + +But I had had my own way about this dress and it is really very +becoming. I wore a little silvery-grey chip hat, trimmed with pale +pink flowers, and I pinned at my belt the sweetest cluster of +old-fashioned blush rosebuds from the garden. Then I borrowed a hymn +book from Mrs. Blake and ran down to undergo Aunt Martha's scrutiny. + +"Dear me, child," she said discontentedly, "you have gotten yourself +up very frivolously, it seems to me." + +"Why, Aunty," I protested, "I'm all in grey--every bit." + +Aunt Martha sniffed. You don't know how much Aunt can express in a +sniff. But I tripped to church like a bird. + +The first person I saw there was Mr. Shelmardine. He was sitting right +across from me and a smile glimmered in his eyes. I did not look at +him again. Through the service I was subdued enough to have satisfied +even Aunt Martha. + +When church came out, he waited for me at the entrance to his pew. I +pretended not to see him until he said "Good morning," in a voice +vibrating and deep, which sounded as though it might become infinitely +tender if its owner chose. When we went down the steps he took my +hymnal, and we walked up the long, bowery country road. + +"Thank you so much for coming today," he said--as if I went to oblige +him. + +"I had a hard time to get Aunt Martha's consent," I declared frankly. +"I wouldn't have succeeded if Mrs. Saxby hadn't taken my part." + +"Heaven bless Mrs. Saxby," he remarked fervently. "But is there any +known way of overcoming your aunt's scruples? If so, I am ready to +risk it." + +"There is none. Aunt Martha is very good and kind to me, but she will +never stop trying to bring me up. The process will be going on when I +am fifty. And she hates men! I don't know what she would do if she saw +me now." + +Mr. Shelmardine frowned and switched the unoffending daisies viciously +with his cane. + +"Then there is no hope of my seeing you openly and above-board?" + +"Not at present," I said faintly. + +After a brief silence we began to talk of other things. He told me how +he happened to see me first. + +"I was curious to know who the people were who were always in the same +place at the same time, so one day I took my telescope. I could see +you plainly. You were reading and had your hat off. When I went back +to the hotel I asked Mrs. Allardyce if she knew who the boarders at +Fir Cottage were and she told me. I had heard Connie speak of you, and +I determined to make your acquaintance." + +When we reached the lane I held out my hand for the hymnal. + +"You mustn't come any further, Mr. Shelmardine," I said hurriedly. +"Aunt--Aunt might see you." + +He took my hand and held it, looking at me seriously. + +"Suppose I were to walk up to the cottage tomorrow and ask for you?" + +I gasped. He looked so capable of doing anything he took it into his +head to do. + +"Oh, you wouldn't," I said piteously. "Aunt Martha would--you are not +in earnest." + +"I suppose not," he said regretfully. "Of course I would not do +anything that would cause you unpleasantness. But this must not--shall +not be our last meeting." + +"Aunt will not let me come to church again," I said. + +"Does she ever take a nap in the afternoon?" he queried. + +I wriggled my parasol about in the dust uneasily. + +"Sometimes." + +"I shall be at the old boat tomorrow afternoon at two-thirty," he +said. + +I pulled my hand away. + +"I couldn't--you know I couldn't," I cried--and then I blushed to my +ears. + +"Are you sure you couldn't?" bending a little nearer. + +"Quite sure," I murmured. + +He surrendered my hymnal at last. + +"Will you give me a rose?" + +I unpinned the whole cluster and handed it to him. He lifted it until +it touched his lips. As for me, I scuttled up the lane in the most +undignified fashion. At the turn I looked back. He was still standing +there with his hat off. + + + July Twenty-fourth. + +On Monday afternoon I slipped away to the shore while Aunt Martha and +Mrs. Saxby were taking their regular nap and I was supposed to be +reading sermons in my room. + +Mr. Shelmardine was leaning against the old boat, but he came swiftly +across the sand to meet me. + +"This is very kind of you," he said. + +"I ought not to have come," I said repentantly. "But it is so lonely +there--and one can't be interested in sermons and memoirs _all_ the +time." + +Mr. Shelmardine laughed. + +"Mr. and Mrs. Allardyce are on the other side of the boat. Will you +come and meet them?" + +How nice of him to bring them! I knew I should like Mrs. Allardyce, +just because Aunt Martha didn't. We had a delightful stroll. I never +thought of the time until Mr. Shelmardine said it was four o'clock. + +"Oh, is it so late as that?" I cried. "I must go at once." + +"I'm sorry we have kept you so long," remarked Mr. Shelmardine in a +tone of concern. "If she should be awake, what will the consequences +be?" + +"Too terrible to think of," I answered seriously. "I'm sorry, Mr. +Shelmardine, but you mustn't come any further." + +"_We_ will be here tomorrow afternoon," he said. + +"Mr. Shelmardine!" I protested. "I wish you wouldn't put such ideas +into my head. They won't come out--no, not if I read a whole volume of +sermons right through." + +We looked at each other for a second. Then he began to smile, and we +both went off into a peal of laughter. + +"At least let me know if Miss Fiske rampages," he called after me as I +fled. + +But Aunt Martha was not awake--and I have been to the shore three +afternoons since then. I was there today, and I'm going tomorrow for a +boat sail with Mr. Shelmardine and the Allardyces. But I am afraid the +former will do something rash soon. This afternoon he said: "I don't +think I can stand this much longer." + +"Stand what?" I asked. + +"You know very well," he answered recklessly. "Meeting you in this +clandestine manner, and thereby causing that poor little conscience of +yours such misery. If your aunt were not so--unreasonable, I should +never have stooped to it." + +"It is all my fault," I said contritely. + +"Well, I hardly meant that," he said grimly. "But hadn't I better go +frankly to your aunt and lay the whole case before her?" + +"You would never see me again if you did that," I said hastily--and +then wished I hadn't. + +"That is the worst threat you could make," he said. + + + July Twenty-fifth. + +It is all over, and I am the most miserable girl in the world. Of +course this means that Aunt Martha has discovered everything and the +deserved punishment of my sins has overtaken me. + +I slipped away again this afternoon and went for that boat sail. We +had a lovely time but were rather late getting in, and I hurried home +with many misgivings. Aunt Martha met me at the door. + +My dress was draggled, my hat had slipped back, and the kinks and curls +of my obstreperous hair were something awful. I know I looked very +disreputable and also, no doubt, very guilty and conscience-stricken. +Aunt gave me an unutterable look and then followed me up to my room in +grim silence. + +"Marguer_ite_, what does this mean?" + +I have lots of faults, but untruthfulness isn't one of them. I +confessed everything--at least, almost everything. I didn't tell about +the telescopes and deaf-mute alphabet, and Aunt was too +horror-stricken to think of asking how I first made Mr. Shelmardine's +acquaintance. She listened in stony silence. I had expected a terrible +scolding, but I suppose my crimes simply seemed to her too enormous +for words. + +When I had sobbed out my last word she rose, swept me one glance of +withering contempt, and left the room. Presently Mrs. Saxby came up, +looking concerned. + +"My dear child, what have you been doing? Your aunt says that we are +to go home on the afternoon train tomorrow. She is terribly upset." + +I just curled up on the bed and cried, while Mrs. Saxby packed my +trunk. I will have no chance to explain matters to Mr. Shelmardine. +And I will never see him again, for Aunt is quite capable of whisking +me off to Africa. He will just think me a feather-brained flirt. Oh, I +am so unhappy! + + + July Twenty-sixth. + +I am the happiest girl in the world! That is quite a different strain +from yesterday. We leave Fir Cottage in an hour, but that doesn't +matter now. + +I did not sleep a wink last night and crawled miserably down to +breakfast. Aunt took not the slightest notice of me, but to my +surprise she told Mrs. Saxby that she intended taking a farewell walk +to the shore. I knew I would be taken, too, to be kept out of +mischief, and my heart gave a great bound of hope. Perhaps I would +have a chance to send word to Francis, since Aunt did not know of the +part my spyglass had played in my bad behaviour. + +I meekly followed my grim guardians to the shore and sat dejectedly on +my rug while they paced the sand. Francis was on the rocks. As soon as +Aunt Martha and Mrs. Saxby were at a safe distance, I began my +message: "All discovered. Aunt is very angry. We go home today." + +Then I snatched my glass. His face expressed the direst consternation +and dismay. He signalled: "I must see you before you go." + +"Impossible. Aunt will never forgive me. Good-bye." + +I saw a look of desperate determination cross his face. If forty Aunt +Marthas had swooped down upon me, I could not have torn my eyes from +that glass. + +"I love you. You know it. Do you care for me? I must have my answer +now." + +What a situation! No time or chance for any maidenly hesitation or +softening aureole of words. Aunt and Mrs. Saxby had almost reached the +point where they invariably turned. I had barely time to spell out a +plain, blunt "yes" and read his answer. + +"I shall go home at once, get Mother and Connie, follow you, and +demand possession of my property. I shall win the day. Have no fear. +Till then, good-bye, my darling." + +"Marguerite," said Mrs. Saxby at my elbow, "it is time to go." + +I got up obediently. Aunt Martha was as grim and uncompromising as +ever, and Mrs. Saxby looked like a chief mourner, but do you suppose I +cared? I dropped behind them just once before we left the shore. I +knew he was watching me and I waved my hand. + +I suppose I am really engaged to Francis Shelmardine. But was there +ever such a funny wooing? And _what_ will Aunt Martha say? + + + + +After Many Days + + +The square, bare front room of the Baxter Station Hotel--so called +because there was no other house in the place to dispute the +title--was filled with men. Some of them were putting up at the hotel +while they worked at the new branch line, and some of them had dropped +in to exchange news and banter while waiting for the mail train. + +Gabe Foley, the proprietor, was playing at checkers with one of the +railroad men, but was not too deeply absorbed in the game to take in +all that was said around him. The air was dim with tobacco smoke, and +the brilliant, scarlet geraniums which Mrs. Foley kept in the bay +window looked oddly out of place. Gabe knew all those present except +one man--a stranger who had landed at Baxter Station from the +afternoon freight. Foley's hotel did not boast of a register, and the +stranger did not volunteer any information regarding his name or +business. He had put in the afternoon and early evening strolling +about the village and talking to the men on the branch line. Now he +had come in and ensconced himself in the corner behind the stove, +where he preserved a complete silence. + +He had a rather rough face and was flashily dressed. Altogether, Gabe +hardly liked his looks, put as long as a man paid his bill and did not +stir up a row Gabe Foley did not interfere with him. + +Three or four farmers from "out Greenvale way" were drawn up by the +stove, discussing the cheese factory sales and various Greenvale +happenings. The stranger appeared to be listening to them intently, +although he took no part in their conversation. + +Presently he brought his tilted chair down with a sharp thud. Gabe +Foley had paused in his manipulation of a king to hurl a question at +the Greenvale men. + +"Is it true that old man Strong is to be turned out next week?" + +"True enough," answered William Jeffers. "Joe Moore is going to +foreclose. Stephen Strong has got three years behind with the interest +and Moore is out of patience. It seems hard on old Stephen, but Moore +ain't the man to hesitate for that. He'll have his own out of it." + +"What will the Strongs do?" asked Gabe. + +"That's the question everyone in Greenvale is asking. Lizzie Strong +has always been a delicate little girl, but maybe she'll manage to +scare up a living. Old Stephen is to be the most pitied. I don't see +anything for him but the poorhouse." + +"How did Stephen Strong come to get into such a tight place?" the +stranger asked suddenly. "When I was in these parts a good many years +ago he was considered a well-to-do man." + +"Well, so he was," replied William Jeffers. "But he began to get in +debt when his wife took sick. He spent no end of money on doctors and +medicines for her. And then he seemed to have a streak of bad luck +besides--crops failed and cows died and all that sort of thing. He's +been going behind ever since. He kind of lost heart when his wife +died. And now Moore is going to foreclose. It's my opinion poor old +Stephen won't live any time if he's turned out of his home." + +"Do you know what the mortgage comes to?" + +"Near three thousand, counting overdue interest." + +"Well, I'm sorry for old Stephen," said Gabe, returning to his game. +"If anybody deserves a peaceful old age he does. He's helped more +people than you could count, and he was the best Christian in +Greenvale, or out of it." + +"He was too good," said a Greenvale man crustily. "He just let himself +be imposed upon all his life. There's dozens of people owes him and +he's never asked for a cent from them. And he's always had some +shiftless critter or other hanging round and devouring his substance." + +"D'ye mind that Ben Butler who used to be in Greenvale twenty years +ago?" asked a third man. "If ever there was an imp of Satan 'twas +him--old Ezra Butler's son from the valley. Old Stephen kept him for +three or four years and was as good to him as if he'd been his own +son." + +"Most people out our way do mind Ben Butler," returned William Jeffers +grimly, "even if he ain't been heard tell of for twenty years. He +wasn't the kind you could forget in a hurry. Where'd he go? Out to the +Kootenay, wasn't it?" + +"Somewhere there. He was a reg'lar young villain--up to every kind of +mischief. Old Stephen caught him stealing his oats one time and 'stead +of giving him a taste of jail for it, as he ought to have done, he +just took him right into his family and kept him there for three +years. I used to tell him he'd be sorry for it, but he always +persisted that Ben wasn't bad at heart and would come out all right +some day. No matter what the young varmint did old Stephen would make +excuses for him--'his ma was dead,' or he 'hadn't had no bringing-up.' +I was thankful when he did finally clear out without doing some +penitentiary work." + +"If poor old Stephen hadn't been so open-handed to every unfortunate +critter he came across," said Gabe, "he'd have had more for himself +today." + +The whistle of the mail train cut short the discussion of Stephen +Strong's case. In a minute the room was vacant, except for the +stranger. When left to himself he also rose and walked out. Turning +away from the station, he struck briskly into the Greenvale road. + +About three miles from the station he halted before a house built close +to the road. It was old-fashioned, but large and comfortable-looking, +with big barns in the rear and an orchard on the left slope. The house +itself was in the shadow of the firs, but the yard lay out in the +moonlight and the strange visitor did not elect to cross it. Instead, +he turned aside into the shadow of the trees around the garden and, +leaning against the old rail fence, gave himself up to contemplation of +some kind. + +There was a light in the kitchen. The window-blind was not down and he +had a fairly good view of the room. The only visible occupant was a +grey-haired old man sitting by the table, reading from a large open +volume before him. The stranger whistled softly. + +"That's old Stephen--reading the Bible same as ever, by all that's +holy! He hasn't changed much except that he's got mighty grey. He must +be close on to seventy. It's a shame to turn an old man like him out +of house and home. But Joe Moore always was a genuine skinflint." + +He drew himself softly up and sat on the fence. He saw old Stephen +Strong close his book, place his spectacles on it, and kneel down by +his chair. The old man remained on his knees for some time and then, +taking up his candle, left the kitchen. The man on the fence still sat +there. Truth to tell, he was chuckling to himself as he recalled all +the mischief he had done in the old days--the doubtful jokes, tricks, +and escapades he had gone through with. + +He could not help remembering at the same time how patient old Stephen +Strong had always been with him. He recalled the time he had been +caught stealing the oats. How frightened and sullen he had been! And +how gently the old man had talked to him and pointed out the sin of +which he had been guilty! + +He had never stolen again, but in other respects he had not mended his +ways much. Behind old Stephen's back he laughed at him and his +"preaching." But Stephen Strong had never lost faith in him. He had +always asserted mildly that "Ben would come out all right by and by." +Ben Butler remembered this too, as he sat on the fence. + +He had "always liked old Stephen," he told himself. He was sorry he +had fallen on such evil times. + +"Preaching and praying don't seem to have brought him out clear after +all," he said with a chuckle that quickly died away. Somehow, even in +his worst days, Ben Butler had never felt easy when he mocked old +Stephen. "Three thousand dollars! I could do it but I reckon I'd be a +blamed fool. I ain't a-going to do it. Three thousand ain't picked up +every day, even in the Kootenay--'specially by chaps like me." + +He patted his pocket knowingly. Fifteen years previously he had gone +to the Kootenay district with visions of making a fortune that were +quickly dispelled by reality. He had squandered his wages as soon as +paid, and it was only of late years that he had "pulled up a bit," as +he expressed it, and saved his three thousand dollars. + +He had brought the money home with him, having some vague notion of +buying a farm and "settling down to do the respectable." But he had +already given up the idea. This country was too blamed quiet for him, +he said. He would go back to the Kootenay, and he knew what he would +do with his money. Jake Perkins and Wade Brown, two "pals" of his, +were running a flourishing grocery and saloon combined. They would be +glad of another partner with some cash. It would suit him to a T. + +"I'll clear out tomorrow," he mused as he walked back. "As long as I +stay here old Stephen will haunt me, sure as fate. Wonder what he was +praying for tonight. He always used to say the Lord would provide, but +He don't appear to have done it. Well, I ain't His deputy." + +The next afternoon Ben Butler went over to Greenvale and called at +Stephen Strong's. He found only the old man at home. Old Stephen did +not recognize him at first, but made him heartily welcome when he did. + +"Ben, I do declare! Ben Butler! How are you? How are you? Sit down, +Ben--here, take this chair. Where on earth did you come from?" + +"Baxter just now--Kootenay on the large scale," answered Ben. "Thought +I'd come over and see you again. Didn't expect you'd remember me at +all." + +"Remember you! Why, of course I do. I haven't ever forgot you, Ben. +Many's the time I've wondered where you was and how you was getting +on. And you tell me you've been in the Kootenay! Well, well, you have +seen a good bit more of the world than I ever have. You've changed a +lot, Ben. You ain't a boy no longer. D'ye mind all the pranks you used +to play?" + +Ben laughed sheepishly. + +"I reckon I do. But it ain't myself I come here to talk about--not +much to say if I did. It's just been up and down with me. How are you +yourself, sir? They were telling me over at Baxter that you were kind +of in trouble." + +The old man's face clouded over; all the sparkle went out of his kind +blue eyes. + +"Yes, Ben, yes," he said, with a heavy sigh. "I've kind of gone +downhill, that's a fact. The old farm has to go, Ben--I'm sorry for +that--I'd have liked to have ended my days here, but it's not to be. I +don't want to complain. The Lord does all things well. I haven't a +doubt but that it all fits into His wise purposes--not a doubt, Ben, +although it may be kind of hard to see it." + +Ben was always skittish of "pious talk." He veered around adroitly. + +"I dunno as the Lord has had much to do with this, sir. Seems to me as +if 'twas the other one as was running it, with Joe Moore for deputy. +The main thing, as I look at it, is to get a cinch on him. How much +does the mortgage amount to, sir?" + +"About three thousand dollars, interest and all." + +Old Stephen's voice trembled. The future looked very dark to him in +his old age. + +Ben put his hand inside his coat and brought out a brand-new, plump +pocketbook. He opened it, laid it on his knee, and counted out a +number of crisp notes. + +"Here, sir," he said, pushing them along the table. "I reckon that'll +keep you out of Joe Moore's clutches. There's three thousand there if +I ain't made a mistake. That'll set you clear, won't it?" + +"Ben!" Old Stephen's voice trembled with amazement. "Ben, I can't take +it. It wouldn't be fair--or right. I could never pay you back." + +Ben slipped the rubber band around his wallet and replaced it airily. + +"I don't want it paid back, sir. It's a little gift, so to speak, just +to let you know I ain't ungrateful for all you did for me. If it +hadn't been for you I might have been in the penitentiary by now. As +for the money, it may seem a pile to you, but we don't think anything +more of a thousand or so in the Kootenay than you Greenvale folks do +of a fiver--not a bit more. We do things on a big scale out there." + +"But, Ben, are you sure you can afford it--that you won't miss it?" + +"Pop sure. Don't you worry, I'm all right." + +"Bless you--bless you!" The tears were running down old Stephen's face +as he gathered up the money with a shaking hand. "I always knew you +would do well, Ben--always said it. I knew you'd a good heart. I just +can't realize this yet--it seems too good to be true. The old place +saved--I can die in peace. Of course, I'll pay you back some of it +anyhow if I'm spared a while longer. Bless you, Ben." + +Ben would not stay long after that. He said he had to leave on the +4:30 train. He was relieved when he got away from the old man's thanks +and questions. Ben did not find it easy to answer some of the latter. +When he was out of sight of the house he sat on a fence and counted up +his remaining funds. + +"Just enough to take me back to the Kootenay--and then begin over +again, I s'pose. But 'twas worth the money to see the old fellow's +face. He'd thank the Lord and me, he said. How Jake and Wade'd roar to +hear them two names in partnership! But I'm going to pull up a bit +after this, see if I don't, just to justify the old man's faith in me. +'Twould be too bad to disappoint him if he's believed for so long that +I was going to turn out all right yet." + +When the 4:30 train went out Ben Butler stood on the rear platform. +Gabe Foley watched him abstractedly as he receded. + +"Blamed if I know who that fellow was," he remarked to a crony. "He +never told his name, but seems to me I've seen him before. He has a +kind of hang-dog look, I think. But he paid up square and it is none +of my business." + + + + +An Unconventional Confidence + + +The Girl in Black-and-Yellow ran frantically down the grey road under +the pines. There was nobody to see her, but she would have run if all +Halifax had been looking on. For had she not on the loveliest new +hat--a "creation" in yellow chiffon with big black _choux_--and a +dress to match? And was there not a shower coming straight from the +hills across the harbour? + +Down at the end of the long resinous avenue the Girl saw the shore +road, with the pavilion shutting out the view of the harbour's mouth. +Below the pavilion, clean-shaven George's Island guarded the town like +a sturdy bulldog, and beyond it were the wooded hills, already lost in +a mist of rain. + +"Oh, I shall be too late," moaned the Girl. But she held her hat +steady with one hand and ran on. If she could only reach the pavilion +in time! It was a neck-and-neck race between the rain and the Girl, +but the Girl won. Just as she flew out upon the shore road, a tall +Young Man came pelting down the latter, and they both dashed up the +steps of the pavilion together as the rain swooped down upon them and +blotted George's Island and the smoky town and the purple banks of the +Eastern Passage from view. + +The pavilion was small at the best of times, and just now the rain was +beating into it on two sides, leaving only one dry corner. Into this +the Girl moved. She was flushed and triumphant. The Young Man thought +that in all his life he had never seen anyone so pretty. + +"I'm so glad I didn't get my hat wet," said the Girl breathlessly, as +she straightened it with a careful hand and wondered if she looked +very blown and blowsy. + +"It would have been a pity," admitted the Young Man. "It is a very +pretty hat." + +"Pretty!" The Girl looked the scorn her voice expressed. "Anyone can +have a _pretty_ hat. Our cook has one. This is a _creation_." + +"Of course," said the Young Man humbly. "I ought to have known. But I +am very stupid." + +"Well, I suppose a mere man couldn't be expected to understand +exactly," said the Girl graciously. + +She smiled at him in a friendly fashion, and he smiled back. The Girl +thought that she had never seen such lovely brown eyes before. He +could not be a Haligonian. She was sure she knew all the nice young +men with brown eyes in Halifax. + +"Please sit down," she said plaintively. "I'm tired." + +The Young Man smiled again at the idea of his sitting down because the +Girl was tired. But he sat down, and so did she, on the only dry seat +to be found. + +"Goodness knows how long this rain will last," said the Girl, making +herself comfortable and picturesque, "but I shall stay here until it +clears up, if it rains for a week. I will _not_ have my hat spoiled. I +suppose I shouldn't have put it on. Beatrix said it was going to rain. +Beatrix is such a horribly good prophet. I detest people who are good +prophets, don't you?" + +"I think that they are responsible for all the evils that they +predict," said the Young Man solemnly. + +"That is just what I told Beatrix. And I was determined to put on this +hat and come out to the park today. I simply _had_ to be alone, and I +knew I'd be alone out here. Everybody else would be at the football +game. By the way, why aren't you there?" + +"I wasn't even aware that there was a football game on hand," said the +Young Man, as if he knew he ought to be ashamed of his ignorance, and +was. + +"Dear me," said the Girl pityingly. "Where can you have been not to +have heard of it? It's between the Dalhousie team and the Wanderers. +Almost everybody here is on the Wanderers' side, because they are +Haligonians, but I am not. I like the college boys best. Beatrix says +that it is just because of my innate contrariness. Last year I simply +screamed myself hoarse with enthusiasm. The Dalhousie team won the +trophy." + +"If you are so interested in the game, it is a wonder you didn't go to +see it yourself," said the Young Man boldly. + +"Well, I just couldn't," said the Girl with a sigh. "If anybody had +ever told me that there would be a football game in Halifax, and that +I would elect to prowl about by myself in the park instead of going to +it, I'd have laughed them to scorn. Even Beatrix would never have +dared to prophesy _that_. But you see it has happened. I was too +crumpled up in my mind to care about football today. I had to come +here and have it out with myself. That is why I put on my hat. I +thought, perhaps, I might get through with my mental gymnastics in +time to go to the game afterwards. But I didn't. It is just maddening, +too. I got this hat and dress on purpose to wear to it. They're black +and yellow, you see--the Dalhousie colours. It was my own idea. I was +sure it would make a sensation. But I couldn't go to the game and take +any interest in it, feeling as I do, could I, now?" + +The Young Man said, of course, she couldn't. It was utterly out of the +question. + +The Girl smiled. Without a smile, she was charming. With a smile, she +was adorable. + +"I like to have my opinions bolstered up. Do you know, I want to tell +you something? May I?" + +"You may. I'll never tell anyone as long as I live," said the Young +Man solemnly. + +"I don't know you and you don't know me. That is why I want to tell +you about it. I _must_ tell somebody, and if I told anybody I knew, +they'd tell it all over Halifax. It is dreadful to be talking to you +like this. Beatrix would have three fits, one after the other, if she +saw me. But Beatrix is a slave to conventionality. I glory in +discarding it at times. You don't mind, do you?" + +"Not at all," said the Young Man sincerely. + +The Girl sighed. + +"I have reached that point where I must have a confidant, or go crazy. +Once I could tell things to Beatrix. That was before she got engaged. +Now she tells everything to _him_. There is no earthly way of +preventing her. I've tried them all. So, nowadays, when I get into +trouble, I tell it out loud to myself in the glass. It's a relief, you +know. But that is no good now. I want to tell it to somebody who can +say things back. Will you promise to say things back?" + +The Young Man assured her that he would when the proper time came. + +"Very well. But please don't look at me while I'm telling you. I'll be +sure to blush in places. When Beatrix wants to be particularly +aggravating she says I have lost the art of blushing. But that is only +her way of putting it, you know. Sometimes I blush dreadfully." + +The Young Man dragged his eyes from the face under the +black-and-yellow hat, and fastened them on a crooked pine tree that +hung out over the bank. + +"Well," began the Girl, "the root of the whole trouble is simply this. +There is a young man in England. I always think of him as the +Creature. He is the son of a man who was Father's especial crony in +boyhood, before Father emigrated to Canada. Worse than that, he comes +of a family which has contracted a vile habit of marrying into our +family. It has come down through the ages so long that it has become +chronic. Father left most of his musty traditions in England, but he +brought this pet one with him. He and this friend agreed that the +latter's son should marry one of Father's daughters. It ought to have +been Beatrix--she is the oldest. But Beatrix had a pug nose. So Father +settled on me. From my earliest recollection I have been given to +understand that just as soon as I grew up there would be a ready-made +husband imported from England for me. I was doomed to it from my +cradle. Now," said the Girl, with a tragic gesture, "I ask you, could +_anything_ be more hopelessly, appallingly stupid and devoid of +romance than that?" + +The Young Man shook his head, but did not look at her. + +"It's pretty bad," he admitted. + +"You see," said the Girl pathetically, "the shadow of it has been over +my whole life. Of course, when I was a very little girl I didn't mind +it so much. It was such a long way off and lots of things might +happen. The Creature might run away with some other girl--or I might +have the smallpox--or Beatrix's nose might be straight when she grew +up. And if Beatrix's nose were straight she'd be a great deal prettier +than I am. But nothing did happen--and her nose is puggier than ever. +Then when I grew up things were horrid. I never could have a single +little bit of fun. And Beatrix had such a good time! She had scores of +lovers in spite of her nose. To be sure, she's engaged now--and he's a +horrid, faddy little creature. But he is her own choice. She wasn't +told that there was a man in England whom she must marry by and by, +when he got sufficiently reconciled to the idea to come and ask her. +Oh, it makes me furious!" + +"Is--is there--anyone else?" asked the Young Man hesitatingly. + +"Oh, dear, no. How could there be? Why, you know, I couldn't have the +tiniest flirtation with another man when I was as good as engaged to +the Creature. That is one of my grievances. Just think how much fun +I've missed! I used to rage to Beatrix about it, but she would tell me +that I ought to be thankful to have the chance of making such a good +match--the Creature is rich, you know, and clever. As if I cared how +clever or rich he is! Beatrix made me so cross that I gave up saying +anything and sulked by myself. So they think I'm quite reconciled to +it, but I'm not." + +"He might be very nice after all," suggested the Young Man. + +"_Nice_! That isn't the point. Oh, don't you see? But no, you're a +man--you _can't_ understand. You must just take my word for it. The +whole thing makes me furious. But I haven't told you the worst. The +Creature is on his way out to Canada now. He may arrive here at any +minute. And they are all so aggravatingly delighted over it." + +"What do you suppose _he_ feels like?" asked the Young Man +reflectively. + +"Well," said the Girl frankly, "I've been too much taken up with my +own feelings to worry about his. But I daresay they are pretty much +like mine. He must loathe and detest the very thought of me." + +"Oh, I don't think he does," said the Young Man gravely. + +"Don't you? Well, what do you suppose he _does_ think of it all? You +ought to understand the man's part of it better than I can." + +"There's as much difference in men as in women," said the Young Man in +an impersonal tone. "I may be right or wrong, you see, but I imagine +he would feel something like this: From boyhood he has understood that +away out in Canada there is a little girl growing up who is some day +to be his wife. She becomes his boyish ideal of all that is good and +true. He pictures her as beautiful and winsome and sweet. She is his +heart's lady, and the thought of her abides with him as a safeguard +and an inspiration. For her sake he resolves to make the most of +himself, and live a clean, loyal life. When she comes to him she must +find his heart fit to receive her. There is never a time in all his +life when the dream of her does not gleam before him as of a star to +which he may aspire with all reverence and love." + +The Young Man stopped abruptly, and looked at the Girl. She bent +forward with shining eyes, and touched his hand. + +"You are splendid," she said softly. "If he thought so--but no--I am +sure he doesn't. He's just coming out here like a martyr going to the +stake. He knows he will be expected to propose to me when he gets +here. And he knows that I know it too. And _he_ knows and _I_ know +that I will be expected to say my very prettiest 'yes.'" + +"But are you going to say it?" asked the Young Man anxiously. + +The Girl leaned forward. "No. That is my secret. I am going to say a +most emphatic 'no.'" + +"But won't your family make an awful row?" + +"Of course. But I rather enjoy a row now and then. It stirs up one's +grey matter so nicely. I came out here this afternoon and thought the +whole affair over from beginning to end. And I have determined to say +'no.'" + +"Oh, I wouldn't make it so irreconcilable as that," said the Young Man +lightly. "I'd leave a loophole of escape. You see, if you were to like +him a little better than you expect, it would be awkward to have +committed yourself by a rash vow to saying 'no,' wouldn't it?" + +"I suppose it would," said the Girl thoughtfully, "but then, you know, +I won't change my mind." + +"It's just as well to be on the safe side," said the Young Man. + +The Girl got up. The rain was over and the sun was coming out through +the mists. + +"Perhaps you are right," she said. "So I'll just resolve that I will +say 'no' if I don't want to say 'yes.' That really amounts to the same +thing, you know. Thank you so much for letting me tell you all about +it. It must have bored you terribly, but it has done me so much good. +I feel quite calm and rational now, and can go home and behave myself. +Goodbye." + +"Goodbye," said the Young Man gravely. He stood on the pavilion and +watched the Girl out of sight beyond the pines. + +When the Girl got home she was told that the Dalhousie team had won +the game, eight to four. The Girl dragged her hat off and waved it +joyously. + +"What a shame I wasn't there! They'd have gone mad over my dress." + +But the next item of information crushed her. The Creature had +arrived. He had called that afternoon, and was coming to dinner that +night. + +"How fortunate," said the Girl, as she went to her room, "that I +relieved my mind to that Young Man out in the park today. If I had +come back with all that pent-up feeling seething within me and heard +this news right on top of it all, I might have flown into a thousand +pieces. What lovely brown eyes he had! I do dote on brown eyes. The +Creature will be sure to have fishy blue ones." + + * * * * * + +When the Girl went down to meet the Creature she found herself +confronted by the Young Man. For the first, last, and only time in her +life, the Girl had not a word to say. But her family thought her +confusion very natural and pretty. They really had not expected her to +behave so well. As for the Young Man, his manner was flawless. + +Toward the end of the dinner, when the Girl was beginning to recover +herself, he turned to her. + +"You know I promised never to tell," he said. + +"Be sure you don't, then," said the Girl meekly. + +"But aren't you glad you left the loophole?" he persisted. + +The Girl smiled down into her lap. + +"Perhaps," she said. + + + + +Aunt Cyrilla's Christmas Basket + + +When Lucy Rose met Aunt Cyrilla coming downstairs, somewhat flushed +and breathless from her ascent to the garret, with a big, flat-covered +basket hanging over her plump arm, she gave a little sigh of despair. +Lucy Rose had done her brave best for some years--in fact, ever since +she had put up her hair and lengthened her skirts--to break Aunt +Cyrilla of the habit of carrying that basket with her every time she +went to Pembroke; but Aunt Cyrilla still insisted on taking it, and +only laughed at what she called Lucy Rose's "finicky notions." Lucy +Rose had a horrible, haunting idea that it was extremely provincial +for her aunt always to take the big basket, packed full of country +good things, whenever she went to visit Edward and Geraldine. +Geraldine was so stylish, and might think it queer; and then Aunt +Cyrilla always would carry it on her arm and give cookies and apples +and molasses taffy out of it to every child she encountered and, just +as often as not, to older folks too. Lucy Rose, when she went to town +with Aunt Cyrilla, felt chagrined over this--all of which goes to +prove that Lucy was as yet very young and had a great deal to learn in +this world. + +That troublesome worry over what Geraldine would think nerved her to +make a protest in this instance. + +"Now, Aunt C'rilla," she pleaded, "you're surely not going to take +that funny old basket to Pembroke this time--Christmas Day and all." + +"'Deed and 'deed I am," returned Aunt Cyrilla briskly, as she put it +on the table and proceeded to dust it out. "I never went to see Edward +and Geraldine since they were married that I didn't take a basket of +good things along with me for them, and I'm not going to stop now. As +for it's being Christmas, all the more reason. Edward is always real +glad to get some of the old farmhouse goodies. He says they beat city +cooking all hollow, and so they do." + +"But it's so countrified," moaned Lucy Rose. + +"Well, I am countrified," said Aunt Cyrilla firmly, "and so are you. +And what's more, I don't see that it's anything to be ashamed of. +You've got some real silly pride about you, Lucy Rose. You'll grow +out of it in time, but just now it is giving you a lot of trouble." + +"The basket is a lot of trouble," said Lucy Rose crossly. "You're +always mislaying it or afraid you will. And it does look so funny to +be walking through the streets with that big, bulgy basket hanging on +your arm." + +"I'm not a mite worried about its looks," returned Aunt Cyrilla +calmly. "As for its being a trouble, why, maybe it is, but I have +that, and other people have the pleasure of it. Edward and Geraldine +don't need it--I know that--but there may be those that will. And if +it hurts your feelings to walk 'longside of a countrified old lady +with a countrified basket, why, you can just fall behind, as it were." + +Aunt Cyrilla nodded and smiled good-humouredly, and Lucy Rose, though +she privately held to her own opinion, had to smile too. + +"Now, let me see," said Aunt Cyrilla reflectively, tapping the snowy +kitchen table with the point of her plump, dimpled forefinger, "what +shall I take? That big fruit cake for one thing--Edward does like my +fruit cake; and that cold boiled tongue for another. Those three mince +pies too, they'd spoil before we got back or your uncle'd make himself +sick eating them--mince pie is his besetting sin. And that little +stone bottle full of cream--Geraldine may carry any amount of style, +but I've yet to see her look down on real good country cream, Lucy +Rose; and another bottle of my raspberry vinegar. That plate of jelly +cookies and doughnuts will please the children and fill up the chinks, +and you can bring me that box of ice-cream candy out of the pantry, +and that bag of striped candy sticks your uncle brought home from the +corner last night. And apples, of course--three or four dozen of those +good eaters--and a little pot of my greengage preserves--Edward'll +like that. And some sandwiches and pound cake for a snack for +ourselves. Now, I guess that will do for eatables. The presents for +the children can go in on top. There's a doll for Daisy and the little +boat your uncle made for Ray and a tatted lace handkerchief apiece for +the twins, and the crochet hood for the baby. Now, is that all?" + +"There's a cold roast chicken in the pantry," said Lucy Rose wickedly, +"and the pig Uncle Leo killed is hanging up in the porch. Couldn't you +put them in too?" + +Aunt Cyrilla smiled broadly. "Well, I guess we'll leave the pig alone; +but since you have reminded me of it, the chicken may as well go in. I +can make room." + +Lucy Rose, in spite of her prejudices, helped with the packing and, +not having been trained under Aunt Cyrilla's eye for nothing, did it +very well too, with much clever economy of space. But when Aunt +Cyrilla had put in as a finishing touch a big bouquet of pink and +white everlastings, and tied the bulging covers down with a firm hand, +Lucy Rose stood over the basket and whispered vindictively: + +"Some day I'm going to burn this basket--when I get courage enough. +Then there'll be an end of lugging it everywhere we go like a--like an +old market-woman." + +Uncle Leopold came in just then, shaking his head dubiously. He was +not going to spend Christmas with Edward and Geraldine, and perhaps +the prospect of having to cook and eat his Christmas dinner all alone +made him pessimistic. + +"I mistrust you folks won't get to Pembroke tomorrow," he said sagely. +"It's going to storm." + +Aunt Cyrilla did not worry over this. She believed matters of this +kind were fore-ordained, and she slept calmly. But Lucy Rose got up +three times in the night to see if it were storming, and when she did +sleep had horrible nightmares of struggling through blinding +snowstorms dragging Aunt Cyrilla's Christmas basket along with her. + +It was not snowing in the early morning, and Uncle Leopold drove Aunt +Cyrilla and Lucy Rose and the basket to the station, four miles off. +When they reached there the air was thick with flying flakes. The +stationmaster sold them their tickets with a grim face. + +"If there's any more snow comes, the trains might as well keep +Christmas too," he said. "There's been so much snow already that +traffic is blocked half the time, and now there ain't no place to +shovel the snow off onto." + +Aunt Cyrilla said that if the train were to get to Pembroke in time +for Christmas, it would get there; and she opened her basket and gave +the stationmaster and three small boys an apple apiece. + +"That's the beginning," groaned Lucy Rose to herself. + +When their train came along Aunt Cyrilla established herself in one +seat and her basket in another, and looked beamingly around her at her +fellow travellers. + +These were few in number--a delicate little woman at the end of the +car, with a baby and four other children, a young girl across the +aisle with a pale, pretty face, a sunburned lad three seats ahead in a +khaki uniform, a very handsome, imposing old lady in a sealskin coat +ahead of him, and a thin young man with spectacles opposite. + +"A minister," reflected Aunt Cyrilla, beginning to classify, "who +takes better care of other folks' souls than of his own body; and +that woman in the sealskin is discontented and cross at something--got +up too early to catch the train, maybe; and that young chap must be +one of the boys not long out of the hospital. That woman's children +look as if they hadn't enjoyed a square meal since they were born; and +if that girl across from me has a mother, I'd like to know what the +woman means, letting her daughter go from home in this weather in +clothes like that." + +Lucy Rose merely wondered uncomfortably what the others thought of +Aunt Cyrilla's basket. + +They expected to reach Pembroke that night, but as the day wore on the +storm grew worse. Twice the train had to stop while the train hands +dug it out. The third time it could not go on. It was dusk when the +conductor came through the train, replying brusquely to the questions +of the anxious passengers. + +"A nice lookout for Christmas--no, impossible to go on or back--track +blocked for miles--what's that, madam?--no, no station near--woods for +miles. We're here for the night. These storms of late have played the +mischief with everything." + +"Oh, dear," groaned Lucy Rose. + +Aunt Cyrilla looked at her basket complacently. "At any rate, we won't +starve," she said. + +The pale, pretty girl seemed indifferent. The sealskin lady looked +crosser than ever. The khaki boy said, "Just my luck," and two of the +children began to cry. Aunt Cyrilla took some apples and striped candy +sticks from her basket and carried them to them. She lifted the oldest +into her ample lap and soon had them all around her, laughing and +contented. + +The rest of the travellers straggled over to the corner and drifted +into conversation. The khaki boy said it was hard lines not to get +home for Christmas, after all. + +"I was invalided from South Africa three months ago, and I've been in +the hospital at Netley ever since. Reached Halifax three days ago and +telegraphed the old folks I'd eat my Christmas dinner with them, and +to have an extra-big turkey because I didn't have any last year. +They'll be badly disappointed." + +He looked disappointed too. One khaki sleeve hung empty by his side. +Aunt Cyrilla passed him an apple. + +"We were all going down to Grandpa's for Christmas," said the little +mother's oldest boy dolefully. "We've never been there before, and +it's just too bad." + +He looked as if he wanted to cry but thought better of it and bit off +a mouthful of candy. + +"Will there be any Santa Claus on the train?" demanded his small +sister tearfully. "Jack says there won't." + +"I guess he'll find you out," said Aunt Cyrilla reassuringly. + +The pale, pretty girl came up and took the baby from the tired mother. +"What a dear little fellow," she said softly. + +"Are you going home for Christmas too?" asked Aunt Cyrilla. + +The girl shook her head. "I haven't any home. I'm just a shop girl out +of work at present, and I'm going to Pembroke to look for some." + +Aunt Cyrilla went to her basket and took out her box of cream candy. +"I guess we might as well enjoy ourselves. Let's eat it all up and +have a good time. Maybe we'll get down to Pembroke in the morning." + +The little group grew cheerful as they nibbled, and even the pale girl +brightened up. The little mother told Aunt Cyrilla her story aside. +She had been long estranged from her family, who had disapproved of +her marriage. Her husband had died the previous summer, leaving her in +poor circumstances. + +"Father wrote to me last week and asked me to let bygones be bygones +and come home for Christmas. I was so glad. And the children's hearts +were set on it. It seems too bad that we are not to get there. I have +to be back at work the morning after Christmas." + +The khaki boy came up again and shared the candy. He told amusing +stories of campaigning in South Africa. The minister came too, and +listened, and even the sealskin lady turned her head over her +shoulder. + +By and by the children fell asleep, one on Aunt Cyrilla's lap and one +on Lucy Rose's, and two on the seat. Aunt Cyrilla and the pale girl +helped the mother make up beds for them. The minister gave his +overcoat and the sealskin lady came forward with a shawl. + +"This will do for the baby," she said. + +"We must get up some Santa Claus for these youngsters," said the khaki +boy. "Let's hang their stockings on the wall and fill 'em up as best +we can. I've nothing about me but some hard cash and a jack-knife. +I'll give each of 'em a quarter and the boy can have the knife." + +"I've nothing but money either," said the sealskin lady regretfully. + +Aunt Cyrilla glanced at the little mother. She had fallen asleep with +her head against the seat-back. + +"I've got a basket over there," said Aunt Cyrilla firmly, "and I've +some presents in it that I was taking to my nephew's children. I'm +going to give 'em to these. As for the money, I think the mother is +the one for it to go to. She's been telling me her story, and a +pitiful one it is. Let's make up a little purse among us for a +Christmas present." + +The idea met with favour. The khaki boy passed his cap and everybody +contributed. The sealskin lady put in a crumpled note. When Aunt +Cyrilla straightened it out she saw that it was for twenty dollars. + +Meanwhile, Lucy Rose had brought the basket. She smiled at Aunt +Cyrilla as she lugged it down the aisle and Aunt Cyrilla smiled back. +Lucy Rose had never touched that basket of her own accord before. + +Ray's boat went to Jacky, and Daisy's doll to his oldest sister, the +twins' lace handkerchiefs to the two smaller girls and the hood to the +baby. Then the stockings were filled up with doughnuts and jelly +cookies and the money was put in an envelope and pinned to the little +mother's jacket. + +"That baby is such a dear little fellow," said the sealskin lady +gently. "He looks something like my little son. He died eighteen +Christmases ago." + +Aunt Cyrilla put her hand over the lady's kid glove. "So did mine," +she said. Then the two women smiled tenderly at each other. Afterwards +they rested from their labours and all had what Aunt Cyrilla called a +"snack" of sandwiches and pound cake. The khaki boy said he hadn't +tasted anything half so good since he left home. + +"They didn't give us pound cake in South Africa," he said. + +When morning came the storm was still raging. The children wakened and +went wild with delight over their stockings. The little mother found +her envelope and tried to utter thanks and broke down; and nobody knew +what to say or do, when the conductor fortunately came in and made a +diversion by telling them they might as well resign themselves to +spending Christmas on the train. + +"This is serious," said the khaki boy, "when you consider that we've +no provisions. Don't mind for myself, used to half rations or no +rations at all. But these kiddies will have tremendous appetites." + +Then Aunt Cyrilla rose to the occasion. + +"I've got some emergency rations here," she announced. "There's plenty +for all and we'll have our Christmas dinner, although a cold one. +Breakfast first thing. There's a sandwich apiece left and we must fill +up on what is left of the cookies and doughnuts and save the rest for +a real good spread at dinner time. The only thing is, I haven't any +bread." + +"I've a box of soda crackers," said the little mother eagerly. + +Nobody in that car will ever forget that Christmas. To begin with, +after breakfast they had a concert. The khaki boy gave two +recitations, sang three songs, and gave a whistling solo. Lucy Rose +gave three recitations and the minister a comic reading. The pale shop +girl sang two songs. It was agreed that the khaki boy's whistling solo +was the best number, and Aunt Cyrilla gave him the bouquet of +everlastings as a reward of merit. + +Then the conductor came in with the cheerful news that the storm was +almost over and he thought the track would be cleared in a few hours. + +"If we can get to the next station we'll be all right," he said. "The +branch joins the main line there and the tracks will be clear." + +At noon they had dinner. The train hands were invited in to share it. +The minister carved the chicken with the brakeman's jack-knife and the +khaki boy cut up the tongue and the mince pies, while the sealskin +lady mixed the raspberry vinegar with its due proportion of water. +Bits of paper served as plates. The train furnished a couple of +glasses, a tin pint cup was discovered and given to the children, Aunt +Cyrilla and Lucy Rose and the sealskin lady drank, turn about, from +the latter's graduated medicine glass, the shop girl and the little +mother shared one of the empty bottles, and the khaki boy, the +minister, and the train men drank out of the other bottle. + +Everybody declared they had never enjoyed a meal more in their lives. +Certainly it was a merry one, and Aunt Cyrilla's cooking was never +more appreciated; indeed, the bones of the chicken and the pot of +preserves were all that was left. They could not eat the preserves +because they had no spoons, so Aunt Cyrilla gave them to the little +mother. + +When all was over, a hearty vote of thanks was passed to Aunt Cyrilla +and her basket. The sealskin lady wanted to know how she made her +pound cake, and the khaki boy asked for her receipt for jelly cookies. +And when two hours later the conductor came in and said the +snowploughs had got along and they'd soon be starting, they all +wondered if it could really be less than twenty-four hours since they +met. + +"I feel as if I'd been campaigning with you all my life," said the +khaki boy. + +At the next station they all parted. The little mother and the +children had to take the next train back home. The minister stayed +there, and the khaki boy and the sealskin lady changed trains. The +sealskin lady shook Aunt Cyrilla's hand. She no longer looked +discontented or cross. + +"This has been the pleasantest Christmas I have ever spent," she said +heartily. "I shall never forget that wonderful basket of yours. The +little shop girl is going home with me. I've promised her a place in +my husband's store." + +When Aunt Cyrilla and Lucy Rose reached Pembroke there was nobody to +meet them because everyone had given up expecting them. It was not far +from the station to Edward's house and Aunt Cyrilla elected to walk. + +"I'll carry the basket," said Lucy Rose. + +Aunt Cyrilla relinquished it with a smile. Lucy Rose smiled too. + +"It's a blessed old basket," said the latter, "and I love it. Please +forget all the silly things I ever said about it, Aunt C'rilla." + + + + +Davenport's Story + + +It was a rainy afternoon, and we had been passing the time by telling +ghost stories. That is a very good sort of thing for a rainy +afternoon, and it is a much better time than after night. If you tell +ghost stories after dark they are apt to make you nervous, whether you +own up to it or not, and you sneak home and dodge upstairs in mortal +terror, and undress with your back to the wall, so that you can't +fancy there is anything behind you. + +We had each told a story, and had had the usual assortment of +mysterious noises and death warnings and sheeted spectres and so on, +down through the whole catalogue of horrors--enough to satisfy any +reasonable ghost-taster. But Jack, as usual, was dissatisfied. He said +our stories were all second-hand stuff. There wasn't a man in the +crowd who had ever seen or heard a ghost; all our so-called authentic +stories had been told us by persons who had the story from other +persons who saw the ghosts. + +"One doesn't get any information from that," said Jack. "I never +expect to get so far along as to see a real ghost myself, but I would +like to see and talk to one who had." + +Some persons appear to have the knack of getting their wishes granted. +Jack is one of that ilk. Just as he made the remark, Davenport +sauntered in and, finding out what was going on, volunteered to tell a +ghost story himself--something that had happened to his grandmother, +or maybe it was his great-aunt; I forget which. It was a very good +ghost story as ghost stories go, and Davenport told it well. Even Jack +admitted that, but he said: + +"It's only second-hand too. Did you ever have a ghostly experience +yourself, old man?" + +Davenport put his finger tips critically together. + +"Would you believe me if I said I had?" he asked. + +"No," said Jack unblushingly. + +"Then there would be no use in my saying it." + +"But you don't mean that you ever really had, of course?" + +"I don't know. Something queer happened once. I've never been able to +explain it--from a practical point of view, that is. Want to hear +about it?" + +Of course we did. This was exciting. Nobody would ever have suspected +Davenport of seeing ghosts. + +"It's conventional enough," he began. "Ghosts don't seem to have much +originality. But it's firsthand, Jack, if that's what you want. I +don't suppose any of you have ever heard me speak of my brother, +Charles. He was my senior by two years, and was a quiet, reserved sort +of fellow--not at all demonstrative, but with very strong and deep +affections. + +"When he left college he became engaged to Dorothy Chester. She was +very beautiful, and my brother idolized her. She died a short time +before the date set for their marriage, and Charles never recovered +from the blow. + +"I married Dorothy's sister, Virginia. Virginia did not in the least +resemble her sister, but our eldest daughter was strikingly like her +dead aunt. We called her Dorothy, and Charles was devoted to her. +Dolly, as we called her, was always 'Uncle Charley's girl.' + +"When Dolly was twelve years old Charles went to New Orleans on +business, and while there took yellow fever and died. He was buried +there, and Dolly half broke her childish heart over his death. + +"One day, five years later, when Dolly was seventeen, I was writing +letters in my library. That very morning my wife and Dolly had gone to +New York en route for Europe. Dolly was going to school in Paris for a +year. Business prevented my accompanying them even as far as New York, +but Gilbert Chester, my wife's brother, was going with them. They were +to sail on the _Aragon_ the next morning. + +"I had written steadily for about an hour. At last, growing tired, I +threw down my pen and, leaning back in my chair, was on the point of +lighting a cigar when an unaccountable impulse made me turn round. I +dropped my cigar and sprang to my feet in amazement. There was only +one door in the room and I had all along been facing it. I could have +sworn nobody had entered, yet there, standing between me and the +bookcase, was a man--and that man was my brother Charles! + +"There was no mistaking him; I saw him as plainly as I see you. He was +a tall, rather stout man, with curly hair and a fair, close-clipped +beard. He wore the same light-grey suit which he had worn when bidding +us good-bye on the morning of his departure for New Orleans. He had no +hat on, but wore spectacles, and was standing in his old favourite +attitude, with his hands behind him. + +"I want you to understand that at this precise moment, although I was +surprised beyond measure, I was not in the least frightened, because I +did not for a moment suppose that what I saw was--well, a ghost or +apparition of any sort. The thought that flashed across my bewildered +brain was simply that there had been some absurd mistake somewhere, +and that my brother had never died at all, but was here, alive and +well. I took a hasty step towards him. + +"'Good heavens, old fellow!' I exclaimed. 'Where on earth have you +come from? Why, we all thought you were dead!' + +"I was quite close to him when I stopped abruptly. Somehow I couldn't +move another step. He made no motion, but his eyes looked straight +into mine. + +"'Do not let Dolly sail on the _Aragon_ tomorrow,' he said in slow, +clear tones that I heard distinctly. + +"And then he was gone--yes, Jack, I know it is a very conventional way +of ending up a ghost story,| but I have to tell you just what +occurred, or at least what I thought occurred. One moment he was there +and the next moment he wasn't. He did not pass me or go out of the +door. + +"For a few moments I felt dazed. I was wide awake and in my right and +proper senses so far as I could judge, and yet the whole thing seemed +incredible. Scared? No, I wasn't conscious of being scared. I was +simply bewildered. + +"In my mental confusion one thought stood out sharply--Dolly was in +danger of some kind, and if the warning was really from a supernatural +source, it must not be disregarded. I rushed to the station and, +having first wired to my wife not to sail on the _Aragon_, I found +that I could connect with the five-fifteen train for New York. I took +it with the comfortable consciousness that my friends would certainly +think I had gone out of my mind. + +"I arrived in New York at eight o'clock the next morning and at once +drove to the hotel where my wife, daughter and brother-in-law were +staying. I found them greatly mystified by my telegram. I suppose my +explanation was a very lame one. I know I felt decidedly like a fool. +Gilbert laughed at me and said I had dreamed the whole thing. Virginia +was perplexed, but Dolly accepted the warning unhesitatingly. + +"'Of course it was Uncle Charley,' she said confidently. 'We will not +sail on the _Aragon_ now.' + +"Gilbert had to give in to this decision with a very bad grace, and +the _Aragon_ sailed that day minus three of her intended passengers. + +"Well, you've all heard of the historic collision between the _Aragon_ +and the _Astarte_ in a fog, and the fearful loss of life it involved. +Gilbert didn't laugh when the news came, I assure you. Virginia and +Dolly sailed a month later on the _Marseilles_, and reached the other +side in safety. That's all the story, boys--the only experience of the +kind I ever had," concluded Davenport. + +We had many questions to ask and several theories to advance. Jack +said Davenport had dreamed it and that the collision of the _Aragon_ +and the _Astarte_ was simply a striking coincidence. But Davenport +merely smiled at all our suggestions and, as it cleared up just about +three, we told no more ghost stories. + + + + +Emily's Husband + + +Emily Fair got out of Hiram Jameson's waggon at the gate. She took her +satchel and parasol and, in her clear, musical tones, thanked him for +bringing her home. Emily had a very distinctive voice. It was very +sweet always and very cold generally; sometimes it softened to +tenderness with those she loved, but in it there was always an +undertone of inflexibility and reserve. Nobody had ever heard Emily +Fair's voice tremble. + +"You are more than welcome, Mrs. Fair," said Hiram Jameson, with a +glance of bold admiration. Emily met it with an unflinching +indifference. She disliked Hiram Jameson. She had been furious under +all her external composure because he had been at the station when she +left the train. + +Jameson perceived her scorn, but chose to disregard it. + +"Proud as Lucifer," he thought as he drove away. "Well, she's none the +worse of that. I don't like your weak women--they're always sly. If +Stephen Fair don't get better she'll be free and then--" + +He did not round out the thought, but he gloated over the memory of +Emily, standing by the gate in the harsh, crude light of the autumn +sunset, with her tawny, brown hair curling about her pale, oval face +and the scornful glint in her large, dark-grey eyes. + +Emily stood at the gate for some time after Jameson's waggon had +disappeared. When the brief burst of sunset splendour had faded out +she turned and went into the garden where late asters and +chrysanthemums still bloomed. She gathered some of the more perfect +ones here and there. She loved flowers, but to-night the asters +seemed to hurt her, for she presently dropped those she had gathered +and deliberately set her foot on them. + +A sudden gust of wind came over the brown, sodden fields and the +ragged maples around the garden writhed and wailed. The air was raw +and chill. The rain that had threatened all day was very near. Emily +shivered and went into the house. + +Amelia Phillips was bending over the fire. She came forward and took +Emily's parcels and wraps with a certain gentleness that sat oddly on +her grim personality. + +"Are you tired? I'm glad you're back. Did you walk from the station?" + +"No. Hiram Jameson was there and offered to drive me home. I'd rather +have walked. It's going to be a storm, I think. Where is John?" + +"He went to the village after supper," answered Amelia, lighting a +lamp. "We needed some things from the store." + +The light flared up as she spoke and brought out her strong, almost +harsh features and deep-set black eyes. Amelia Phillips looked like an +overdone sketch in charcoal. + +"Has anything happened in Woodford while I've been away?" asked Emily +indifferently. Plainly she did not expect an affirmative answer. +Woodford life was not eventful. + +Amelia glanced at her sharply. So she had not heard! Amelia had +expected that Hiram Jameson would have told her. She wished that he +had, for she never felt sure of Emily. The older sister knew that +beneath that surface reserve was a passionate nature, brooking no +restraint when once it overleaped the bounds of her Puritan +self-control. Amelia Phillips, with all her naturally keen insight and +her acquired knowledge of Emily's character, had never been able to +fathom the latter's attitude of mind towards her husband. From the +time that Emily had come back to her girlhood's home, five years +before, Stephen Fair's name had never crossed her lips. + +"I suppose you haven't heard that Stephen is very ill," said Amelia +slowly. + +Not a feature of Emily's face changed. Only in her voice when she +spoke was a curious jarring, as if a false note had been struck in a +silver melody. + +"What is the matter with him?" + +"Typhoid," answered Amelia briefly. She felt relieved that Emily had +taken it so calmly. Amelia hated Stephen Fair with all the intensity +of her nature because she believed that he had treated Emily ill, but +she had always been distrustful that Emily in her heart of hearts +loved her husband still. That, in Amelia Phillips' opinion, would have +betrayed a weakness not to be tolerated. + +Emily looked at the lamp unwinkingly. + +"That wick needs trimming," she said. Then, with a sudden recurrence +of the untuneful note: + +"Is he dangerously ill?" + +"We haven't heard for three days. The doctors were not anxious about +him Monday, though they said it was a pretty severe case." + +A faint, wraith-like change of expression drifted over Emily's +beautiful face and was gone in a moment. What was it--relief? Regret? +It would have been impossible to say. When she next spoke her vibrant +voice was as perfectly melodious as usual. + +"I think I will go to bed, Amelia. John will not be back until late I +suppose, and I am very tired. There comes the rain. I suppose it will +spoil all the flowers. They will be beaten to pieces." + +In the dark hall Emily paused for a moment and opened the front door +to be cut in the face with a whip-like dash of rain. She peered out +into the thickly gathering gloom. Beyond, in the garden, she saw the +asters tossed about, phantom-like. The wind around the many-cornered +old farmhouse was full of wails and sobs. + +The clock in the sitting-room struck eight. Emily shivered and shut +the door. She remembered that she had been married at eight o'clock +that very morning seven years ago. She thought she could see herself +coming down the stairs in her white dress with her bouquet of asters. +For a moment she was glad that those mocking flowers in the garden +would be all beaten to death before morning by the lash of wind and +rain. + +Then she recovered her mental poise and put the hateful memories away +from her as she went steadily up the narrow stairs and along the hall +with its curious slant as the house had settled, to her own room under +the north-western eaves. + +When she had put out her light and gone to bed she found that she +could not sleep. She pretended to believe that it was the noise of the +storm that kept her awake. Not even to herself would Emily confess +that she was waiting and listening nervously for John's return home. +That would have been to admit a weakness, and Emily Fair, like Amelia, +despised weakness. + +Every few minutes a gust of wind smote the house, with a roar as of a +wild beast, and bombarded Emily's window with a volley of rattling +drops. In the silences that came between the gusts she heard the soft, +steady pouring of the rain on the garden paths below, mingled with a +faint murmur that came up from the creek beyond the barns where the +pine boughs were thrashing in the storm. Emily suddenly thought of a +weird story she had once read years before and long forgotten--a story +of a soul that went out in a night of storm and blackness and lost its +way between earth and heaven. She shuddered and drew the counterpane +over her face. + +"Of all things I hate a fall storm most," she muttered. "It frightens +me." + +Somewhat to her surprise--for even her thoughts were generally well +under the control of her unbending will--she could not help thinking +of Stephen--thinking of him not tenderly or remorsefully, but +impersonally, as of a man who counted for nothing in her life. It was +so strange to think of Stephen being ill. She had never known him to +have a day's sickness in his life before. She looked back over her +life much as if she were glancing with a chill interest at a series of +pictures which in no way concerned her. Scene after scene, face after +face, flashed out on the background of the darkness. + +Emily's mother had died at her birth, but Amelia Phillips, twenty +years older than the baby sister, had filled the vacant place so well +and with such intuitive tenderness that Emily had never been conscious +of missing a mother. John Phillips, too, the grave, silent, elder +brother, loved and petted the child. Woodford people were fond of +saying that John and Amelia spoiled Emily shamefully. + +Emily Phillips had never been like the other Woodford girls and had no +friends of her own age among them. Her uncommon beauty won her many +lovers, but she had never cared for any of them until Stephen Fair, +fifteen years her senior, had come a-wooing to the old, gray, +willow-girdled Phillips homestead. + +Amelia and John Phillips never liked him. There was an ancient feud +between the families that had died out among the younger generation, +but was still potent with the older. + +From the first Emily had loved Stephen. Indeed, deep down in her +strange, wayward heart, she had cared for him long before the +memorable day when he had first looked at her with seeing eyes and +realized that the quiet, unthought-of child who had been growing up at +the old Phillips place had blossomed out into a woman of strange, +seraph-like beauty and deep grey eyes whose expression was nevermore +to go out of Stephen Fair's remembrance from then till the day of his +death. + +John and Amelia Phillips put their own unjustifiable dislike of +Stephen aside when they found that Emily's heart was set on him. The +two were married after a brief courtship and Emily went out from her +girlhood's home to the Fair homestead, two miles away. + +Stephen's mother lived with them. Janet Fair had never liked Emily. +She had not been willing for Stephen to marry her. But, apart from +this, the woman had a natural, ineradicable love of making mischief +and took a keen pleasure in it. She loved her son and she had loved +her husband, but nevertheless, when Thomas Fair had been alive she had +fomented continual strife and discontent between him and Stephen. Now +it became her pleasure to make what trouble she could between Stephen +and his wife. + +She had the advantage of Emily in that she was always sweet-spoken +and, on the surface, sweet-tempered. Emily, hurt and galled in a score +of petty ways, so subtle that they were beyond a man's courser +comprehension, astonished her husband by her fierce outbursts of anger +that seemed to him for the most part without reason or excuse. He +tried his best to preserve the peace between his wife and mother; and +when he failed, not understanding all that Emily really endured at the +elder woman's merciless hands, he grew to think her capricious and +easily irritated--a spoiled child whose whims must not be taken too +seriously. + +To a certain extent he was right. Emily had been spoiled. The unbroken +indulgence which her brother and sister had always accorded her had +fitted her but poorly to cope with the trials of her new life. True, +Mrs. Fair was an unpleasant woman to live with, but if Emily had +chosen to be more patient under petty insults, and less resentful of +her husband's well-meant though clumsy efforts for harmony, the older +woman could have effected real little mischief. But this Emily refused +to be, and the breach between husband and wife widened insidiously. + +The final rupture came two years after their marriage. Emily, in +rebellious anger, told her husband that she would no longer live in +the same house with his mother. + +"You must choose between us," she said, her splendid voice vibrating +with all the unleashed emotion of her being, yet with no faltering in +it. "If she stays I go." + +Stephen Fair, harassed and bewildered, was angry with the relentless +anger of a patient man roused at last. + +"Go, then," he said sternly, "I'll never turn my mother from my door +for any woman's whim." + +The stormy red went out of Emily's face, leaving it like a marble +wash. + +"You mean that!" she said calmly. "Think well. If I go I'll never +return." + +"I do mean it," said Stephen. "Leave my house if you will--if you hold +your marriage vow so lightly. When your senses return you are welcome +to come back to me. I will never ask you to." + +Without another word Emily turned away. That night she went back to +John and Amelia. They, on their part, welcomed her back gladly, +believing her to be a wronged and ill-used woman. They hated Stephen +Fair with a new and personal rancour. The one thing they could hardly +have forgiven Emily would have been the fact of her relenting towards +him. + +But she did not relent. In her soul she knew that, with all her just +grievances, she had been in the wrong, and for that she could not +forgive him! + +Two years after she had left Stephen Mrs. Fair died, and his widowed +sister-in-law went to keep house for him. If he thought of Emily he +made no sign. Stephen Fair never broke a word once passed. + +Since their separation no greeting or look had ever passed between +husband and wife. When they met, as they occasionally did, neither +impassive face changed. Emily Fair had buried her love deeply. In her +pride and anger she would not let herself remember even where she had +dug its grave. + +And now Stephen was ill. The strange woman felt a certain pride in her +own inflexibility because the fact did not affect her. She told +herself that she could not have felt more unconcerned had he been the +merest stranger. Nevertheless she waited and watched for John +Phillips' homecoming. + +At ten o'clock she heard his voice in the kitchen. She leaned out of +the bed and pulled open her door. She heard voices below, but could +not distinguish the words, so she rose and went noiselessly out into +the hall, knelt down by the stair railing and listened. The door of +the kitchen was open below her and a narrow shaft of light struck on +her white, intent face. She looked like a woman waiting for the decree +of doom. + +At first John and Amelia talked of trivial matters. Then the latter +said abruptly: + +"Did you hear how Stephen Fair was?" + +"He's dying," was the brief response. + +Emily heard Amelia's startled exclamation. She gripped the square +rails with her hands until the sharp edges dinted deep into her +fingers. John's voice came up to her again, harsh and expressionless: + +"He took a bad turn the day before yesterday and has been getting +worse ever since. The doctors don't expect him to live till morning." + +Amelia began to talk rapidly in low tones. Emily heard nothing +further. She got up and went blindly back into her room with such +agony tearing at her heartstrings that she dully wondered why she +could not shriek aloud. + +Stephen--her husband--dying! In the burning anguish of that moment her +own soul was as an open book before her. The love she had buried rose +from the deeps of her being in an awful, accusing resurrection. + +Out of her stupor and pain a purpose formed itself clearly. She must +go to Stephen--she must beg and win his forgiveness before it was too +late. She dared not go down to John and ask him to take her to her +husband. He might refuse. The Phillipses had been known to do even +harder things than that. At the best there would be a storm of protest +and objection on her brother's and sister's part, and Emily felt that +she could not encounter that in her present mood. It would drive her +mad. + +She lit a lamp and dressed herself noiselessly, but with feverish +haste. Then she listened. The house was very still. Amelia and John +had gone to bed. She wrapped herself in a heavy woollen shawl hanging +in the hall and crept downstairs. With numbed fingers she fumbled at +the key of the hall door, turned it and slipped out into the night. + +The storm seemed to reach out and clutch her and swallow her up. She +went through the garden, where the flowers already were crushed to +earth; she crossed the long field beyond, where the rain cut her face +like a whip and the wind almost twisted her in its grasp like a broken +reed. Somehow or other, more by blind instinct than anything else, she +found the path that led through commons and woods and waste valleys to +her lost home. + +In after years that frenzied walk through the storm and blackness +seemed as an unbroken nightmare to Emily Fair's recollection. Often +she fell. Once as she did so a jagged, dead limb of fir struck her +forehead and cut in it a gash that marked her for life. As she +struggled to her feet and found her way again the blood trickled down +over her face. + +"Oh God, don't let him die before I get to him--don't--don't--don't!" +she prayed desperately with more of defiance than entreaty in her +voice. Then, realizing this, she cried out in horror. Surely some +fearsome punishment would come upon her for her wickedness--she would +find her husband lying dead. + +When Emily opened the kitchen door of the Fair homestead Almira +Sentner cried out in her alarm, who or what was this creature with the +white face and wild eyes, with her torn and dripping garments and +dishevelled, wind-writhen hair and the big drops of blood slowly +trickling from her brow? + +The next moment she recognized Emily and her face hardened. This +woman, Stephen's sister-in-law, had always hated Emily Fair. + +"What do you want here?" she said harshly. + +"Where is my husband?" asked Emily. + +"You can't see him," said Mrs. Sentner defiantly. "The doctors won't +allow anyone in the room but those he's used to. Strangers excite +him." + +The insolence and cruelty of her speech fell on unheeding ears. Emily, +understanding only that her husband yet lived, turned to the hall +door. + +"Stand back!" she said in a voice that was little more than a +thrilling whisper, but which yet had in it something that cowed Almira +Sentner's malice. Sullenly she stood aside and Emily went unhindered +up the stairs to the room where the sick man lay. + +The two doctors in attendance were there, together with the trained +nurse from the city. Emily pushed them aside and fell on her knees by +the bed. One of the doctors made a hasty motion as if to draw her +back, but the other checked him. + +"It doesn't matter now," he said significantly. + +Stephen Fair turned his languid, unshorn head on the pillow. His dull, +fevered eyes met Emily's. He had not recognized anyone all day, but he +knew his wife. + +"Emily!" he whispered. + +Emily drew his head close to her face and kissed his lips +passionately. + +"Stephen, I've come back to you. Forgive me--forgive me--say that you +forgive me." + +"It's all right, my girl," he said feebly. + +She buried her face in the pillow beside his with a sob. + +In the wan, grey light of the autumn dawn the old doctor came to the +bedside and lifted Emily to her feet. She had not stirred the whole +night. Now she raised her white face with dumb pleading in her eyes. +The doctor glanced at the sleeping form on the bed. + +"Your husband will live, Mrs. Fair," he said gently. "I think your +coming saved him. His joy turned the ebbing tide in favour of life." + +"Thank God!" said Emily. + +And for the first time in her life her beautiful voice trembled. + + + + +Min + + +The morning sun hung, a red, lustreless ball, in the dull grey sky. A +light snow had fallen in the night and the landscape, crossed by +spider-like trails of fences, was as white and lifeless as if wrapped +in a shroud. + +A young man was driving down the road to Rykman's Corner; the youthful +face visible above the greatcoat was thoughtful and refined, the eyes +deep blue and peculiarly beautiful, the mouth firm yet sensitive. It +was not a handsome face, but there was a strangely subtle charm about +it. + +The chill breathlessness of the air seemed prophetic of more snow. The +Reverend Allan Telford looked across the bare wastes and cold white +hills and shivered, as if the icy lifelessness about him were slowly +and relentlessly creeping into his own heart and life. + +He felt utterly discouraged. In his soul he was asking bitterly what +good had come of all his prayerful labours among the people of this +pinched, narrow world, as rugged and unbeautiful in form and life as +the barren hills that shut them in. + +He had been two years among them and he counted it two years of +failure. He had been too outspoken for them; they resented sullenly +his direct and incisive tirades against their pet sins. They viewed +his small innovations on their traditional ways of worship with +disfavour and distrust and shut him out of their lives with an +ever-increasing coldness. He had meant well and worked hard and he +felt his failure keenly. + +His thoughts reverted to a letter received the preceding day from a +former classmate, stating that the pastorate of a certain desirable +town church had become vacant and hinting that a call was to be +moderated for him unless he signified his unwillingness to accept. + +Two years before, Allan Telford, fresh from college and full of +vigorous enthusiasm and high ideas, would have said: + +"No, that is not for me. My work must lie among the poor and lowly of +earth as did my Master's. Shall I shrink from it because, to worldly +eyes, the way looks dreary and uninviting?" + +Now, looking back on his two years' ministry, he said wearily: + +"I can remain here no longer. If I do, I fear I shall sink down into +something almost as pitiful as one of these canting, gossiping people +myself. I can do them no good--they do not like or trust me. I will +accept this call and go back to my own world." + +Perhaps the keynote of his failure was sounded in his last words, "my +own world." He had never felt, or tried to feel, that this narrow +sphere was his own world. It was some lower level to which he had come +with good tidings and honest intentions but, unconsciously, he had +held himself above it, and his people felt and resented this. They +expressed it by saying he was "stuck-up." + +Rykman's Corner came into view as he drove over the brow of a long +hill. He hated the place, knowing it well for what it was--a festering +hotbed of gossip and malice, the habitat of all the slanderous rumours +and innuendoes that permeated the social tissue of the community. The +newest scandal, the worst-flavoured joke, the latest details of the +most recent quarrel, were always to be had at Rykman's store. + +As the minister drove down the hill, a man came out of a small house +at the foot and waited on the road. Had it been possible Telford would +have pretended not to see him, but it was not possible, for Isaac +Galletly meant to be seen and hailed the minister cheerfully. + +"Good mornin', Mr. Telford. Ye won't mind giving me a lift down to the +Corner, I dessay?" + +Telford checked his horse reluctantly and Galletly crawled into the +cutter. He was that most despicable of created beings, a male gossip, +and he spent most of his time travelling from house to house in the +village, smoking his pipe in neighbourly kitchens and fanning into an +active blaze all the smouldering feuds of the place. He had been +nicknamed "The Morning Chronicle" by a sarcastic schoolteacher who had +sojourned a winter at the Corner. The name was an apt one and clung. +Telford had heard it. + +I suppose he is starting out on his rounds now, he thought. + +Galletly plunged undauntedly into the conversational gap. + +"Quite a fall of snow last night. Reckon we'll have more 'fore long. +That was a grand sermon ye gave us last Sunday, Mr. Telford. Reckon it +went home to some folks, judgin' from all I've heard. It was needed +and that's a fact. 'Live peaceably with all men'--that's what I lay +out to do. There ain't a house in the district but what I can drop +into and welcome. 'Tain't everybody in Rykman's Corner can say the +same." + +Galletly squinted out of the corner of his eye to see if the minister +would open on the trail of this hint. Telford's passive face was +discouraging but Galletly was not to be baffled. + +"I s'pose ye haven't heard about the row down at Palmers' last night?" + +"No." + +The monosyllable was curt. Telford was vainly seeking to nip +Galletly's gossip in the bud. The name of Palmer conveyed no especial +meaning to his ear. He knew where the Palmer homestead was, and that +the plaintive-faced, fair-haired woman, whose name was Mrs. Fuller and +who came to church occasionally, lived there. His knowledge went no +further. He had called three times and found nobody at home--at least, +to all appearances. Now he was fated to have the whole budget of some +vulgar quarrel forced on him by Galletly. + +"No? Everyone's talkin' of it. The long and short of it is that Min +Palmer has had a regular up-and-down row with Rose Fuller and turned +her and her little gal out of doors. I believe the two women had an +awful time. Min's a Tartar when her temper's up--and that's pretty +often. Nobody knows how Rose managed to put up with her so long. But +she has had to go at last. Goodness knows what the poor critter'll do. +She hasn't a cent nor a relation--she was just an orphan girl that +Palmer brought up. She is at Rawlingses now. Maybe when Min cools off, +she'll let her go back but it's doubtful. Min hates her like p'isen." + +To Telford this was all very unintelligible. But he understood that +Mrs. Fuller was in trouble of some kind and that it was his duty to +help her if possible, although he had an odd and unaccountable +aversion to the woman, for which he had often reproached himself. + +"Who is this woman you call Min Palmer?" he said coldly. "What are the +family circumstances? I ought to know, perhaps, if I am to be of any +service--but I have no wish to hear idle gossip." + +His concluding sentence was quite unheeded by Galletly. + +"Min Palmer's the worst woman in Rykman's Corner--or out of it. She +always was an odd one. I mind her when she was a girl--a saucy, +black-eyed baggage she was! Handsome, some folks called her. I never +c'd see it. Her people were a queer crowd and Min was never brung up +right--jest let run wild all her life. Well, Rod Palmer took to +dancin' attendance on her. Rod was a worthless scamp. Old Palmer was +well off and Rod was his only child, but this Rose lived there and +kept house for them after Mis' Palmer died. She was a quiet, +well-behaved little creetur. Folks said the old man wanted Rod to +marry her--dunno if 'twas so or not. In the end, howsomever, he had +to marry Min. Her brother got after him with a horse-whip, ye +understand. Old Palmer was furious but he had to give in and Rod +brought her home. She was a bit sobered down by her trouble and lived +quiet and sullen-like at first. Her and Rod fought like cat and dog. +Rose married Osh Fuller, a worthless, drunken fellow. He died in a +year or so and left Rose and her baby without a roof over their heads. +Then old Palmer went and brought her home. He set great store by Rose +and he c'dn't bear Min. Min had to be civil to Rose as long as old +Palmer lived. Fin'lly Rod up and died and 'twasn't long before his +father went too. Then the queer part came in. Everyone expected that +he'd purvide well for Rose and Min'd come in second best. But no will +was to be found. I don't say but what it was all right, mind you. I +may have my own secret opinion, of course. Old Palmer had a regular +mania, as ye might say, for makin' wills. He'd have a lawyer out from +town every year and have a new will made and the old one burnt. Lawyer +Bell was there and made one 'bout eight months 'fore he died. It was +s'posed he'd destroyed it and then died 'fore he'd time to make +another. He went off awful sudden. Anyway, everything went to Min's +child--to Min as ye might say. She's been boss. Rose still stayed on +there and Min let her, which was more than folks expected of her. But +she's turned her out at last. Min's in one of her tantrums now and +'tain't safe to cross her path." + +"What is Mrs. Fuller to do?" asked Telford anxiously. + +"That's the question. She's sickly--can't work much--and then she has +her leetle gal. Min was always jealous of that child. It's a real +purty, smart leetle creetur and old Palmer made a lot of it. Min's own +is an awful-looking thing--a cripple from the time 'twas born. There's +no doubt 'twas a jedgement on her. As for Rose, no doubt the god of +the widow and fatherless will purvide for her." + +In spite of his disgust, Telford could not repress a smile at the +tone, half-whine, half-snuffle, with which Galletly ended up. + +"I think I had better call and see this Mrs. Palmer," he said slowly. + +"'Twould be no airthly use, Mr. Telford. Min'd slam the door in your +face if she did nothing worse. She hates ministers and everything +that's good. She hasn't darkened a church door for years. She never +had any religious tendency to begin with, and when there was such a +scandal about her, old Mr. Dinwoodie, our pastor then--a godly man, +Mr. Telford--he didn't hold no truck with evildoers--he went right to +her to reprove and rebuke her for her sins. Min, she flew at him. She +vowed then she'd never go to church again, and she never has. People +hereabouts has talked to her and tried to do her good, but it ain't no +use. Why, I've heard that woman say there was no God. It's a fact, Mr. +Telford--I have. Some of our ministers has tried to visit her. They +didn't try it more than once. The last one--he was about your heft--he +got a scare, I tell you. Min just caught him by the shoulder and shook +him like a rat! Didn't see it myself but Mrs. Rawlings did. Ye ought +to hear her describin' of it." + +Galletly chuckled over the recollection, his wicked little eyes +glistening with delight. Telford was thankful when they reached the +store. He felt that he could not endure this man's society any +longer. + +Nevertheless, he felt strangely interested. This Min Palmer must at +least be different from the rest of the Cornerites, if only in the +greater force of her wickedness. He almost felt as if her sins on the +grand scale were less blameworthy than the petty vices of her +censorious neighbours. + +Galletly eagerly joined the group of loungers on the dirty wet +platform, and Telford passed into the store. A couple of slatternly +women were talking to Mrs. Rykman about "the Palmer row." Telford made +his small purchases hastily. As he turned from the counter, he came +face to face with a woman who had paused in the doorway to survey the +scene with an air of sullen scorn. By some subtle intuition Telford +knew that this was Min Palmer. + +The young man's first feeling was one of admiration for the woman +before him, who, in spite of her grotesque attire and defiant, +unwomanly air, was strikingly beautiful. She was tall, and not even +the man's ragged overcoat which she wore could conceal the grace of +her figure. Her abundant black hair was twisted into a sagging knot at +her neck, and from beneath the old fur cap looked out a pair of large +and brilliant black eyes, heavily lashed, and full of a smouldering +fire. Her skin was tanned and coarsened, but the warm crimson blood +glowed in her cheeks with a dusky richness, and her face was a perfect +oval, with features chiselled in almost classic regularity of outline. + +Telford had a curious experience at that moment. He seemed to see, +looking out from behind this external mask of degraded beauty, the +semblance of what this woman might have been under more favouring +circumstance of birth and environment, wherein her rich, passionate +nature, potent for either good or evil, might have been trained and +swayed aright until it had developed grandly out into the glorious +womanhood the Creator must have planned for her. He knew, as if by +revelation, that this woman had nothing in common with the narrow, +self-righteous souls of Rykman's Corner. Warped and perverted though +her nature might be, she was yet far nobler than those who sat in +judgement upon her. + +Min made some scanty purchases and left the store quickly, brushing +unheedingly past the minister as she did so. He saw her step on a +rough wood-sleigh and drive down the river road. The platform loungers +had been silent during her call, but now the talk bubbled forth anew. +Telford was sick at heart as he drove swiftly away. He felt for Min +Palmer a pity he could not understand or analyze. The attempt to +measure the gulf between what she was and what she might have been +hurt him like the stab of a knife. + +He made several calls at various houses along the river during the +forenoon. After dinner he suddenly turned his horse towards the Palmer +place. Isaac Galletly, comfortably curled up in a neighbour's chimney +corner, saw him drive past. + +"Ef the minister ain't goin' to Palmers' after all!" he chuckled. +"He's a set one when he does take a notion. Well, I warned him what to +expect. If Min claws his eyes out, he'll only have himself to blame." + +Telford was not without his own misgivings as he drove into the Palmer +yard. He tied his horse to the fence and looked doubtfully about him. +Untrodden snowdrifts were heaped about the front door, so he turned +towards the kitchen and walked slowly past the bare lilac trees along +the fence. There was no sign of life about the place. It was beginning +to snow again, softly and thickly, and the hills and river were hidden +behind a misty white veil. + +He lifted his hand to knock, but before he could do so, the door was +flung open and Min herself confronted him on the threshold. + +She did not now have on the man's overcoat which she had worn at the +store, and her neat, close-fitting home-spun dress revealed to +perfection the full, magnificent curves of her figure. Her splendid +hair was braided about her head in a glossy coronet, and her dark eyes +were ablaze with ill-suppressed anger. Again Telford was overcome by a +sense of her wonderful loveliness. Not all the years of bondage to +ill-temper and misguided will had been able to blot out the beauty of +that proud, dark face. + +She lifted one large but shapely brown hand and pointed to the gate. + +"Go!" she said threateningly. + +"Mrs. Palmer," began Telford, but she silenced him with an imperious +gesture. + +"I don't want any of your kind here. I hate all you ministers. Did you +come here to lecture me? I suppose some of the Corner saints set you +on me. You'll never cross my threshold." + +Telford returned her defiant gaze unflinchingly. His dark-blue eyes, +magnetic in their power and sweetness, looked gravely, questioningly, +into Min's stormy orbs. Slowly the fire and anger faded out of her +face and her head drooped. + +"I ain't fit for you to talk to anyway," she said with a sort of +sullen humility. "Maybe you mean well but you can't do me any good. +I'm past that now. The Corner saints say I'm possessed of the devil. +Perhaps I am--if there is one." + +"I do mean well," said Telford slowly. "I did not come here to reprove +you. I came to help you if I could--if you needed help, Mrs. Palmer--" + +"Don't call me that," she interrupted passionately. She flung out her +hands as if pushing some loathly, invisible thing from her. "I hate +the name--as I hated all who ever bore it. I never had anything but +wrong and dog-usage from them all. Call me Min--that's the only name +that belongs to me now. Go--why don't you go? Don't stand there +looking at me like that. I'm not going to change my mind. I don't want +any praying and whining round me. I've been well sickened of that. +Go!" + +Telford threw back his head and looked once more into her eyes. A long +look passed between them. Then he silently lifted his cap and, with no +word of farewell, he turned and went down to the gate. A bitter sense +of defeat and disappointment filled his heart as he drove away. + +Min stood in the doorway and watched the sleigh out of sight down the +river road. Then she gave a long, shivering sigh that was almost a +moan. + +"If I had met that man long ago," she said slowly, as if groping +vaguely in some hitherto unsounded depth of consciousness, "I would +never have become what I am. I felt that as I looked at him--it all +came over me with an awful sickening feeling--just as if we were +standing alone somewhere out of the world where there was no need of +words to say things. He doesn't despise me--he wouldn't sneer at me, +bad as I am, like those creatures up there. He could have helped me +if we had met in time, but it's too late now." + +She locked her hands over her eyes and groaned, swaying her body to +and fro as one in mortal agony. Presently she looked out again with +hard, dry eyes. + +"What a fool I am!" she said bitterly. "How the Corner saints would +stare if they saw me! I suppose some of them do--" with a glance at +the windows of a neighbouring house. "Yes, there's Mrs. Rawlings +staring out and Rose peeking over her shoulder." + +Her face hardened. The old sway of evil passion reasserted itself. + +"She shall never come back here--never. Oh, she was a sweet-spoken cat +of a thing--but she had claws. I've been blamed for all the trouble. +But if ever I had a chance, I'd tell that minister how she used to +twit and taunt me in that sugary way of hers--how she schemed and +plotted against me as long as she could. More fool I to care what he +thinks either! I wish I were dead. If 'twasn't for the child, I'd go +and drown myself at that black spring-hole down there--I'd be well out +of the way." + + * * * * * + +It was a dull grey afternoon a week afterwards when Allan Telford +again walked up the river road to the Palmer place. The wind was +bitter and he walked with bent head to avoid its fury. His face was +pale and worn and he looked years older. + +He paused at the rough gate and leaned over it while he scanned the +house and its surroundings eagerly. As he looked, the kitchen door +opened and Min, clad in the old overcoat, came out and walked swiftly +across the yard. + +Telford's eyes followed her with pitiful absorption. He saw her lead a +horse from the stable and harness it into a wood-sleigh loaded with +bags of grain. Once she paused to fling her arms about the animal's +neck, laying her face against it with a caressing motion. + +The pale minister groaned aloud. He longed to snatch her forever from +that hard, unwomanly toil and fold her safely away from jeers and +scorn in the shelter of his love. He knew it was madness--he had told +himself so every hour in which Min's dark, rebellious face had haunted +him--yet none the less was he under its control. + +Min led the horse across the yard and left it standing before the +kitchen door; she had not seen the bowed figure at the gate. When she +reappeared, he saw her dark eyes and the rose-red lustre of her face +gleam out from under the old crimson shawl wrapped about her head. + +As she caught the horse by the bridle, the kitchen door swung heavily +to with a sharp, sudden bang. The horse, a great, powerful, nervous +brute, started wildly and then reared in terror. + +The ice underfoot was glib and treacherous. Min lost her foothold and +fell directly under the horse's hoofs as they came heavily down. The +animal, freed from her detaining hand, sprang forward, dragging the +laden sleigh over the prostrate woman. + +It had all passed in a moment. The moveless figure lay where it had +fallen, one outstretched hand still grasping the whip. Telford sprang +over the gate and rushed up the slope like a madman. He flung himself +on his knees beside her. + +"Min! Min!" he called wildly. + +There was no answer. He lifted her in his arms and staggered into the +house with his burden, his heart stilling with a horrible fear as he +laid her gently down on the old lounge in one corner of the kitchen. + +The room was a large one and everything was neat and clean. The fire +burned brightly, and a few green plants were in blossom by the south +window. Beside them sat a child of about seven years who turned a +startled face at Telford's reckless entrance. + +The boy had Min's dark eyes and perfectly chiselled features, refined +by suffering into cameo-like delicacy, and the silken hair fell in +soft, waving masses about the spiritual little face. By his side +nestled a tiny dog, with satin ears and paws fringed as with ravelled +silk. + +Telford paid heed to nothing, not even the frightened child. He was as +one distraught. + +"Min," he wailed again, striving tremblingly to feel her pulse while +cold drops came out on his forehead. + +Min's face was as pallid as marble, save for one heavy bruise across +the cheek and a cruel cut at the edge of the dark hair, from which the +blood trickled down on the pillow. + +She opened her eyes wonderingly at his call, looking up with a dazed, +appealing expression of pain and dread. A low moan broke from her +white lips. Telford sprang to his feet in a tumult of quivering joy. + +"Min, dear," he said gently, "you have been hurt--not seriously, I +hope. I must leave you for a minute while I run for help--I will not +be long." + +"Come back," said Min in a low but distinct tone. + +He paused impatiently. + +"It is of no use to get help," Min went on calmly. "I'm dying--I know +it. Oh, my God!" + +She pressed her hand to her side and writhed. Telford turned +desperately to the door. Min raised her arm. + +"Come here," she said resolutely. + +He obeyed mutely. She looked up at him with bright, unquailing eyes. + +"Don't you go one step--don't leave me here to die alone. I'm past +help--and I've something to say to you. I must say it and I haven't +much time." + +Telford hardly heeded her in his misery. + +"Min, let me go for help--let me do something," he implored. "You must +not die--you must not!" + +Min had fallen back, gasping, on the blood-stained pillow. + +He knelt beside her and put his arm about the poor, crushed body. + +"I must hurry," she said faintly. "I can't die with it on my mind. +Rose--it's all hers--all. There was a will--he made it--old Gran'ther +Palmer. He always hated me. I found it before he died--and read it. He +left everything to her--not a cent to me nor his son's child--we were +to starve--beg. I was like a madwoman. When he died--I hid the will. I +meant--to burn it--but I never could. It's tortured me--night and +day--I've had no peace. You'll find it in a box--in my room. Tell +her--tell Rose--how wicked I've been. And my boy--what will become of +him? Rose hates him--she'll turn him out--or ill-treat him--" + +Telford lifted his white, drawn face. + +"I will take your child, Min. He shall be to me as my own son." + +An expression of unspeakable relief came into the dying woman's face. + +"It is good--of you. I can die--in peace--now. I'm glad to die--to get +clear of it all. I'm tired--of living so. Perhaps--I'll have a +chance--somewhere else. I've never--had any--here." + +The dark eyes drooped--closed. Telford moaned shudderingly. + +Once again Min opened her eyes and looked straight into his. + +"If I had met you--long ago--you would have--loved me--and I would +have been--a good woman. It is well for us--for you--that I am--dying. +Your path will be clear--you will be good and successful--but you will +always--remember me." + +Telford bent and pressed his lips to Min's pain-blanched mouth. + +"Do you think--we will--ever meet again?" she said faintly. "Out +there--it's so dark--God can never--forgive me--I've been so--wicked." + +"Min, the all-loving Father is more merciful than man. He will forgive +you, if you ask Him, and you will wait for me till I come. I will stay +here and do my duty--I will try hard--" + +His voice broke. Min's great black eyes beamed out on him with +passionate tenderness. The strong, deep, erring nature yielded at +last. An exceeding bitter cry rose to her lips. + +"Oh, God--forgive me--forgive me!" + +And with the cry, the soul of poor suffering, sinning, sinned-against +Min Palmer fled--who shall say whither? Who shall say that her +remorseful cry was not heard, even at that late hour, by a Judge more +merciful than her fellow creatures? + +Telford still knelt on the bare floor, holding in his arms the dead +form of the woman he loved--his, all his, in death, as she could never +have been in life. Death had bridged the gulf between them. + +The room was very silent. To Min's face had returned something of its +girlhood's innocence. The hard, unlovely lines were all smoothed out. +The little cripple crept timidly up to Telford, with the silky head of +the dog pressed against his cheek. Telford gathered the distorted +little body to his side and looked earnestly into the small +face--Min's face, purified and spiritualized. He would have it near +him always. He bent and reverently kissed the cold face, the closed +eyelids and the blood-stained brow of the dead woman. Then he stood +up. + +"Come with me, dear," he said gently to the child. + + * * * * * + +The day after the funeral, Allan Telford sat in the study of his +little manse among the encircling wintry hills. Close to the window +sat Min's child, his small, beautiful face pressed against the panes, +and the bright-eyed dog beside him. + +Telford was writing in his journal. + +"I shall stay here--close to her grave. I shall see it every time I +look from my study window--every time I stand in my pulpit--every time +I go in and out among my people. I begin to see wherein I have failed. +I shall begin again patiently and humbly. I wrote today to decline the +C---- church call. My heart and my work are here." + +He closed the book and bowed his head on it. Outside the snow fell +softly; he knew that it was wrapping that new-made grave on the cold, +fir-sentinelled hillside with a stainless shroud of infinite purity +and peace. + + + + +Miss Cordelia's Accommodation + + +"Poor little creatures!" said Miss Cordelia compassionately. + +She meant the factory children. In her car ride from the school where +she taught to the bridge that spanned the river between Pottstown, the +sooty little manufacturing village on one side, and Point Pleasant, +which was merely a hamlet, on the other, she had seen dozens of them, +playing and quarrelling on the streets or peering wistfully out of +dingy tenement windows. + +"Tomorrow is Saturday," she reflected, "and they've no better place to +play in than the back streets and yards. It's a shame. There's work +for our philanthropists here, but they don't seem to see it. Well, I'm +so sorry for them it hurts me to look at them, but I can't do +anything." + +Miss Cordelia sighed and then brightened up, because she realized that +she was turning her back upon Pottstown for two blissful days and +going to Point Pleasant, which had just one straggling, elm-shaded +street hedging on old-fashioned gardens and cosy little houses and +trailing off into the real country in a half-hour's walk. + +Miss Cordelia lived alone in a tiny house at Point Pleasant. It was so +tiny that you would have wondered how anyone could live in it. + +"But it's plenty big for a little old maid like me," Miss Cordelia +would have told you. "And it's my own--I'm queen there. There's solid +comfort in having one spot for your own self. To be sure, if I had +less land and more house it would be better." + +Miss Cordelia always laughed here. It was one of her jokes. There was +a four-acre field behind the house. Both had been left to her by an +uncle. The field was of no use to Miss Cordelia; she didn't keep a cow +and she hadn't time to make a garden. But she liked her field; when +people asked her why she didn't sell it she said: + +"I'm fond of it. I like to walk around in it when the grass grows +long. And it may come in handy some time. Mother used to say if you +kept anything seven years it would come to use. I've had my field a +good bit longer than that, but maybe the time will come yet. Meanwhile +I rejoice in the fact that I am a landed proprietor to the extent of +four acres." + +Miss Cordelia had thought of converting her field into a playground +for the factory children and asking detachments of them over on +Saturday afternoon. But she knew that her Point Pleasant neighbours +would object to this, so that project was dropped. + +When Miss Cordelia pushed open her little gate, hung crookedly in a +very compact and prim spruce hedge, she stopped in amazement and said, +"Well, for pity's sake!" + +Cynthia Ann Flemming, who lived on the other side of the spruce hedge, +now came hurrying over. + +"Good evening, Cordelia. I have a letter that was left with me for +you." + +"But--that--horse," said Miss Cordelia, with a long breath between +every word. "Where did he come from? Tied at my front door--and he's +eaten the tops off every one of my geraniums! Where's his owner or +rider or something?" + +The horse in question was a mild-eyed, rather good-looking quadruped, +tied by a halter to the elm at Miss Cordelia's door and contentedly +munching a mouthful of geranium stalks. Cynthia Ann came through the +hedge with the letter. + +"Maybe this will explain," she said. "Same boy brought it as brought +the horse--a little freckly chap mostly all grin and shirtsleeves. +Said he was told to take the letter and horse to Miss Cordelia Herry, +Elm Street, Point Pleasant, and he couldn't wait. So he tied the +creature in there and left the letter with me. He came half an hour +ago. Well, he has played havoc with your geraniums and no mistake." + +Miss Cordelia opened and read her letter. When she finished it she +looked at the curious Cynthia Ann solemnly. + +"Well, if that isn't John Drew all over! I suspected he was at the +bottom of it as soon as I laid my eyes on that animal. John Drew is a +cousin of mine. He's been living out at Poplar Valley and he writes me +that he has gone out west, and wants me to take 'old Nap.' I suppose +that is the horse. He says that Nap is getting old and not much use +for work and he couldn't bear the thought of shooting him or selling +him to someone who might ill-treat him, so he wants me to take him and +be kind to him for old times' sake. John and I were just like brother +and sister when we were children. If this isn't like him nothing ever +was. He was always doing odd things and thinking they were all right. +And now he's off west and here is the horse. If it were a cat or a +dog--but a horse!" + +"Your four-acre field will come in handy now," said Cynthia Ann +jestingly. + +"So it will." Miss Cordelia spoke absently. "The very thing! Yes, I'll +put him in there." + +"But you don't really mean that you're going to keep the horse, are +you?" protested Cynthia Ann. "Why, he is no good to you--and think of +the expense of feeding him!" + +"I'll keep him for a while," said Miss Cordelia briskly. "As you say, +there is the four-acre field. It will keep him in eating for a while. +I always knew that field had a mission. Poor John Drew! I'd like to +oblige him for old times' sake, as he says, although this is as crazy +as anything he ever did. But I have a plan. Meanwhile, I can't feed +Nap on geraniums." + +Miss Cordelia always adapted herself quickly and calmly to new +circumstances. "It is never any use to get in a stew about things," +she was wont to say. So now she untied Nap gingerly, with many rueful +glances at her geraniums, and led him away to the field behind the +house, where she tied him safely to a post with such an abundance of +knots that there was small fear of his getting away. + +When the mystified Cynthia Ann had returned home Miss Cordelia set +about getting her tea and thinking over the plan that had come to her +concerning her white elephant. + +"I can keep him for the summer," she said. "I'll have to dispose of +him in the fall for I've no place to keep him in, and anyway I +couldn't afford to feed him. I'll see if I can borrow Mr. Griggs's +express wagon for Saturday afternoons, and if I can those poor factory +children in my grade shall have a weekly treat or my name is not +Cordelia Herry. I'm not so sure but that John Drew has done a good +thing after all. Poor John! He always did take things so for granted." + + * * * * * + +All the point pleasant people soon knew about Miss Cordelia's +questionable windfall, and she was overwhelmed with advice and +suggestions. She listened to all tranquilly and then placidly followed +her own way. Mr. Griggs was very obliging in regard to his old express +wagon, and the next Saturday Point Pleasant was treated to a mild +sensation--nothing less than Miss Cordelia rattling through the +village, enthroned on the high seat of Mr. Griggs's yellow express +wagon, drawn by old Nap who, after a week of browsing idleness in the +four-acre field, was quite frisky and went at a decided amble down Elm +Street and across the bridge. The long wagon had been filled up with +board seats, and when Miss Cordelia came back over the bridge the +boards were crowded with factory children--pale-faced little creatures +whose eyes were aglow with pleasure at this unexpected outing. + +Miss Cordelia drove straight out to the big pine-clad hills of +Deepdale, six miles from Pottstown. Then she tied Nap in a convenient +lane and turned the children loose to revel in the woods and fields. +How they did enjoy themselves! And how Miss Cordelia enjoyed seeing +them enjoy themselves! + +When dinner time came she gathered them all around her and went to the +wagon. In it she had a basket of bread and butter. + +"I can't afford anything more," she told Cynthia Ann, "but they must +have something to stay their little stomachs. And I can get some water +at a farmhouse." + +Miss Cordelia had had her eye on a certain farmhouse all the morning. +She did not know anything about the people who lived there, but she +liked the looks of the place. It was a big, white, green-shuttered +house, throned in wide-spreading orchards, with a green sweep of +velvety lawn in front. + +To this Miss Cordelia took her way, surrounded by her small +passengers, and they all trooped into the great farmhouse yard just as +a big man stepped out of a nearby barn. As he approached, Miss +Cordelia thought she had never seen anybody so much like an incarnate +smile before. Smiles of all kinds seemed literally to riot over his +ruddy face and in and out of his eyes and around the corners of his +mouth. + +"Well, well, well!" he said, when he came near enough to be heard. "Is +this a runaway school, ma'am?" + +"I'm the runaway schoolma'am," responded Miss Cordelia with a twinkle. +"And these are a lot of factory children I've brought out for a +Saturday treat. I thought I might get some water from your well, and +maybe you will lend us a tin dipper or two?" + +"Water? Tut, tut!" said the big man, with three distinct smiles on his +face. "Milk's the thing, ma'am--milk. I'll tell my housekeeper to +bring some out. And all of you come over to the lawn and make +yourselves at home. Bless you, ma'am, I'm fond of children. My name is +Smiles, ma'am--Abraham Smiles." + +"It suits you," said Miss Cordelia emphatically, before she thought, +and then blushed rosy-red over her bluntness. + +Mr. Smiles laughed. "Yes, I guess I always have an everlasting grin +on. Had to live up to my name, you see, in spite of my naturally +cantankerous disposition; But come this way, ma'am, I can see the +hunger sticking out of those youngsters' eyes. We'll have a sort of +impromptu picnic here and now, I'll tell my housekeeper to send out +some jam too." + +While the children devoured their lunch Miss Cordelia found herself +telling Mr. Smiles all about old Nap and her little project. + +"I'm going to bring out a load every fine Saturday all summer," she +said. "It's all I can do. They enjoy it so, the little creatures. It's +terrible to think how cramped their lives are. They just exist in +soot. Some of them here never saw green fields before today." + +Mr. Smiles listened and beamed and twinkled until Miss Cordelia felt +almost as dazzled as if she were looking at the sun. + +"Look here, ma'am, I like this plan of yours and I want to have a hand +in helping it along. Bring your loads of children out here every +Saturday, right here to Beechwood Farm, and turn them loose in my +beech woods and upland pastures. I'll put up some swings for them and +have some games, and I'll provide the refreshments also. Trouble, +ma'am? No, trouble and I ain't on speaking terms. It'll be a pleasure, +ma'am. I'm fond of children even if I am a grumpy cross-grained old +bachelor. If you can give up your own holiday to give them a good +time, surely I can do something too." + +When Miss Cordelia and her brood of tired, happy little lads and +lasses ambled back to town in the golden dusk she felt that the +expedition had been an emphatic success. Even old Nap seemed to jog +along eye-deep in satisfaction. Probably he was ruminating on the +glorious afternoon he had spent in Mr. Smiles's clover pasture. + +Every fine Saturday that summer Miss Cordelia took some of the factory +children to the country. The Point Pleasant people nicknamed her +equipage "Miss Cordelia's accommodation," and it became a mild +standing joke. + +As for Mr. Smiles, he proved a valuable assistant. Like Miss Cordelia, +he gave his Saturdays over to the children, and high weekly revel was +held at Beechwood Farm. + +But when the big bronze and golden leaves began to fall in the beech +woods, Miss Cordelia sorrowfully realized that the summer was over and +that the weekly outings which she had enjoyed as much as the children +must soon be discontinued. + +"I feel so sorry," she told Mr. Smiles, "but it can't be helped. It +will soon be too cold for our jaunts and of course I can't keep Nap +through the winter. I hate to part with him, I've grown so fond of +him, but I must." + +She looked regretfully at Nap, who was nibbling Mr. Smiles's clover +aftermath. He was sleek and glossy. It had been the golden summer of +Nap's life. + +Mr. Smiles coughed in an embarrassed fashion. Miss Cordelia looked at +him and was amazed to see that not a smile was on or about his face. +He looked absurdly serious. + +"I want to buy Nap," he said in a sepulchral tone, "but that is not +the only thing I want. I want you too, ma'am. I'm tired of being a +cross old bachelor. I think I'd like to be a cross old husband, for a +change. Do you think you could put up with me in that capacity, Miss +Cordelia, my dear?" + +Miss Cordelia gave a half gasp and then she had to laugh. "Oh, Mr. +Smiles, I'll agree to anything if you'll only smile again. It seems +unnatural to see you look so solemn." + +The smiles at once broke loose and revelled over her wooer's face. + +"Then you will come?" he said eagerly. + +Half an hour later they had their plans made. At New Year's Miss +Cordelia was to leave her school and sooty Pottstown and come to be +mistress of Beechwood Farm. + +"And look here," said Mr. Smiles. "Every fine Saturday you shall have +a big, roomy sleigh and Nap, and drive into town for some children and +bring them out here for their weekly treat as usual. The house is +large enough to hold them, goodness knows, and if it isn't there are +the barns for the overflow. This is going to be our particular pet +charity all our lives, ma'am--I mean Cordelia, my dear." + +"Blessings on old Nap," said Miss Cordelia with a happy light in her +eyes. + +"He shall live in clover for the rest of his days," added Mr. Smiles +smilingly. + + + + +Ned's Stroke of Business + + +"Jump in, Ned; I can give you a lift if you're going my way." Mr. +Rogers reined up his prancing grey horse, and Ned Allen sprang lightly +into the comfortable cutter. The next minute they were flying down the +long, glistening road, rosy-white in the sunset splendour. The first +snow of the season had come, and the sleighing was, as Ned said, +"dandy." + +"Going over to Windsor, I suppose," said Mr. Rogers, with a glance at +the skates that were hanging over Ned's shoulder. + +"Yes, sir; all the Carleton boys are going over tonight. The moon is +out, and the ice is good. We have to go in a body, or the Windsor +fellows won't leave us alone. There's safety in numbers." + +"Pretty hard lines when boys have to go six miles for a skate," +commented Mr. Rogers. + +"Well, it's that or nothing," laughed Ned. "There isn't a saucerful of +ice any nearer, except that small pond in Old Dutcher's field, behind +his barn. And you know Old Dutcher won't allow a boy to set foot +there. He says they would knock down his fences climbing over them, +and like as not set fire to his barn." + +"Old Dutcher was always a crank," said Mr. Rogers, "and doubtless will +be to the end. By the way, I heard a rumour to the effect that you are +soon going to take a course at the business college in Trenton. I hope +it's true." + +Ned's frank face clouded over. "I'm afraid not, sir. The truth is, I +guess Mother can't afford it. Of course, Aunt Ella has very kindly +offered to board me free for the term, but fees, books, and so on +would require at least fifty dollars. I don't expect to go." + +"That's a pity. Can't you earn the necessary money yourself?" + +Ned shook his head. "Not much chance for that in Carleton, Mr. Rogers. +I've cudgelled my brains for the past month trying to think of some +way, but in vain. Well, here is the crossroad, so I must get off. +Thank you for the drive, sir." + +"Keep on thinking, Ned," advised Mr. Rogers, as the lad jumped out. +"Perhaps you'll hit on some plan yet to earn that money, and if you +do--well, it will prove that you have good stuff in you." + +"I think it would," laughed Ned to himself, as he trudged away. "A +quiet little farming village in winter isn't exactly a promising field +for financial operations." + +At Winterby Corners Ned found a crowd of boys waiting for him, and +soon paired off with his chum, Jim Slocum. Jim, as usual, was +grumbling because they had to go all the way to Windsor to skate. + +"Like as not we'll get into a free fight with the Windsorites when we +get there, and be chevied off the ice," he complained. + +The rivalry which existed between the Carleton and the Windsor boys +was bitter and of long standing. + +"We ought to be able to hold our own tonight," said Ned. "There'll be +thirty of us there." + +"If we could only get Old Dutcher to let us skate on his pond!" said +Jim. "It wouldn't hurt his old pond! And the ice is always splendid on +it. I'd give a lot if we could only go there." + +Ned was silent. A sudden idea had come to him. He wondered if it were +feasible. "Anyhow, I'll try it," he said to himself. "I'll interview +Old Dutcher tomorrow." + +The skating that night was not particularly successful. The small pond +at Windsor was crowded, the Windsor boys being out in force and, +although no positive disturbance arose, they contrived to make matters +unpleasant for the Carletonites, who tramped moodily homeward in no +very good humour, most of them declaring that, skating or no skating, +they would not go to Windsor again. + +The next day Ned Allen went down to see Mr. Dutcher, or Old Dutcher, +as he was universally called in Carleton. Ned did not exactly look +forward to the interview with pleasure. Old Dutcher was a crank--there +was no getting around that fact. He had "good days" occasionally when, +for him, he was fairly affable, but they were few and far between, and +Ned had no reason to hope that this would be one. Old Dutcher was +unmarried, and his widowed sister kept house for him. This poor lady +had a decidedly lonely life of it, for Old Dutcher studiously +discouraged visitors. His passion for solitude was surpassed only by +his eagerness to make and save money. Although he was well-to-do, he +would wrangle over a cent, and was the terror of all who had ever had +dealings with him. + +Fortunately for Ned and his project, this did turn out to be one of +Old Dutcher's good days. He had just concluded an advantageous bargain +with a Windsor cattle-dealer, and hence he received Ned with what, for +Old Dutcher, might be called absolute cordiality. Besides, although +Old Dutcher disliked all boys on principle, he disliked Ned less than +the rest because the boy had always treated him respectfully and had +never played any tricks on him on Hallowe'en or April Fool's Day. + +"I've come down to see you on a little matter of business, Mr. +Dutcher," said Ned, boldly and promptly. It never did to beat about +the bush with Old Dutcher; you had to come straight to the point. "I +want to know if you will rent your pond behind the barn to me for a +skating-rink." + +Old Dutcher's aspect was certainly not encouraging. "No, I won't. You +ought to know that. I never allow anyone to skate there. I ain't going +to have a parcel of whooping, yelling youngsters tearing over my +fences, disturbing my sleep at nights, and like as not setting fire to +my barns. No, sir! I ain't going to rent that pond for no +skating-rink." + +Ned smothered a smile. "Just wait a moment, Mr. Dutcher," he said +respectfully. "I want you to hear my proposition before you refuse +definitely. First, I'll give you ten dollars for the rent of the pond; +then I'll see that there will be no running over your fields and +climbing your fences, no lighting of fire or matches about it, and no +'whooping and yelling' at nights. My rink will be open only from two +to six in the afternoon and from seven to ten in the evening. During +that time I shall always be at the pond to keep everything in order. +The skaters will come and go by the lane leading from the barn to the +road. I think that if you agree to my proposition, Mr. Dutcher, you +will not regret it." + +"What's to prevent my running such a rink myself?" asked Old Dutcher +gruffly. + +"It wouldn't pay you, Mr. Dutcher," answered Ned promptly. "The +Carleton boys wouldn't patronize a rink run by you." + +Old Dutcher's eyes twinkled. It did not displease him to know that the +Carleton boys hated him. In fact, it seemed as if he rather liked it. + +"Besides," went on Ned, "you couldn't afford the time. You couldn't be +on the pond for eight hours a day and until ten o'clock at night. I +can, as I've nothing else to do just now. If I had, I wouldn't have to +be trying to make money by a skating-rink." + +Old Dutcher scowled. Ten dollars was ten dollars and, as Ned had said, +he knew very well that he could not run a rink by himself. "Well," he +said, half reluctantly, "I suppose I'll let you go ahead. Only +remember I'll hold you responsible if anything happens." + +Ned went home in high spirits. By the next day he had placards out in +conspicuous places--on the schoolhouse, at the forge, at Mr. Rogers's +store, and at Winterby Corners--announcing that he had rented Mr. +Dutcher's pond for a skating-rink, and that tickets for the same at +twenty-five cents a week for each skater could be had upon application +to him. + +Ned was not long left in doubt as to the success of his enterprise. It +was popular from the start. There were about fifty boys in Carleton +and Winterby, and they all patronized the rink freely. At first Ned +had some trouble with two or three rowdies, who tried to evade his +rules. He was backed up, however, by Old Dutcher's reputation and by +the public opinion of the other boys, as well as by his own undoubted +muscle, and soon had everything going smoothly. The rink flourished +amain, and everybody, even Old Dutcher, was highly pleased. + +At the end of the season Ned paid Old Dutcher his ten dollars, and had +plenty left to pay for books and tuition at the business college in +Trenton. On the eve of his departure Mr. Rogers, who had kept a keen +eye on Ned's enterprise, again picked him up on the road. + +"So you found a way after all, Ned," he said genially. "I had an idea +you would. My bookkeeper will be leaving me about the time you will be +through at the college. I will be wanting in his place a young man +with a good nose for business, and I rather think that you will be +that young man. What do you say?" + +"Thank you, sir," stammered Ned, scarcely believing his ears. A +position in Mr. Rogers's store meant good salary and promotion. He had +never dared to hope for such good fortune. "If you--think I can give +satisfaction--" + +"You manipulated Old Dutcher, and you've earned enough in a very +slow-going place to put you through your business-college term, so I +am sure you are the man I'm looking for. I believe in helping those +who have 'gumption' enough to help themselves, so we'll call it a +bargain, Ned." + + + + +Our Runaway Kite + + +Of course there was nobody for us to play with on the Big Half Moon, +but then, as Claude says, you can't have everything. We just had to +make the most of each other, and we did. + +The Big Half Moon is miles from anywhere, except the Little Half Moon. +But nobody lives there, so that doesn't count. + +We live on the Big Half Moon. "We" are Father and Claude and I and +Aunt Esther and Mimi and Dick. It used to be only Father and Claude +and I. It is all on account of the kite that there are more of us. +This is what I want to tell you about. + +Father is the keeper of the Big Half Moon lighthouse. He has always +been the keeper ever since I can remember, although that isn't very +long. I am only eleven years old. Claude is twelve. + +In winter, when the harbour is frozen over, there isn't any need of a +light on the Big Half Moon, and we all move over to the mainland, and +Claude and Mimi and Dick and I go to school. But as soon as spring +comes, back we sail to our own dear island, so glad that we don't know +what to do with ourselves. + +The funny part used to be that people always pitied us when the time +came for us to return. They said we must be so lonesome over there, +with no other children near us, and not even a woman to look after us. + +Why, Claude and I were never lonesome. There was always so much to do, +and Claude is splendid at making believe. He makes the very best +pirate chief I ever saw. Dick is pretty good, but he can never roar +out his orders in the bloodcurdling tones that Claude can. + +Of course Claude and I would have liked to have someone to play with +us, because it is hard to run pirate caves and things like that with +only two. But we used to quarrel a good deal with the mainland +children in winter, so perhaps it was just as well that there were +none of them on the Big Half Moon. Claude and I never quarrelled. We +used to argue sometimes and get excited, but that was as far as it +ever went. When I saw Claude getting too excited I gave in to him. He +is a boy, you know, and they have to be humoured; they are not like +girls. + +As for having a woman to look after us, I thought that just too silly, +and so did Claude. What did we need with a woman when we had Father? +He could cook all we wanted to eat and make molasses taffy that was +just like a dream. He kept our clothes all mended, and everything +about the lighthouse was neat as wax. Of course I helped him lots. I +like pottering round. + +He used to hear our lessons and tell us splendid stories and saw that +we always said our prayers. Claude and I wouldn't have done anything +to make him feel bad for the world. Father is just lovely. + +To be sure, he didn't seem to have any relations except us. This used +to puzzle Claude and me. Everybody on the mainland had relations; why +hadn't we? Was it because we lived on an island? We thought it would +be so jolly to have an uncle and aunt and some cousins. Once we asked +Father about it, but he looked so sorrowful all of a sudden that we +wished we hadn't. He said it was all his fault. I didn't see how that +could be, but I never said anything more about it to Father. Still, I +did wish we had some relations. + +It is always lovely out here on the Big Half Moon in summer. When it +is fine the harbour is blue and calm, with little winds and ripples +purring over it, and the mainland shores look like long blue lands +where fairies dwell. Away out over the bar, where the big ships go, it +is always hazy and pearl-tinted, like the inside of the mussel shells. +Claude says he is going to sail out there when he grows up. I would +like to too, but Claude says I can't because I'm a girl. It is +dreadfully inconvenient to be a girl at times. + +When it storms it is grand to see the great waves come crashing up +against the Big Half Moon as if they meant to swallow it right down. +You can't see the Little Half Moon at all then; it is hidden by the +mist and spume. + +We had our pirate cave away up among the rocks, where we kept an old +pistol with the lock broken, a rusty cutlass, a pair of knee boots, +and Claude's jute beard and wig. Down on the shore, around one of the +horns of the Half Moon, was the Mermaid's Pool, where we sailed our +toy boats and watched for sea kelpies. We never saw any. Dick says +there is no such thing as a kelpy. But then Dick has no imagination. +It is no argument against a thing that you've never seen it. I have +never seen the pyramids, either, but I know that there are pyramids. + +Every summer we had some hobby. The last summer before Dick and Mimi +came we were crazy about kites. A winter boy on the mainland showed +Claude how to make them, and when we went back to the Big Half Moon we +made kites galore. Even pirating wasn't such good fun. Claude would go +around to the other side of the Big Half Moon and we would play +shipwrecked mariners signalling to each other with kites. Oh, it was +very exciting. + +We had one kite that was a dandy. It was as big as we could make it +and covered with lovely red paper; we had pasted gold tinsel stars all +over it and written our names out in full on it--Claude Martin Leete +and Philippa Brewster Leete, Big Half Moon Lighthouse. That kite had +the most magnificent tail, too. + +It used to scare the gulls nearly to death when we sent up our kites. +They didn't know what to make of them. And the Big Half Moon is such a +place for gulls--there are hundreds of them here. + +One day there was a grand wind for kite-flying, and Claude and I were +having a splendid time. We used our smaller kites for signalling, and +when we got tired of that Claude sent me to the house for the big +one. I'm sure I don't know how it happened, but when I was coming back +over the rocks I tripped and fell, and my elbow went clear through +that lovely kite. You would never have believed that one small elbow +could make such a big hole. Claude said it was just like a girl to +fall and stick her elbow through a kite, but I don't see why it should +be any more like a girl than a boy. Do you? + +We had to hurry to fix the kite if we wanted to send it up before the +wind fell, so we rushed into the lighthouse to get some paper. We knew +there was no more red paper, and the looks of the kite were spoiled, +anyhow, so we just took the first thing that came handy--an old letter +that was lying on the bookcase in the sitting-room. I suppose we +shouldn't have taken it, although, as matters turned out, it was the +best thing we could have done; but Father was away to the mainland to +buy things, and we never thought it could make any difference about an +old yellow letter. It was one Father had taken from a drawer in the +bookcase which he had cleaned out the night before. We patched the +kite up with the letter, a sheet on each side, and dried it by the +fire. Then we started out, and up went the kite like a bird. The wind +was glorious, and it soared and strained like something alive. All at +once--snap! And there was Claude, standing with a bit of cord in his +hand, looking as foolish as a flatfish, and our kite sailing along at +a fearful rate of speed over to the mainland. + +I might have said to Claude, So like a boy! but I didn't. Instead, I +sympathized with him, and pointed out that it really didn't matter +because I had spoiled it by jabbing my elbow through it. By this time +the kite was out of sight, and we never expected to see or hear of it +again. + + * * * * * + +A month later a letter came to the Big Half Moon for Father. Jake +Wiggins brought it over in his sloop. Father went off by himself to +read it, and such a queer-looking face as he had when he came back! +His eyes looked as if he had been crying, but that couldn't be, I +suppose, because Claude says men never cry. Anyhow, his face was all +glad and soft and smiley. + +"Do you two young pirates and freebooters want to know what has become +of your kite?" he said. + +Then he sat down beside us on the rocks at the Mermaid's Pool and told +us the whole story, and read his letter to us. It was the most amazing +thing. + +It seems Father had had relations after all--a brother and a sister in +particular. But when he was a young man he quarrelled with his +brother, who didn't treat him very well--but he's been dead for years, +so I won't say a word against him--and had gone away from home. He +never went back, and he never even let them know he was living. + +Father says that this was very wrong of him, and I suppose it was, +since he says so; but I don't see how Father could do anything wrong. + +Anyway, he had a sister Esther whom he loved very much; but he felt +bitter against her too, because he thought she took his brother's part +too much. So, though a letter of hers, asking him to go back, did +reach him, he never answered it, and he never heard anything more. +Years afterward he felt sorry and went back, but his brother was dead +and his sister had gone away, and he couldn't find out a single thing +about her. + +So much for that; and now about the kite. The letter Father had just +received was from his sister, our Aunt Esther and the mother of Dick +and Mimi. She was living at a place hundreds of miles inland. Her +husband was dead and, as we found out later, although she did not say +a word about it in the letter, she was very poor. One day when Dick +and Mimi were out in the woods looking for botany specimens they saw +something funny in the top of a tree. Dick climbed up and got it. It +was a big red kite with a patch on each side and names written on it. +They carried it home to their mother. Dick has since told us that she +turned as pale as the dead when she saw our names on it. You see, +Philippa was her mother's name and Claude was her father's. And when +she read the letter that was pasted over the hole in the kite she knew +who we must be, for it was the very letter she had written to her +brother so long ago. So she sat right down and wrote again, and this +was the letter Jake Wiggins brought to the Big Half Moon. It was a +beautiful letter. I loved Aunt Esther before I ever saw her, just from +that letter. + +Next day Father got Jake to take his place for a few days, and he left +Claude and me over on the mainland while he went to see Aunt Esther. +When he came back he brought Aunt Esther and Dick and Mimi with him, +and they have been here ever since. + +You don't know how splendid it is! Aunt Esther is such a dear, and +Dick and Mimi are too jolly for words. They love the Big Half Moon as +well as Claude and I do, and Dick makes a perfectly elegant +shipwrecked mariner. + +But the best of it all is that we have relations now! + + + + +The Bride Roses + + +Miss Corona awoke that June morning with a sigh, the cause of which +she was at first too sleepy to understand. Then it all came over her +with a little sickening rush; she had fallen asleep with tear-wet +lashes the night before on account of it. + +This was Juliet Gordon's wedding day, and she, Miss Corona, could not +go to the wedding and was not even invited, all because of the +Quarrel, a generation old, and so chronic and bitter and terrible that +it always presented itself to Miss Corona's mental vision as spelled +with a capital. Well might Miss Corona hate it. It had shut her up +into a lonely life for long years. Juliet Gordon and Juliet's father, +Meredith Gordon, were the only relations Miss Corona had in the world, +and the old family feud divided them by a gulf which now seemed +impassable. + +Miss Corona turned over on her pillows, lifted one corner of the white +window-blind and peeped out. Below her a river of early sunshine was +flowing through the garden, and the far-away slopes were translucent +green in their splendour of young day, with gauzy, uncertain mists +lingering, spiritlike, in their intervales. A bird, his sleek plumage +iridescent in the sunlight, was perched on the big chestnut bough that +ran squarely across the window, singing as if his heart would burst +with melody and the joy of his tiny life. No bride could have wished +anything fairer for her day of days, and Miss Corona dropped back on +her pillows with another gentle sigh. + +"I'm so glad that the dear child has a fine day to be married," she +said. + +Juliet Gordon was always "dear child" to Miss Corona, although the two +had never spoken to each other in their lives. + +Miss Corona was a brisk and early riser as a rule, with a genuine +horror of lazy people who lay late abed or took over-long to get their +eyes well opened, but this morning she made no hurry about rising, +even though scurrying footsteps, banging doors, and over-loud tinkling +of dishes in the room below betokened that Charlotta was already up +and about. And Charlotta, as poor Miss Corona knew only too well, was +fatally sure to do something unfortunate if she were not under some +careful, overseeing eye. To be sure, Charlotta's intentions were +always good. + +But Miss Corona was not thinking about Charlotta this morning, and she +felt so strong a distaste for her lonely, purposeless life that she +was in no haste to go forth to meet another day of it. + +Miss Corona felt just the least little bit tired of living, although +she feared it was very wicked of her to feel so. She lay there +listlessly for half an hour longer, looking through a mist of tears at +the portrait of her stern old father hanging on the wall at the foot +of the bed, and thinking over the Quarrel. + +It had happened thirty years ago, when Miss Corona had been a girl of +twenty, living alone with her father at the old Gordon homestead on +the hill, with the big black spruce grove behind it on the north and +far-reaching slopes of green fields before it on the south. Down in +the little northern valley below the spruce grove lived her uncle, +Alexis Gordon. His son, Meredith, had seemed to Corona as her own +brother. The mothers of both were dead; neither had any other brother +or sister. The two children had grown up together, playmates and +devoted friends. There had never been any sentiment or lovemaking +between them to mar a perfect comradeship. They were only the best of +friends, whatever plans the fathers might have cherished for the union +of their estates and children, putting the property consideration +first, as the Gordons were always prone to do. + +But, if Roderick and Alexis Gordon had any such plans, all went by the +board when they quarreled. Corona shivered yet over the bitterness of +that time. The Gordons never did anything half-heartedly. The strife +between the two brothers was determined and irreconcilable. + +Corona's father forbade her to speak to her uncle and cousin or to +hold any communication with them. Corona wept and obeyed him. She had +always obeyed her father; it had never entered into her mind to do +anything else. Meredith had resented her attitude hotly, and from that +day they had never spoken or met, while the years came and went, each +making a little wider and more hopeless the gulf of coldness and anger +and distrust. + +Ten years later Roderick Gordon died, and in five months Alexis Gordon +followed him to the grave. The two brothers who had hated each other +so unyieldingly in life slept very peaceably side by side in the old +Gordon plot of the country graveyard, but their rancour still served +to embitter the lives of their descendants. + +Corona, with a half-guilty sense of disloyalty to her father, hoped +that she and Meredith might now be friends again. He was married, and +had one little daughter. In her new and intolerable loneliness +Corona's heart yearned after her own people. But she was too timid to +make any advances, and Meredith never made any. Corona believed that +he hated her, and let slip her last fluttering hope that the old +breach would ever be healed. + +"Oh, dear! oh, dear!" she sobbed softly into her pillows. It seemed a +terrible thing to her that one of her race and kin was to be married +and she could not be present at the ceremony, she who had never seen a +Gordon bride. + +When Miss Corona went downstairs at last, she found Charlotta sobbing +in the kitchen porch. The small handmaiden was doubled up on the +floor, with her face muffled in her gingham apron and her long braids +of red hair hanging with limp straightness down her back. When +Charlotta was in good spirits, they always hung perkily over each +shoulder, tied up with enormous bows of sky-blue ribbon. + +"What have you done this time?" asked Miss Corona, without the +slightest intention of being humorous or sarcastic. + +"I've--I've bruk your green and yaller bowl," sniffed Charlotta. +"Didn't mean to, Miss C'rona. It jest slipped out so fashion 'fore I +c'd grab holt on it. And it's bruk into forty millyun pieces. Ain't I +the onluckiest girl?" + +"You certainly are," sighed Miss Corona. At any other time she would +have been filled with dismay over the untoward fate of her green and +yellow bowl, which had belonged to her great-grandmother and had stood +on the hall table to hold flowers as long as she could remember. But +just now her heart was so sore over the Quarrel that there was no room +for other regrets. "Well, well, crying won't mend it. I suppose it is +a judgment on me for staying abed so late. Go and sweep up the pieces, +and do try and be a little more careful, Charlotte." + +"Yes'm," said Charlotta meekly. She dared not resent being called +Charlotte just then. "And I'll tell you what I'll do, ma'am, to make +up, I'll go and weed the garden. Yes'm, I'll do it beautiful." + +"And pull up more flowers than weeds," Miss Corona reflected +mournfully. But it did not matter; nothing mattered. She saw Charlotta +sally forth into the garden with a determined, do-or-die expression +surmounting her freckles, without feeling interest enough to go and +make sure that she did not root out all the late asters in her tardy +and wilfully postponed warfare on weeds. + +This mood lasted until the afternoon. Then Miss Corona, whose heart +and thoughts were still down in the festive house in the valley, +roused herself enough to go out and see what Charlotta was doing. +After finding out, she wandered idly about the rambling, old-fashioned +place, which was full of nooks and surprises. At every turn you might +stumble on some clump or tangle of sweetness, showering elusive +fragrance on the air, that you would never have suspected. Nothing in +the garden was planted quite where it should be, yet withal it was the +most delightful spot imaginable. + +Miss Corona pushed her way into the cherry-tree copse, and followed a +tiny, overgrown path to a sunshiny corner beyond. She had not been +there since last summer; the little path was getting almost +impassable. When she emerged from the cherry trees, somewhat rumpled +and pulled about in hair and attire, but attended, as if by a +benediction, by the aromatic breath of the mint she had trodden on, +she gave a little cry and stood quite still, gazing at the rosebush +that grew in the corner. It was so large and woody that it seemed more +like a tree than a bush, and it was snowed over with a splendour of +large, pure white roses. + +"Dear life," whispered Miss Corona tremulously, as she tiptoed towards +it. "The bride roses have bloomed again! How very strange! Why, there +has not been a rose on that tree for twenty years." + +The rosebush had been planted there by Corona's great-grandmother, the +lady of the green and yellow bowl. It was a new variety, brought out +from Scotland by Mary Gordon, and it bore large white roses which +three generations of Gordon brides had worn on their wedding day. It +had come to be a family tradition among the Gordons that no luck would +attend the bride who did not carry a white rose from Mary Gordon's +rose-tree. + +Long years ago the tree had given up blooming, nor could all the +pruning and care given it coax a single blossom from it. Miss Corona, +tinctured with the superstition apt to wait on a lonely womanhood, +believed in her heart that the rosebush had a secret sympathy with the +fortunes of the Gordon women. She, the last of them on the old +homestead, would never need the bride roses. Wherefore, then, should +the old tree bloom? And now, after all these years, it had flung all +its long-hoarded sweetness into blossom again. Miss Corona thrilled at +the thought. The rosebush had bloomed again for a Gordon bride, but +Miss Corona was sure there was another meaning in it too; she +believed it foretokened some change in her own life, some +rejuvenescence of love and beauty like to that of the ancient +rose-tree. She bent over its foam of loveliness almost reverently. + +"They have bloomed for Juliet's wedding," she murmured. "A Gordon +bride must wear the bride roses, indeed she must. And this--why, it is +almost a miracle." + +She ran, light-footedly as a girl, to the house for scissors and a +basket. She would send Juliet Gordon the bride roses. Her cheeks were +pink from excitement as she snipped them off. How lovely they were! +How very large and fragrant! It was as if all the grace and perfume +and beauty and glory of those twenty lost summers were found here at +once in them. When Miss Corona had them ready, she went to the door +and called, "Charlotte! Charlotte!" + +Now Charlotta, having atoned to her conscience for the destruction of +the green and yellow bowl by faithfully weeding the garden, a task +which she hated above all else, was singing a hymn among the sweet +peas, and her red braids were over her shoulders. This ought to have +warned Miss Corona, but Miss Corona was thinking of other things, and +kept on calling patiently, while Charlotta weeded away for dear life, +and seemed smitten with treble deafness. + +After a time Miss Corona remembered and sighed. She did hate to call +the child that foolish name with its foreign sound. Just as if plain +"Charlotte" were not good enough for her, and much more suitable to +"Smith" too! Ordinarily Miss Corona would not have given in. But the +case was urgent; she could not stand upon her dignity just now. + +"Charlotta!" she called entreatingly. + +Instantly Charlotta flew to the garden gate and raced up to the door. + +"Yes'm," she said meekly. "You want me, Miss C'rona?" + +"Take this box down to Miss Juliet Gordon, and ask that it be given to +her at once," said Miss Corona, "Don't loiter, Charlotta. Don't stop +to pick gum in the grove, or eat sours in the dike, or poke sticks +through the bridge, or--" + +But Charlotta had gone. + + * * * * * + +Down in the valley, the other Gordon house was in a hum of excitement. +Upstairs Juliet had gone to her invalid mother's room to show herself +in her wedding dress to the pale little lady lying on the sofa. She +was a tall, stately young girl with the dark grey Gordon eyes and the +pure creaminess of colouring, flawless as a lily petal. Her face was a +very sweet one, and the simple white dress she wore became her dainty, +flowerlike beauty as nothing elaborate could have done. + +"I'm not going to put on my veil until the last moment," she said +laughingly. "I would feel married right away if I did. And oh, Mother +dear, isn't it too bad? My roses haven't come. Father is back from the +station, and they were not there. I am so disappointed. Romney +ordered pure white roses because I said a Gordon bride must carry +nothing else. Come in"--as a knock sounded at the door. + +Laura Burton, Juliet's cousin and bridesmaid, entered with a box. + +"Juliet dear, the funniest little red-headed girl with the most +enormous freckles has just brought this for you. I haven't an idea +where she came from; she looked like a messenger from pixy-land." + +Juliet opened the box and gave a cry. + +"Oh, Mother, look--look! What perfect roses! Who could have sent them? +Oh, here's a note from--from--why, Mother, it's from Cousin Corona." + + "My dear child," ran the letter in Miss Corona's fine, + old-fashioned script. "I am sending you the Gordon bride roses. + The rose-tree has bloomed for the first time in twenty years, my + dear, and it must surely be in honour of your wedding day. I + hope you will wear them for, although I have never known you, I + love you very much. I was once a dear friend of your father's. + Tell him to let you wear the roses I send for old times' sake. I + wish you every happiness, my dear. + + "Your affectionate cousin, + "Corona Gordon." + +"Oh, how sweet and lovely of her!" said Juliet gently, as she laid the +letter down. "And to think she was not even invited! I wanted to send +her an invitation, but Father said it would be better not to--she was +so hard and bitter against us that she would probably regard it as an +insult." + +"He must have been mistaken about her attitude," said Mrs. Gordon. "It +certainly is a great pity she was not invited, but it is too late now. +An invitation sent two hours before the ceremony would be an insult +indeed." + +"Not if the bride herself took it!" exclaimed Juliet impulsively. +"I'll go myself to Cousin Corona, and ask her to come to my wedding." + +"Go yourself! Child, you can't do such a thing! In that dress...." + +"Go I must, Momsie. Why, it's only a three minutes' walk. I'll go up +the hill by the old field-path, and no one will see me. Oh, don't say +a word--there, I'm gone!" + +"That child!" sighed the mother protestingly, as she heard Juliet's +flying feet on the stairs. "What a thing for a bride to do!" + +Juliet, with her white silken skirts caught up above grasses and dust, +ran light-footedly through the green lowland fields and up the hill, +treading for the first time the faint old field-path between the two +homes, so long disused that it was now barely visible in its fringing +grasses and star-dust of buttercups. Where it ran into the spruce +grove was a tiny gate which Miss Corona had always kept in good +repair, albeit it was never used. Juliet pushed up the rusty hasp and +ran through. + +Miss Corona was sitting alone in her shadowy parlour, hanging over a +few of the bride roses with falling tears, when something tall and +beautiful and white, came in like a blessing and knelt by her chair. + +"Cousin Corona," said a somewhat breathless bride, "I have come to +thank you for your roses and ask you to forgive us all for the old +quarrel." + +"Dear child," said Miss Corona out of her amazement, "there is nothing +to forgive. I've loved you all and longed for you. Dear child, you +have brought me great happiness." + +"And you must come to my wedding," cried Juliet. "Oh, you must--or I +shall think you have not really forgiven us. You would never refuse +the request of a bride, Cousin Corona. We are queens on our wedding +day, you know." + +"Oh, it's not that, dear child--but I'm not dressed--I--" + +"I'll help you dress. And I won't go back without you. The guests and +the minister must wait if necessary--yes, even Romney must wait. Oh, I +want you to meet Romney. Come, dear." + +And Miss Corona went. Charlotta and the bride got her into her grey +silk and did her hair, and in a very short time she and Juliet were +hurrying down the old field-path. In the hollow Meredith Gordon met +them. + +"Cousin Meredith," said Miss Corona tremulously. + +"Dear Corona." + +He took both her hands in his, and kissed her heartily. "Forgive me +for misunderstanding you so long. I thought you hated us all." + +Turning to Juliet, he said with a fatherly smile, + +"What a terrible girl it is for having its own way! Who ever heard of +a Gordon bride doing such an unconventional thing? There, scamper off +to the house before your guests come. Laura has made your roses up +into what she calls 'a dream of a bouquet,' I'll take Cousin Corona up +more leisurely." + +"Oh, I knew that something beautiful was going to happen when the old +rose-tree bloomed," murmured Miss Corona happily. + + + + +The Josephs' Christmas + + +The month before Christmas was always the most exciting and mysterious +time in the Joseph household. Such scheming and planning, such putting +of curly heads together in corners, such counting of small hoards, +such hiding and smuggling of things out of sight, as went on among the +little Josephs! + +There were a good many of them, and very few of the pennies; hence the +reason for so much contriving and consulting. From fourteen-year-old +Mollie down to four-year-old Lennie there were eight small Josephs in +all in the little log house on the prairie; so that when each little +Joseph wanted to give a Christmas box to each of the other little +Josephs, and something to Father and Mother Joseph besides, it is no +wonder that they had to cudgel their small brains for ways and means +thereof. + +Father and Mother were always discreetly blind and silent through +December. No questions were asked no matter what queer things were +done. Many secret trips to the little store at the railway station two +miles away were ignored, and no little Joseph was called to account +because he or she looked terribly guilty when somebody suddenly came +into the room. The air was simply charged with secrets. + +Sister Mollie was the grand repository of these; all the little +Josephs came to her for advice and assistance. It was Mollie who for +troubled small brothers and sisters did such sums in division as this: +How can I get a ten-cent present for Emmy and a fifteen-cent one for +Jimmy out of eighteen cents? Or, how can seven sticks of candy be +divided among eight people so that each shall have one? It was Mollie +who advised regarding the purchase of ribbon and crepe paper. It was +Mollie who put the finishing touches to most of the little gifts. In +short, all through December Mollie was weighed down under an avalanche +of responsibility. It speaks volumes for her sagacity and skill that +she never got things mixed up or made any such terrible mistake as +letting one little Joseph find out what another was going to give +him. "Dead" secrecy was the keystone of all plans and confidences. + +During this particular December the planning and contriving had been +more difficult and the results less satisfactory than usual. The +Josephs were poor at any time, but this winter they were poorer than +ever. The crops had failed in the summer, and as a consequence the +family were, as Jimmy said, "on short commons." But they made the +brave best of their small resources, and on Christmas Eve every little +Joseph went to bed with a clear conscience, for was there not on the +corner table in the kitchen a small mountain of tiny--sometimes very +tiny--gifts labelled with the names of recipients and givers, and +worth their weight in gold if love and good wishes count for anything? + +It was beginning to snow when the small small Josephs went to bed, and +when the big small Josephs climbed the stairs it was snowing thickly. +Mr. and Mrs. Joseph sat before the fire and listened to the wind +howling about the house. + +"I'm glad I'm not driving over the prairie tonight," said Mr. Joseph. +"It's quite a storm. I hope it will be fine tomorrow, for the +children's sake. They've set their hearts on having a sleigh ride, and +it will be too bad if they can't have it when it's about all the +Christmas they'll have this year. Mary, this is the first Christmas +since we came west that we couldn't afford some little extras for +them, even if 'twas only a box of nuts and candy." + +Mrs. Joseph sighed over Jimmy's worn jacket which she was mending. +Then she smiled. + +"Never mind, John. Things will be better next Christmas, we'll hope. +The children will not mind, bless their hearts. Look at all the little +knick-knacks they've made for each other. Last week when I was over at +Taunton, Mr. Fisher had his store all gayified up,' as Jim says, with +Christmas presents. I did feel that I'd ask nothing better than to go +in and buy all the lovely things I wanted, just for once, and give +them to the children tomorrow morning. They've never had anything +really nice for Christmas. But there! We've all got each other and +good health and spirits, and a Christmas wouldn't be much without +those if we had all the presents in the world." + +Mr. Joseph nodded. + +"That's so. I don't want to grumble; but I tell you I did want to get +Maggie a 'real live doll,' as she calls it. She never has had anything +but homemade dolls, and that small heart of hers is set on a real one. +There was one at Fisher's store today--a big beauty with real hair, +and eyes that opened and shut. Just fancy Maggie's face if she saw +such a Christmas box as that tomorrow morning." + +"Don't let's fancy it," laughed Mrs. Joseph, "it is only aggravating. +Talking of candy reminds me that I made a big plateful of taffy for +the children today. It's all the 'Christmassy' I could give them. I'll +get it out and put it on the table along with the children's presents. +That can't be someone at the door!" + +"It is, though," said Mr. Joseph as he strode to the door and flung it +open. + +Two snowed-up figures were standing on the porch. As they stepped in, +the Josephs recognized one of them as Mr. Ralston, a wealthy merchant +in a small town fifteen miles away. + +"Late hour for callers, isn't it?" said Mr. Ralston. "The fact is, our +horse has about given out, and the storm is so bad that we can't +proceed. This is my wife, and we are on our way to spend Christmas +with my brother's family at Lindsay. Can you take us in for the night, +Mr. Joseph?" + +"Certainly, and welcome!" exclaimed Mr. Joseph heartily, "if you don't +mind a shakedown by the kitchen fire for the night. My, Mrs. Ralston," +as his wife helped her off with her things, "but you are snowed up! +I'll see to putting your horse away, Mr. Ralston. This way, if you +please." + +When the two men came stamping into the house again Mrs. Ralston and +Mrs. Joseph were sitting at the fire, the former with a steaming hot +cup of tea in her hand. Mr. Ralston put the big basket he was +carrying down on a bench in the corner. + +"Thought I'd better bring our Christmas flummery in," he said. "You +see, Mrs. Joseph, my brother has a big family, so we are taking them a +lot of Santa Claus stuff. Mrs. Ralston packed this basket, and +goodness knows what she put in it, but she half cleaned out my store. +The eyes of the Lindsay youngsters will dance tomorrow--that is, if we +ever get there." + +Mrs. Joseph gave a little sigh in spite of herself, and looked +wistfully at the heap of gifts on the corner table. How meagre and +small they did look, to be sure, beside that bulgy basket with its +cover suggestively tied down. + +Mrs. Ralston looked too. + +"Santa Claus seems to have visited you already," she said with a +smile. + +The Josephs laughed. + +"Our Santa Claus is somewhat out of pocket this year," said Mr. Joseph +frankly. "Those are the little things the small folks here have made +for each other. They've been a month at it, and I'm always kind of +relieved when Christmas is over and there are no more mysterious +doings. We're in such cramped quarters here that you can't move +without stepping on somebody's secret." + +A shakedown was spread in the kitchen for the unexpected guests, and +presently the Ralstons found themselves alone. Mrs. Ralston went over +to the Christmas table and looked at the little gifts half tenderly +and half pityingly. + +"They're not much like the contents of our basket, are they?" she +said, as she touched the calendar Jimmie had made for Mollie out of +cardboard and autumn leaves and grasses. + +"Just what I was thinking," returned her husband, "and I was thinking +of something else, too. I've a notion that I'd like to see some of the +things in our basket right here on this table." + +"I'd like to see them all," said Mrs. Ralston promptly. "Let's just +leave them here, Edward. Roger's family will have plenty of presents +without them, and for that matter we can send them ours when we go +back home." + +"Just as you say," agreed Mr. Ralston. "I like the idea of giving the +small folk of this household a rousing good Christmas for once. +They're poor I know, and I dare say pretty well pinched this year like +most of the farmers hereabout after the crop failure." + +Mrs. Ralston untied the cover of the big basket. Then the two of them, +moving as stealthily as if engaged in a burglary, transferred the +contents to the table. Mr. Ralston got out a small pencil and a note +book, and by dint of comparing the names attached to the gifts on the +table they managed to divide theirs up pretty evenly among the little +Josephs. + +When all was done Mrs. Ralston said, "Now, I'm going to spread that +tablecloth carelessly over the table. We will be going before +daylight, probably, and in the hurry of getting off I hope that Mr. +and Mrs. Joseph will not notice the difference till we're gone." + +It fell out as Mrs. Ralston had planned. The dawn broke fine and clear +over a vast white world. Mr. and Mrs. Joseph were early astir; +breakfast for the storm-stayed travellers was cooked and eaten by +lamplight; then the horse and sleigh were brought to the door and Mr. +Ralston carried out his empty basket. + +"I expect the trail will be heavy," he said, "but I guess we'd get to +Lindsay in time for dinner, anyway. Much obliged for your kindness, +Mr. Joseph. When you and Mrs. Joseph come to town we shall hope to +have a chance to return it. Good-bye and a merry Christmas to you +all." + +When Mrs. Joseph went back to the kitchen her eyes fell on the +heaped-up table in the corner. + +"Why-y!" she said, and snatched off the cover. + +One look she gave, and then this funny little mother began to cry; +but they were happy tears. Mr. Joseph came too, and looked and +whistled. + +There really seemed to be everything on that table that the hearts of +children could desire--three pairs of skates, a fur cap and collar, a +dainty workbasket, half a dozen gleaming new books, a writing desk, a +roll of stuff that looked like a new dress, a pair of fur-topped kid +gloves just Mollie's size, and a china cup and saucer. All these were +to be seen at the first glance; and in one corner of the table was a +big box filled with candies and nuts and raisins, and in the other a +doll with curling golden hair and brown eyes, dressed in "real" +clothes and with all her wardrobe in a trunk beside her. Pinned to her +dress was a leaf from Mr. Ralston's notebook with Maggie's name +written on it. + +"Well, this is Christmas with a vengeance," said Mr. Joseph. + +"The children will go wild with delight," said his wife happily. + +They pretty nearly did when they all came scrambling down the stairs a +little later. Such a Christmas had never been known in the Joseph +household before. Maggie clasped her doll with shining eyes, Mollie +looked at the workbasket that her housewifely little heart had always +longed for, studious Jimmy beamed over the books, and Ted and Hal +whooped with delight over the skates. And as for the big box of good +things, why, everybody appreciated that. That Christmas was one to +date from in that family. + +I'm glad to be able to say, too, that even in the heyday of their +delight and surprise over their wonderful presents, the little Josephs +did not forget to appreciate the gifts they had prepared for each +other. Mollie thought her calendar just too pretty for anything, and +Jimmy was sure the new red mittens which Maggie had knitted for him +with her own chubby wee fingers, were the very nicest, gayest mittens +a boy had ever worn. + +Mrs. Joseph's taffy was eaten too. Not a scrap of it was left. As Ted +said loyally, "It was just as good as the candy in the box and had +more 'chew' to it besides." + + + + +The Magical Bond of the Sea + + +A late September wind from the northwest was sweeping over the waters +of Racicot Harbour. It blew in, strong with the tang of the salt seas, +past the grim lighthouse rock on the one hand and the sandbars on the +other, up the long, narrow funnel of darkly blue water, until it +whistled among the masts of the boats at anchor and among the +stovepipe chimneys of the fishing village. It was a wind that sang and +piped and keened of many things--but what it sang to each listener was +only what was in that listener's heart. And Nora Shelley, standing at +the door of her father's bleached cottage on the grey sands, heard a +new strain in it. The wind had sung often to her of the outer world +she longed for, but there had never been the note of fulfilment in it +before. + +There's a new life beyond, Nora, whistled the wind. A good life--and +it's yours for the taking. You have but to put out your hand and all +you've wished for will be in your grasp. + +Nora leaned out from the door to meet the wind. She loved that +northwest gale; it was a staunch old friend of hers. Very slim and +straight was Nora, with a skin as white as the foam flakes crisping +over the sands, and eyes of the tremulous, haunting blue that deepens +on the water after a fair sunset. But her hair was as black as +midnight, and her lips blossomed out with a ripe redness against the +uncoloured purity of her face. She was far and away the most beautiful +of the harbour girls, but hardly the most popular. Men and women alike +thought her proud. Even her friends felt themselves called upon to +make excuses for her unlikeness to themselves. + +Nora had dosed the door behind her to shut in the voices. She wanted +to be alone with the wind while she made her decision. Before her the +sandy shingle, made firm by a straggling growth of some pale sea-ivy, +sloped down to the sapphire cup of the harbour. Around her were the +small, uncouth houses of the village--no smaller or more uncouth than +the one which was her home--with children playing noisily on the paths +between them. The mackerel boats curtsied and nodded outside; beyond +them the sharp tip of Sandy Point was curdled white with seagulls. +Down at the curve of the cove a group of men were laughing and talking +loudly in front of French Joe's fish-house. This was the life that she +had always known. + +Across the harbour, on a fir-fringed headland, stood Dalveigh. John +Cameron, childless millionaire, had built a summer cottage on that +point two years ago, and given it the name of the old ancestral estate +in Scotland. To the Racicot fishing folk the house and grounds were +as a dream of enchantment made real. Few of them had ever seen +anything like it. + +Nora Shelley knew Dalveigh well. She had been the Camerons' guest many +times that summer, finding in the luxury and beauty of their +surroundings something that entered with a strange aptness into her +own nature. It was as if it were hers by right of fitness. And this +was the life that might be hers, did she so choose. + +In reality, her choice was already made, and she knew it. But it +pleased her to pretend for a little time that it was not, and to dally +tenderly with-the old loves and emotions that tugged at her heart and +clamoured to be remembered. + +Within, in the low-ceilinged living room, with its worn, uneven floor +and its blackened walls hung with fish nets and oilskins, four people +were sitting. John Cameron and his wife were given the seats of honour +in the middle of the room. Mrs. Cameron was a handsome, well-dressed +woman, with an expression that was discontented and, at times, +petulant. Yet her face had a good deal of plain common sense in it, +and not even the most critical of the Racicot folks could say that she +"put on airs." Her husband was a small, white-haired man, with a +fresh, young-looking face. He was popular in Racicot, for he mingled +freely with the sailors and fishermen. Moreover, Dalveigh was an +excellent market for fresh mackerel. + +Nathan Shelley, in his favourite corner behind the stove, sat lurching +forward with his hands on his knees. He had laid aside his pipe out of +deference to Mrs. Cameron, and it was hard for him to think without +it. He wished his wife would go to work; it seemed uncanny to see her +idle. She had sat idle only once that he remembered--the day they had +brought Ned Shelley in, dank and dripping, after the August storm ten +years before. Mrs. Shelley sat by the crooked, small-paned window and +looked out down the harbour. The coat she had been patching for her +husband when the Camerons came still lay in her lap, and she had +folded her hands upon it. She was a big woman, slow of speech and +manner, with a placid, handsome face--a face that had not visibly +stirred even when she had heard the Camerons' proposition. + +They wanted Nora--these rich people who had so much in life wanted the +blossom of girlhood that had never bloomed for them. John Cameron +pleaded his cause well. + +"We will look on her as our own," he said at last. "We have grown to +love her this summer. She is beautiful and clever--she has a right to +more than Racicot can give her. You have other children--we are +childless. And we do not take her from you utterly. You will see her +every summer when we come to Dalveigh." + +"It won't be the same thing quite," said Nathan Shelley drily. "She'll +belong to your life then--not ours. And no matter how many young ones +folks has, they don't want to lose none of 'em. But I dunno as we +ought to let our feelings stand in Nora's light. She's clever, and +she's been hankering for more'n we can ever give her. I was the same +way once. Lord, how I raged at Racicot! I broke away finally--went to +a city and got work. But it wasn't no use. I'd left it too long. The +sea had got into my blood. I toughed it out for two years, and then I +had to come back. I didn't want to, mark you, but I had to come. Been +here ever since. But maybe 'twill be different with the girl. She's +younger than I was; if the hankering for the sea and the life of the +shore hasn't got into her too deep, maybe she'll be able to cut loose +for good. But you don't know how the sea calls to one of its own." + +Cameron smiled. He thought that this dry old salt was a bit of a poet +in his own way. Very likely Nora got her ability and originality from +him. There did not seem to be a great deal in the phlegmatic, +good-looking mother. + +"What say, wife?" asked Shelley at last. + +His wife had said in her slow way, "Leave it to Nora," and to Nora it +was left. + +When she came in at last, her face stung to radiant beauty by the +northwest wind, she found it hard to tell them after all. She looked +at her mother appealingly. + +"Is it go or stay, girl," demanded her father brusquely. + +"I think I'll go," said Nora slowly. Then, catching sight of her +mother's face, she ran to her and flung her arms about her. "But I'll +never forget you, Mother," she cried. "I'll love you always--you and +Father." + +Her mother loosened the clinging arms and pushed her gently towards +the Camerons. + +"Go to them," she said calmly. "You belong to them now." + +The news spread quickly over Racicot. Before night everyone on the +harbour shore knew that the Camerons were going to adopt Nora Shelley +and take her away with them. There was much surprise and more envy. +The shore women tossed their heads. + +"Reckon Nora is in great feather," they said. "She always did think +herself better than anyone else. Nate Shelley and his wife spoiled her +ridiculous. Wonder what Rob Fletcher thinks of it?" + +Nora asked her brother to tell the news to Rob Fletcher himself, but +Merran Andrews was before him. She was at Rob before he had fairly +landed, when the fishing boats came in at sunset. + +"Have you heard the news, Rob? Nora's going away to be a fine lady. +The Camerons have been daft about her all summer, and now they are +going to adopt her." + +Merran wanted Rob herself. He was a big, handsome fellow, and +well-off--the pick of the harbour men in every way. He had slighted +her for Nora, and it pleased her to stab him now, though she meant to +be nice to him later on. + +He turned white under his tan, but he did not choose to make a book of +his heart for Merran's bold black eyes to read. "It's a great thing +for her," he answered calmly. "She was meant for better things than +can be found at Racicot." + +"She was always too good for common folks, if that is what you mean," +said Merran spitefully. + +Nora and Rob did not meet until the next evening, when she rowed +herself home from Dalveigh. He was at the shore to tie up her boat and +help her out. They walked up the sands together in the heart of the +autumn sunset, with the northwest wind whistling in their ears and the +great star of the lighthouse gleaming wanly out against the golden +sky. Nora felt uncomfortable, and resented it. Rob Fletcher was +nothing to her; he never had been anything but the good friend to whom +she told her strange thoughts and longings. Why should her heart ache +over him? She wished he would talk, but he strode along in silence, +with his fine head drooping a little. + +"I suppose you have heard that I am going away, Rob?" she said at +last. + +He nodded. "Yes, I've heard it from a hundred mouths, more or less," +he answered, not looking at her. + +"It's a splendid thing for me, isn't it?" dared Nora. + +"Well, I don't know," he said slowly. "Looking at it from the outside, +it seems so. But from the inside it mayn't look the same. Do you +think you'll be able to cut twenty years of a life out of your heart +without any pain?" + +"Oh, I'll be homesick, if that is what you mean," said Nora +petulantly. "Of course I'll be that at first. I expect it--but people +get over that. And it is not as if I were going away for good. I'll be +back next summer--every summer." + +"It'll be different," said Rob stubbornly, thinking as old Nathan +Shelley had thought. "You'll be a fine lady--oh, all the better for +that perhaps--but you'll not be the same. No, no, the new life will +change you; not all at once, maybe, but in the end. You'll be one of +them, not one of us. But will you be happy? That's the question I'm +asking." + +In anyone else Nora would have resented this. But she never felt angry +with Rob. + +"I think I shall be," she said thoughtfully. "And, anyway, I must go. +It doesn't seem as if I could help myself if I wanted to. +Something--out beyond there--is calling me, always has been calling me +ever since I was a tiny girl and found out there was a big world far +away from Racicot. And it always seemed to me that I would find a way +to it some day. That was why I kept going to school long after the +other girls stopped. Mother thought I'd better stop home; she said too +much book learning would make me discontented and too different from +the people I had to live along. But Father let me go; he understood; +he said I was like him when he was young. I learned everything and +read everything I could. It seems to me as if I had been walking along +a narrow pathway all my life. And now it seems as if a gate were +opened before me and I can pass through into a wider world. It isn't +the luxury and the pleasure or the fine house and dresses that tempt +me, though the people here think so--even Mother thinks so. But it is +not. It's just that something seems to be in my grasp that I've always +longed for, and I must go--Rob, I must go." + +"Yes, if you feel like that you must go," he answered, looking down at +her troubled face gently. "And it's best for you to go, Nora. I +believe that, and I'm not so selfish as not to be able to hope that +you'll find all you long for. But it will change you all the more if +it is so. Nora! Nora! Whatever am I going to do without you!" + +The sudden passion bursting out in his tone frightened her. + +"Don't, Rob, don't! And you won't miss me long. There's many another." + +"No, there isn't. Don't fling me that dry bone of comfort. There's no +other, and never has been any other--none but you, Nora, and well you +know it." + +"I'm sorry," she said faintly. + +"You needn't be," said Rob grimly. "After all, I'd rather love you +than not, hurt as it will. I never had much hope of getting you to +listen to me, so there's no great disappointment there. You're too +good for me--I've always known that. A girl that is fit to mate with +the Camerons is far above Rob Fletcher, fisherman." + +"I never had such a thought," protested Nora. + +"I know it," he said, casing himself up in his quietness again. "But +it's so--and now I've got to lose you. But there'll never be any other +for me, Nora." + +He left her at her father's door. She watched his stalwart figure out +of sight around the point, and raged to find tears in her eyes and a +bitter yearning in her heart. For a moment she repented--she would +stay--she could not go. Then over the harbour flashed out the lights +of Dalveigh. The life behind them glittered, allured, beckoned. Nay, +she must go on--she had made her choice. There was no turning back +now. + + * * * * * + +Nora Shelley went away with the Camerons, and Dalveigh was deserted. +Winter came down on Racicot Harbour, and the colony of fisher folk at +its head gave themselves over to the idleness of the season--a time +for lounging and gossipping and long hours of lazy contentment smoking +in the neighbours' chimney corners, when tales were told of the sea +and the fishing. The Harbour laid itself out to be sociable in winter. +There was no time for that in summer. People had to work eighteen +hours out of the twenty-four then. In the winter there was spare time +to laugh and quarrel, woo and wed and--were a man so minded--dream, as +did Rob Fletcher in his loneliness. + +In a Racicot winter much was made of small things. The arrival of Nora +Shelley's weekly letter to her father and mother was an event in the +village. The post-mistress in the Cove store spread the news that it +had come, and that night the Shelley kitchen would be crowded. Isobel +Shelley, Nora's younger sister, read the letter aloud by virtue of +having gone to school long enough to be able to pronounce the words +and tell where the places named were situated. + +The Camerons had spent the autumn in New York and had then gone south +for the winter. Nora wrote freely of her new life. In the beginning +she admitted great homesickness, but after the first few letters she +made no further mention of that. She wrote little of herself, but she +described fully the places she had visited, the people she had met, +the wonderful things she had seen. She sent affectionate messages to +all her old friends and asked after all her old interests. But the +letters came to be more and more like those of a stranger and one +apart from the Racicot life, and the father and mother felt it. + +"She's changing," muttered old Nathan. "It had to be so--it's well for +her that it is so--but it hurts. She ain't ours any more. We've lost +the girl, wife, lost her forever." + +Rob Fletcher always came and listened to the letters in silence while +the others buzzed and commented. Rob, so the Harbour folk said, was +much changed. He had grown unsociable and preferred to stay home and +read books rather than go a-visiting as did others. The Harbour folk +shook their heads over this. There was something wrong with a man who +read books when there was a plenty of other amusements. Jacob Radnor +had read books all one winter and had drowned himself in the +spring--jumped overboard from his dory at the herring nets. And that +was what came of books, mark you. + +The Camerons came later to Dalveigh the next summer, on account of +John Cameron's health, which was not good. It was the first of August +before a host of servants came to put Dalveigh in habitable order, and +a week later the family came. They brought a houseful of guests with +them. + +At sunset on the day of her arrival Nora Shelley looked out cross the +harbour to the fishing village. She was tired after her journey, and +she had not meant to go over until the morning, but now she knew she +must go at once. Her mother was over there; the old life called to +her; the northwest wind swept up the channel and whistled alluringly +to her at the window of her luxurious room. It brought to her the tang +of the salt wastes and filled her heart with a great, bitter-sweet +yearning. + +She was more beautiful than ever. In the year that had passed she had +blossomed out to a gracious fulfilment of womanhood. Even the Camerons +had wondered at her swift adaptation to her new surroundings. She +seemed to have put Racicot behind her as one puts by an old garment. +In everything she had held her own royally. Her adopted parents were +proud of her beauty and her nameless, untamed charm. They had lavished +every indulgence upon her. In those few short months she had lived +more keenly and fully than in all her life before. The Nora Shelley +who went away was not, so it would seem, the Nora Shelley who came +back. + +But when she looked from her window to the waves and saw the star of +the lighthouse and the blaze of the sunset in the window of the +fishing-houses and heard the summons of the wind, something broke +loose in her soul and overwhelmed her, like a wave of the sea. She +must go at once--at once--at once. Not a moment could she wait. + +She was dressed for dinner, but with tingling fingers she threw off +her costly gown and put on her dark travelling suit again. She left +her hair as it was and knotted a crimson scarf about her head. She +would slip away quietly to the boathouse, get Davy to launch the +little sailboat for her--and then for a fleet skim over the harbour +before that glorious wind! She hoped not to be seen, but Mrs. Cameron +met her in the hall. + +"Nora!" she said in astonishment. + +"Oh, I must go, Aunty! I must go!" the girl cried feverishly. She was +afraid Mrs. Cameron would try to prevent her going, and all at once +she knew that she could not bear that. + +"Must go? Where? Dinner is almost ready, and--" + +"Oh, I don't want any dinner. I'm going home--I will sail over." + +"My dear child, don't be foolish. It's too late to go over the +harbour tonight. They won't be expecting you. Wait until the morning." + +"No--oh, you don't understand. I must go--I must! My mother is over +there." + +Something in the girl's last sentence or the tone in which it was +uttered brought a look of pain to Mrs. Cameron's face. But she made no +further attempt to dissuade her. + +"Well, if you must. But you cannot go alone--no, Nora, I cannot allow +it. The wind is too high and it is too late for you to go over by +yourself. Clark Bryant will take you." + +Nora would have protested but she knew it would be in vain. She +submitted somewhat sullenly and walked down to the shore in silence. +Clark Bryant strode beside her, humouring her mood. He was a tall, +stout man, with an ugly, clever, sarcastic face. He was as clever as +he looked, and was one of the younger millionaires whom John Cameron +drew around him in the development of his huge financial schemes. +Bryant was in love with Nora. This was why the Camerons had asked him +to join their August house party at Dalveigh, and why he had accepted. +It had occurred to Nora that this was the case, but as yet she had +never troubled to think the situation over seriously. + +She liked Clark Bryant well enough, but just at the moment he was in +the way. She did not want to take him over to Racicot--just why she +could not have explained. There was in her no snobbish shame of her +humble home. But he did not belong there; he was an alien, and she +wished to go back to it for the first time alone. + +At the boathouse Davy launched the small sailboat and Nora took the +tiller. She knew every inch of the harbour. As the sail filled before +the wind and the boat sprang across the upcurling waves, her brief +sullenness fell away from her. She no longer resented Clark Bryant's +presence--she forgot it. He was no more to her than the mast by which +he stood. The spell of the sea and the wind surged into her heart and +filled it with wild happiness and measureless content. Over yonder, +where the lights gleamed on the darkening shore under the high-sprung +arch of pale golden sky, was home. How the wind whistled to welcome +her back! The lash of it against her face--the flick of salt spray on +her lips--the swing of the boat as it cut through the racing +crests--how glorious it all was! + +Clark Bryant watched her, understanding all at once that he was +nothing to her, that he had no part or lot in her heart. He was as one +forgotten and left behind. And how lovely, how desirable she was! He +had never seen her look so beautiful. The shawl had slipped down to +her shoulders and her head rose out of it like some magnificent flower +out of a crimson calyx. The masses of her black hair lifted from her +face in the rush of the wind and swayed back again like rich shadows. +Her lips were stung scarlet with the sea's sharp caresses, and her +eyes, large and splendid, looked past him unseeing to the harbour +lights of Racicot. + +When they swung in by the wharf Nora sprang from the boat before +Bryant had time to moor it. Pausing for an instant, she called down to +him, carelessly, "Don't wait for me. I shall not go back tonight." + +Then she caught her shawl around her head and almost ran up the wharf +and along the shore. No one was abroad, for it was supper hour in +Racicot. In the Shelley kitchen the family was gathered around the +table, when the door was flung open and Nora stood on the threshold. +For a moment they gazed at her as at an apparition. They had not known +the precise day of her coming and were not aware of the Camerons' +arrival at Dalveigh. + +"It's the girl herself. It's Nora," said old Nathan, rising from his +bench. + +"Mother!" cried Nora. She ran across the room and buried her face in +her mother's breast, sobbing. + +When the news spread, the Racicot people crowded in to see Nora until +the house was full. They spent a noisy, merry, whole-hearted evening +of the old sort. The men smoked and most of the women knitted while +they talked. They were pleased to find that Nora did not put on any +airs. Old Jonas Myers bluntly told her that he didn't see as her year +among rich folks had done her much good, after all. + +"You're just the same as when you went away," he said. "They haven't +made a fine lady of you. Folks here thought you'd be something +wonderful." + +Nora laughed. She was glad that they did not find her changed. Old +Nathan chuckled in his dry way. There was a difference in the girl, +and he saw it, though the neighbours did not, but it was not the +difference he had feared. His daughter was not utterly taken from him +yet. + +Nora sat by her mother and was happy. But as the evening wore away she +grew very quiet, and watched the door with something piteous in her +eyes. Old Nathan noticed it and thought she was tired. He gave the +curious neighbours a good-natured hint, and they presently withdrew. +When they had all gone Nora went out to the door alone. + +The wind had died down and the shore, gemmed with its twinkling +lights, was very still, for it was too late an hour for Racicot folk +to be abroad in the mackerel season. The moon was rising and the +harbour was a tossing expanse of silver waves. The mellow light fell +on a tall figure lurking at the angle of the road that led past the +Shelley cottage. Nora saw and recognized it. She flew down the sandy +slope with outstretched hands. + +"Rob--Rob!" + +"Nora!" he said huskily, holding out his hand. But she flung herself +on his breast and clung to him, half laughing, half crying. + +"Oh, Rob! I've been looking for you all the evening. Every time there +was a step I said to myself, 'That is Rob, now.' And when the door +opened to let in another, my heart died within me. I dared not even +ask after you for fear of what they might tell me. Why didn't you +come?" + +"I didn't know that I'd be welcome," he whispered, holding her closer +to him. "I've been hanging about thinking to get a glimpse of you +unbeknown. I thought maybe you wouldn't want to see me tonight." + +"Not want to see you! Oh, Rob, this evening at Dalveigh, when I looked +across to Racicot, it was you I thought of before all--even before +Mother." + +She drew back and looked at him with her soul in her eyes. + +"What a splendid fellow you are--how handsome you are, Rob!" she +cried. All the reserve of womanhood fell away from her in the inrush +of emotions. For the moment she was a child again, telling out her +thoughts with all a child's frankness. "I've been in a dream this past +year--a lovely dream--a fair dream, but only a dream, after all. And +now I've wakened. And you are part of the wakening--the best part! Oh, +to think I never knew before!" + +"Knew what, my girl?" + +He had her close against his heart now; the breath of her lips mingled +with his, but he would not kiss her yet. + +"That I loved you," she whispered back. "Oh, Rob, you are all the +world to me. I belong to you and the sea. But I never knew it until I +crossed the harbour tonight. Then I knew--it came to me all at once, +like a flood of understanding. I knew I could never go away +again--that I must stay here forever where I could hear that call of +wind and waves. The new life was good--good--but it could not go deep +enough. And when you did not come I knew what was in my heart for you +as well." + + * * * * * + +That night Nora lay beside her sisters in the tiny room that looked +out on the harbour. The younger girls slept soundly, but Nora kept +awake to listen to the laughter of the wind outside, and con over what +she and Rob had said to each other. There was no blot on her happiness +save a sorry wonder what the Camerons would say when they knew. + +"They will think me ungrateful and fickle," she sighed. "They don't +know that I can't help it even if I would. They will never +understand." + +Nor did they. When Nora told them that she was going back to Racicot, +they laughed at her kindly at first, treating it as the passing whim +of a homesick girl. Later, when they came to understand that she meant +it, they were grieved and angry. There were scenes of pleading and +tears and reproaches. Nora cried bitterly in Mrs. Cameron's arms, but +stood rock-firm. She could never go back to them--never. + +They appealed to Nathan Shelley finally, but he refused to say +anything. + +"It can't be altered," he told them. "The sea has called her and +she'll listen to naught else. I'm sorry enough for the girl's own +sake. It would have been better for her if she could have cut loose +from it all and lived your life, I dare say. But you've made a fair +trial and it's of no use. I know what's in her heart--it was in mine +once--and I'll say no word of rebuke to her. She's free to go or stay +as she chooses--just as free as she was last year." + +Mrs. Cameron made one more appeal to Nora. She told the girl bitterly +that she was ungrateful. + +"I'm not that," said Nora with quivering lips. "I love you, and I'm +grateful to you. But your life isn't for me, after all. I thought it +was--I longed so for it. And I loved it, too--I love it yet. But +there's something stronger in me that holds me here." + +"I don't think you realize what you are doing, Nora. You have been a +little homesick and you are glad to be back. But after we have gone +and you must settle into the old Racicot life again, you will not be +contented. You will find that your life with us will have unfitted you +for this. There will be no real place for you here--nothing for you to +do. You will be as a stranger here." + +"Oh, no. I am going to marry Rob Fletcher," said Nora proudly. + +"Marry Rob Fletcher! And you might have married Clark Bryant, Nora!" + +Nora shook her head. "That could never have been. I thought it might +once--but I know better now. You see, I love Rob." + +There did not seem to be anything more to say after that. Mrs. Cameron +did not try to say anything. She went away in sorrow. + +Nora cried bitterly after she had gone. But there were no tears in her +eyes that night when she walked on the shore with Rob Fletcher. The +wind whistled around them, and the stars came out in the great ebony +dome of the sky over the harbour. Laughter and song of the fishing +folk were behind them, and the deep, solemn call of the sea before. +Over the harbour gleamed the score of lights at Dalveigh. Rob looked +from them to Nora. + +"Do you think you'll ever regret yon life, my girl?" + +"Never, Rob. It seems to me now like a beautiful garment put on for a +holiday and worn easily and pleasantly for a time. But I've put it off +now, and put on workaday clothes again. It is only a week since I left +Dalveigh, but it seems long ago. Listen to the wind, Rob! It is +singing of the good days to be for you and me." + +He bent over and kissed her. + +"My own dear lass!" he said softly. + + + + +The Martyrdom of Estella + + +Estella was waiting under the poplars at the gate for Spencer Morgan. +She was engaged to him, and he always came to see her on Saturday and +Wednesday evenings. It was after sunset, and the air was mellow and +warm-hued. The willow trees along the walk and the tall birches in the +background stood out darkly distinct against the lemon-tinted sky. The +breath of mint floated out from the garden, and the dew was falling +heavily. + +Estella leaned against the gate, listening for the sound of wheels and +dreamily watching the light shining out from the window of Vivienne +LeMar's room. The blind was up and she could see Miss LeMar writing at +her table. Her profile was clear and distinct against the lamplight. + +Estella reflected without the least envy that Miss LeMar was very +beautiful. She had never seen anyone who was really beautiful +before--beautiful with the loveliness of the heroines in the novels +she sometimes read or the pictures she had seen. + +Estella Bowes was not pretty. She was a nice-looking girl, with clear +eyes, rosy cheeks, and a pervading air of the content and happiness +her life had always known. She was an orphan and lived with her uncle +and aunt. In the summer they sometimes took a boarder for a month or +two, and this summer Miss LeMar had come. She had been with them about +a week. She was an actress from the city and had around her all the +glamour of a strange, unknown life. Nothing was known about her. The +Boweses liked her well enough as a boarder. Estella admired and held +her in awe. She wondered what Spencer would think of this beautiful +woman. He had not yet seen her. + +It was quite dark when he came. Estella opened the gate for him, but +he got out of his buggy and walked up the lane beside her with his arm +about her. Miss LeMar's light had removed to the parlour where she was +singing, accompanying herself on the cottage organ. Estella felt +annoyed. The parlour was considered her private domain on Wednesday +and Saturday night, but Miss LeMar did not know that. + +"Who is singing?" asked Spencer. "What a voice she has!" + +"That's our new boarder, Miss LeMar," answered Estella. "She's an +actress and sings and does everything. She is awfully pretty, +Spencer." + +"Yes?" said the young man indifferently. + +He was not in the least interested in the Boweses' new boarder. +Indeed, he considered her advent a nuisance. He pressed Estella closer +to him, and when they reached the garden gate he kissed her. Estella +always remembered that moment afterwards. She was so supremely happy. + +Spencer went off to put up his horse, and Estella waited for him on +the porch steps, wondering if any other girl in the world could be +quite so happy as she was, or love anyone as much as she loved +Spencer. She did not see how it could be possible, because there was +only one Spencer. + +When Spencer came back she took him into the parlour, half shyly, half +proudly. He was a handsome fellow, with a magnificent physique. Miss +LeMar stopped singing and turned around on the organ stool as they +entered. The little room was flooded with a mellow light from the +pink-globed lamp on the table, and in the soft, shadowy radiance she +was as beautiful as a dream. She wore a dress of crepe, cut low in the +neck. Estella had never seen anyone dressed so before. To her it +seemed immodest. + +She introduced Spencer. He bowed awkwardly and sat stiffly down by the +window with his eyes riveted on Miss LeMar's face. Estella, catching a +glimpse of herself in the old-fashioned mirror above the mantel, +suddenly felt a cold chill of dissatisfaction. Her figure had never +seemed to her so stout and stiff, her brown hair so dull and prim, her +complexion so muddy, her features so commonplace. She wished Miss +LeMar would go out of the room. + +Vivienne LeMar watched the two faces before her; a hard gleam, half +mockery, half malice, flashed into her eyes and a smile crept about +her lips. She looked straight in Spencer Morgan's honest blue eyes and +read there the young man's dazzled admiration. There was contempt in +the look she turned on Estella. + +"You were singing when we came in," said Spencer. "Won't you go on, +please? I am very fond of music." + +Miss LeMar turned again to the organ. The gleaming curves of her neck +and shoulders rose out of their filmy sheathings of lace. Spencer, +sitting where he could see her face with its rose-leaf bloom and the +ringlets of golden hair clustering about it, gazed at her, unheeding +of aught else. Estella saw his look. She suddenly began to hate the +black-eyed witch at the organ--and to fear her as well. Why did +Spencer look at her like that? She wished she had not brought him in +at all. She felt commonplace and angry, and wanted to cry. + +Vivienne LeMar went on singing, drifting from one sweet love song into +another. Once she looked up at Spencer Morgan. He rose quickly and +went to her side, looking down at her with a strange fire in his eyes. + +Estella got up abruptly and left the room. She was angry and jealous, +but she thought Spencer would follow her. When he did not, she could +not believe it. She waited on the porch for him, not knowing whether +she were more angry or miserable. She would not go back into the room. +Vivienne LeMar had stopped singing. She could hear a low murmur of +voices. When she had waited there an hour, she went in and upstairs to +her room with ostentatious footsteps. She was too angry to cry or to +realize what had happened, and still kept hoping all sorts of +impossible things as she sat by her window. + +It was ten o'clock when Spencer went away and Vivienne LeMar passed +up the hall to her room. Estella clenched her hands in an access of +helpless rage. She was very angry, but under her fury was a horrible +ache of pain. It could not be only three hours since she had been so +happy! It must be more than that! What had happened? Had she made a +fool of herself? Ought she to have behaved in any other way? Perhaps +Spencer had come out to look for her after she had gone upstairs and, +not finding her, had gone back to Miss LeMar to show her he was angry. +This poor hope was a small comfort. She wished she had not acted as +she had. It looked spiteful and jealous, and Spencer did not like +people who were spiteful and jealous. She would show him she was sorry +when he came back, and it would be all right. + +She lay awake most of the night, thinking out plausible reasons and +excuses for Spencer's behaviour, and trying to convince herself that +she had exaggerated everything absurdly. Towards morning she fell +asleep and awoke hardly remembering what had happened. Then it rolled +back upon her crushingly. + +But she rose and dressed in better spirits. It had been hardest to lie +there and do nothing. Now the day was before her and something +pleasant might happen. Spencer might come back in the evening. She +would be doubly nice to him to make up. + +Mrs. Bowes looked sharply at her niece's dull eyes and pale cheeks at +the breakfast table. She had her own thoughts of things. She was a +large, handsome woman with a rather harsh face. + +"Did you go upstairs last night and leave Spencer Morgan with Miss +LeMar?" she asked bluntly. + +"Yes," muttered Estella. + +"Did you have a quarrel with him?" + +"No." + +"What made you act so queer?" + +"I couldn't help it," faltered the girl. + +The food she was eating seemed to choke her. She wished she were a +hundred miles away from everyone she ever knew. + +Mrs. Bowes gave a grunt of dissatisfaction. + +"Well, I think it is a pretty queer piece of business. But if you are +satisfied, it isn't anyone else's concern, I suppose. He stayed with +her till ten o'clock and when he left she did everything but kiss +him--and she asked him to come back too. I heard." + +"Aunt!" protested the girl. + +She felt as if her aunt were striking her blow after blow on a +sensitive, quivering spot. It was bad enough to know it all, but to +hear it put into such cold, brutal words was more than she could +endure. It seemed to make everything so horribly sure. + +"I guess I had a right to listen, hadn't I, with such goings on in my +own house? You're a little fool, Estella Bowes! I don't believe that +LeMar girl is a bit better than she ought to be. I wish I'd never +taken her to board, and if you say so, I'll send her packing right off +and not give her a chance to make mischief atween folks." + +Estella's suffering found vent in a burst of anger. + +"You needn't do anything of the sort!" she cried. + +"It's all nonsense about Spencer--it was my fault--and anyhow, if he +is so easily led away as that, I am sure I don't want him! I wish to +goodness, Aunt, you'd leave me alone!" + +"Oh, very well!" returned Mrs. Bowes in an offended tone. "It was for +your own good I spoke. You know best, I suppose. If you don't care, I +don't know that anyone else need." + +Estella went about her work like one in a dream. A great hatred had +sprung up in her heart against Vivienne LeMar. The simple-hearted +country girl felt almost murderous. The whole day seemed like a +nightmare to her. When night came she dressed herself with feverish +care, for she could not quell the hope that Spencer would surely come +again. But he did not; and when she went up to bed, it did not seem as +if she could live through the night. She lay staring wide-eyed through +the darkness until dawn. She wished that she might cry, but no tears +came to her relief. + +Next day she went to work with furious energy. When her usual tasks +were done, she ransacked the house for other employment. She was +afraid if she stopped work for a moment she would go mad. Mrs. Bowes +watched her with a grim pity. + +At night she walked to prayer meeting in the schoolhouse a mile away. +She always went, and Spencer was generally on hand to see her home. He +was not there tonight. She wished she had not come. It was dreadful to +have to sit still and think. She did not hear a word the minister +said. + +She had to walk home with a crowd of girls and nerve herself to answer +their merry sallies that no one might suspect. She was tortured by the +fear that everyone knew her shame and humiliation and was pitying her. +She got hysterically gay, but underneath all she was constantly trying +to assign a satisfactory reason for Spencer's nonappearance. He was +often kept away, and of course he was a little cross at her yet, as +was natural. If he had come before her then, she could have gone down +in the very dust at his feet and implored his forgiveness. + +When she reached home she went into the garden and sat down. The calm +of the night soothed her. She felt happier and more hopeful. She +thought over all that had passed between her and Spencer and all his +loving assurances, and the recollection comforted her. She was almost +happy when she went in. + +Tomorrow is Sunday, she thought when she wakened in the morning. Her +step was lighter and her face brighter. Mrs. Bowes seemed to be in a +bad humour. Presently she said bluntly: + +"Do you know that Spencer Morgan was here last night?" + +Estella felt the cold tighten round her heart. Yet underneath it +sprang up a wild, sweet hope. + +"Spencer here! I suppose he forgot it was prayer meeting night. What +did he say? Why didn't you tell him where I was?" + +"I don't know that he forgot it was prayer meeting night," returned +Mrs. Bowes with measured emphasis. "'Tisn't likely his memory has +failed so all at once. He didn't ask where you was. He took good care +to go before you got home too. Miss LeMar entertained him. I guess she +was quite capable of it." + +Estella bent over her dishes in silence. Her face was deadly white. + +"I'll send her away," said Mrs. Bowes pityingly. "When she's gone, +Spencer will soon come back to you." + +"No, you won't!" said Estella fiercely. "If you do, she'll only go +over to Barstows', and it would be worse than ever. I don't care--I'll +show them both I don't care! As for Spencer coming back to me, do you +think I want her leavings? He's welcome to go." + +"He's only just fooled by her pretty face," persisted Mrs. Bowes in a +clumsy effort at consolation. "She's just turning his head, the hussy, +and he isn't really in his proper senses. You'll see, he'll be ashamed +of himself when he comes to them again. He knows very well in his +heart that you're worth ten girls like her." + +Estella faced around. + +"Aunt," she said desperately, "you mean well, I know, but you're +killing me! I can't stand it. For pity's sake, don't say another word +to me about this, no matter what happens. And don't keep looking at me +as if I were a martyr! She watches us and it would please her to think +I cared. I don't--and I mean she shall see I don't. I guess I'm well +rid of a fellow as fickle as he is, and I've sense enough to know it." + +She went upstairs then, tearing off her turquoise engagement ring as +she climbed the steps. All sorts of wild ideas flashed through her +head. She would go down and confront Vivienne LeMar--she would rush +off and find Spencer and throw his ring at him, no matter where he +was--she would go away where no one would ever see her again. Why +couldn't she die? Was it possible people could suffer like this and +yet go on living? + +"I don't care--I don't care!" she moaned, telling the lie aloud to +herself, as if she hoped that by this means she would come to believe +it. + +When twilight came she went out to the front steps and leaned her +aching head against the honeysuckle trellis. The sun had just set and +the whole world swam in dusky golden light. The wonderful beauty +frightened her. She felt like a blot on it. + +While she stood there, a buggy came driving up the lane and wheeled +about at the steps. In it was Spencer Morgan. + +Estella saw him and, in spite of the maddening throb of hope that +seemed suddenly to transfigure the world for her, her pride rose in +arms. Had Spencer come the night before, he would have found her +loving and humble. Even now, had she but been sure that he had come to +see her, she would have unbent. But was it the other? The torturing +doubt stung her to the quick. + +She waited, stubbornly resolved that she would not speak first. It was +not in her place. Spencer Morgan flicked his horse sharply with his +whip. He dared not look at Estella, but he felt her uncompromising +attitude. He was miserably ashamed of himself, and he felt angry at +Estella for his shame. + +"Do you care to come for a drive?" he asked awkwardly, with a covert +glance at the parlour windows. + +Estella caught the glance and her jealous perception instantly divined +its true significance. Her heart died within her. She did not care +what she said. + +"Oh," she cried with a toss of her head, "it's not me you want--it's +Miss LeMar, isn't it? She's away at the shore. You'll find her there, +I dare say." + +Still, in spite of all, she perversely hoped. If he would only make +any sign, the least in the world, that he was sorry--that he still +loved her--she could forgive him everything. When he drove away +without another word, she could not believe it again. Surely he would +not go--surely he knew she did not mean it--he would turn back before +he got to the gate. + +But he did not. She saw him disappear around the turn of the road. She +could not see if he took the shore lane further on, but she was sure +he would. She was furious at herself for acting as she had done. It +was all her fault again! Oh, if he would only give her another chance! + +She was in her room when she heard the buggy drive up again. She knew +it was Spencer and that he had brought Vivienne LeMar home. Acting on +a sudden wild impulse, the girl stepped out on the landing and +confronted her rival as she came up the stairs. + +The latter paused at sight of the white face and anguished eyes. There +was a little mocking smile on her lovely face. + +"Miss LeMar," said Estella in a quivering voice, "what do you mean by +all this? You know I'm engaged to Spencer Morgan!" + +Miss LeMar laughed softly. + +"Really? If you are engaged to the young man, my dear Miss Bowes, I +would advise you to look after him more sharply. He seems very willing +to flirt, I should say." + +She passed on to her room with a malicious smile. Estella shrank back +against the wall, humiliated and baffled. When she found herself +alone, she crawled back to her room and threw herself face downward on +the bed, praying that she might die. + +But she had to live through the horrible month that followed--a month +so full of agony that she seemed to draw every breath in pain. Spencer +never sought her again; he went everywhere with Miss LeMar. His +infatuation was the talk of the settlement. Estella knew that her +story was in everyone's mouth, and her pride smarted; but she carried +a brave front outwardly. No one should say she cared. + +She believed that the actress was merely deluding Spencer for her own +amusement and would never dream of marrying him. But one day the idea +occurred to her that she might. Estella had always told herself that +even if Spencer wanted to come back to her she would never take him +back, but now, by the half-sick horror that came over her, she knew +how strong the hope had really been and despised herself more than +ever. + +One evening she was alone in the parlour. She had lit the lamp and was +listlessly arranging the little room. She looked old and worn. Her +colour was gone and her eyes were dull. As she worked, the door opened +and Vivienne LeMar walked or, rather, reeled into the room. + +Estella dropped the book she held and gazed at her as one in a dream. +The actress's face was flushed and her hair was wildly disordered. Her +eyes glittered with an unearthly light. She was talking incoherently. +The air was heavy with the fumes of brandy. + +Estella laughed hysterically. Vivienne LeMar was grossly intoxicated. +This woman whom Spencer Morgan worshipped, for whom he had forsaken +her, was reeling about the room, laughing idiotically, talking wildly +in a thick voice. If he could but see her now! + +Estella turned white with the passion of the wild idea that had come +to her. Spencer Morgan should see this woman in her true colours. + +She lost no time. Swiftly she left the room and locked the door behind +her on the maudlin, babbling creature inside. Then she flung a shawl +over her head and ran from the house. It was not far to the Morgan +homestead. She ran all the way, hardly knowing what she was doing. +Mrs. Morgan answered her knock. She gazed in bewilderment at Estella's +wild face. + +"I want Spencer," said the girl through her white lips. + +The elder woman stepped back in dumb amazement. She knew and rued her +son's folly. What could Estella want with him? + +The young man appeared in the doorway. Estella caught him by the arm +and pulled him outside. + +"Miss LeMar wants you at once," she said hoarsely. "At once--you are +to come at once!" + +"Has anything happened to her?" cried Spencer savagely. "Is she +ill--is she--what is the matter?" + +"No, she is not ill. But she wants you. Come at once." + +He started off bareheaded. Estella followed him up the road +breathlessly. Surely it was the strangest walk ever a girl had, she +told herself with mirthless laughter. She pushed the key into his hand +at the porch. + +"She's in the parlour," she said wildly. "Go in and look at her, +Spencer." + +Spencer snatched the key and fitted it into the door. He was full of +fear. Had Estella gone out of her mind? Had she done anything to +Vivienne? Had she-- + +As he entered, the actress reeled to her feet and came to meet him. He +stood and gazed at her stupidly. This could not be Vivienne, this +creature reeking with brandy, uttering such foolish words! What fiend +was this in her likeness? + +He grew sick at heart and brain; she had her arms about him. He tried +to push her away, but she clung closer, and her senseless laughter +echoed through the room. He flung her from him with an effort and +rushed out through the hall and down the road like a madman. Estella, +watching him, felt that she was avenged. She was glad with a joy more +pitiful than grief. + +Vivienne LeMar left the cottage the next day. Mrs. Bowes, suspecting +some mystery, questioned Estella sharply, but could find out nothing. +The girl kept her own counsel stubbornly. The interest and curiosity +of the village centred around Spencer Morgan, and his case was well +discussed. Gossip said that the actress had jilted him and that he was +breaking his heart about it. Then came the rumour that he was going +West. + +Estella heard it apathetically. Life seemed ended for her. There was +nothing to look forward to. She could not even look back. All the past +was embittered. She had never met Spencer since the night she went +after him. She sometimes wondered what he must think of her for what +she had done. Did he think her unwomanly and revengeful? She did not +care. It was rather a relief to hear that he was going away. She would +not be tortured by the fear of meeting him then. She was sure he would +never come back to her. If he did, she would never forgive him. + +One evening in early harvest Estella was lingering by the lane gate at +twilight. She had worked slavishly all day and was very tired, but she +was loath to go into the house, where her trouble always seemed to +weigh on her more heavily. The dusk, sweet night seemed to soothe her +as it always did. + +She leaned her head against the poplar by the gate. How long Spencer +Morgan had been standing by her she did not know, but when she looked +up he was there. In the dim light she could see how haggard and +hollow-eyed he had grown. He had changed almost as much as herself. + +The girl's first proud impulse was to turn coldly away and leave him. +But some strange tumult in her heart kept her still. What had he come +to say? + +There was a moment's fateful silence. Then Spencer spoke in a muffled +voice. + +"I couldn't go away without seeing you once more, Estella, to say +good-bye. Perhaps you won't speak to me. You must hate me. I deserve +it." + +He paused, but she said no word. She could not. After a space, he went +wistfully on. + +"I know you can never forgive me--no girl could. I've behaved like a +fool. There isn't any excuse to be made for me. I don't think I could +have been in my right senses, Estella. It all seems like some bad +dream now. When I saw her that night, I came to my right mind, and +I've been the most miserable man alive ever since. Not for her--but +because I'd lost you. I can't bear to live here any longer, so I am +going away. Will you say good-bye, Estella?" + +Still she did not speak. There were a hundred things she wanted to say +but she could not say them. Did he mean that he loved her still? If +she were sure of that, she could forgive him anything, but her doubt +rendered her mute. + +The young man turned away despairingly from her rigid attitude. So be +it--he had brought his fate on himself. + +He had gone but a few steps when Estella suddenly found her voice with +a gasp. + +"Spencer!" He came swiftly back. "Oh, Spencer--do--you--do you love me +still?" + +He caught her hands in his. + +"Love you--oh, Estella, yes, yes! I always have. That other wasn't +love--it was just madness. When it passed I hated life because I'd +lost you. I know you can't forgive me, but, oh--" + +He broke down. Estella flung her arms around his neck and put her face +up to his. She felt as if her heart must break with its great +happiness. He understood her mute pardon. In their kiss the past was +put aside. Estella's martyrdom was ended. + + + + +The Old Chest at Wyther Grange + + +When I was a child I always thought a visit to Wyther Grange was a +great treat. It was a big, quiet, old-fashioned house where +Grandmother Laurance and Mrs. DeLisle, my Aunt Winnifred, lived. I was +a favourite with them, yet I could never overcome a certain awe of +them both. Grandmother was a tall, dignified old lady with keen black +eyes that seemed veritably to bore through one. She always wore +stiffly-rustling gowns of rich silk made in the fashion of her youth. +I suppose she must have changed her dress occasionally, but the +impression on my mind was always the same, as she went trailing about +the house with a big bunch of keys at her belt--keys that opened a +score of wonderful old chests and boxes and drawers. It was one of my +dearest delights to attend Grandmother in her peregrinations and watch +the unfolding and examining of all those old treasures and heirlooms +of bygone Laurances. + +Of Aunt Winnifred I was less in awe, possibly because she dressed in a +modern way and so looked to my small eyes more human and natural. As +Winnifred Laurance she had been the beauty of the family and was a +handsome woman still, with brilliant dark eyes and cameo-like +features. She always looked very sad, spoke in a low sweet voice, and +was my childish ideal of all that was high-bred and graceful. + +I had many beloved haunts at the Grange, but I liked the garret best. +It was a roomy old place, big enough to have comfortably housed a +family in itself, and was filled with cast-off furniture and old +trunks and boxes of discarded finery. I was never tired of playing +there, dressing up in the old-fashioned gowns and hats and practising +old-time dance steps before the high, cracked mirror that hung at one +end. That old garret was a veritable fairyland to me. + +There was one old chest which I could not explore and, like all +forbidden things, it possessed a great attraction for me. It stood +away back in a dusty, cobwebbed corner, a strong, high wooden box, +painted blue. From some words which I had heard Grandmother let fall I +was sure it had a history; it was the one thing she never explored in +her periodical overhaulings. When I grew tired of playing I liked to +creep up on it and sit there, picturing out my own fancies concerning +it--of which my favourite one was that some day I should solve the +riddle and open the chest to find it full of gold and jewels with +which I might restore the fortune of the Laurances and all the +traditionary splendours of the old Grange. + +I was sitting there one day when Aunt Winnifred and Grandmother +Laurance came up the narrow dark staircase, the latter jingling her +keys and peering into the dusty corners as she came along the room. +When they came to the old chest, Grandmother rapped the top smartly +with her keys. + +"I wonder what is in this old chest," she said. "I believe it really +should be opened. The moths may have got into it through that crack in +the lid." + +"Why don't you open it, Mother?" said Mrs. DeLisle. "I am sure that +key of Robert's would fit the lock." + +"No," said Grandmother in the tone that nobody, not even Aunt +Winnifred, ever dreamed of disputing. "I will not open that chest +without Eliza's permission. She confided it to my care when she went +away, and I promised that it should never be opened until she came for +it." + +"Poor Eliza," said Mrs. DeLisle thoughtfully. "I wonder what she is +like now. Very much changed, like all the rest of us, I suppose. It is +almost thirty years since she was here. How pretty she was!" + +"I never approved of her," said Grandmother brusquely. "She was a +sentimental, fanciful creature. She might have married well but she +preferred to waste her life pining over the memory of a man who was +not worthy to untie the shoelace of a Laurance." + +Mrs. DeLisle sighed softly and made no reply. People said that she had +had her own romance in her youth and that her mother had sternly +repressed it. I had heard that her marriage with Mr. DeLisle was +loveless on her part and proved very unhappy. But he had been dead +many years, and Aunt Winnifred never spoke of him. + +"I have made up my mind what to do," said Grandmother decidedly. "I +will write to Eliza and ask her if I may open the chest to see if the +moths have got into it. If she refuses, well and good. I have no doubt +that she _will_ refuse. She will cling to her old sentimental ideas as +long as the breath is in her body." + +I rather avoided the old chest after this. It took on a new +significance in my eyes and seemed to me like the tomb of +something--possibly some dead and buried romance of the past. + +Later on a letter came to Grandmother; she passed it over the table to +Mrs. DeLisle. + +"That is from Eliza," she said. "I would know her writing +anywhere--none of your modern sprawly, untidy hands, but a fine +lady-like script, as regular as copperplate. Read the letter, +Winnifred; I haven't my glasses and I dare say Eliza's rhapsodies +would tire me very much. You need not read them aloud--I can imagine +them all. Let me know what she says about the chest." + +Aunt Winnifred opened and read the letter and laid it down with a +brief sigh. + +"This is all she says about the chest. 'If it were not for one thing +that is in it, I would ask you to open the chest and burn all its +contents. But I cannot bear that anyone but myself should see or touch +that one thing. So please leave the chest as it is, dear Aunt. It is +no matter if the moths do get in.' That is all," continued Mrs. +DeLisle, "and I must confess that I am disappointed. I have always had +an almost childish curiosity about that old chest, but I seem fated +not to have it gratified. That 'one thing' must be her wedding dress. +I have always thought that she locked it away there." + +"Her answer is just what I expected of her," said Grandmother +impatiently. "Evidently the years have not made her more sensible. +Well, I wash my hands of her belongings, moths or no moths." + +It was not until ten years afterwards that I heard anything more of +the old chest. Grandmother Laurance had died, but Aunt Winnifred still +lived at the Grange. She was very lonely, and the winter after +Grandmother's death she sent me an invitation to make her a long +visit. + +When I revisited the garret and saw the old blue chest in the same +dusty corner, my childish curiosity revived and I begged Aunt +Winnifred to tell me its history. + +"I am glad you have reminded me of it," said Mrs. DeLisle. "I have +intended to open the chest ever since Mother's death but I kept +putting it off. You know, Amy, poor Eliza Laurance died five years +ago, but even then Mother would not have the chest opened. There is no +reason why it should not be examined now. If you like, we will go and +open it at once and afterwards I will tell you the story." + +We went eagerly up the garret stairs. Aunt knelt down before the old +chest and selected a key from the bunch at her belt. + +"Would it not be too provoking, Amy, if this key should not fit after +all? Well, I do not believe you would be any more disappointed than +I." + +She turned the key and lifted the heavy lid. I bent forward eagerly. A +layer of tissue paper revealed itself, with a fine tracing of sifted +dust in its crinkles. + +"Lift it up, child," said my aunt gently. "There are no ghosts for +you, at least, in this old chest." + +I lifted the paper up and saw that the chest was divided into two +compartments. Lying on the top of one was a small, square, inlaid box. +This Mrs. DeLisle took up and carried to the window. Lifting up the +cover she laid it in my lap. + +"There, Amy, look through it and let us see what old treasures have +lain hidden there these forty years." + +The first thing I took out was a small square case covered with dark +purple velvet. The tiny clasp was almost rusted away and yielded +easily. I gave a little cry of admiration. Aunt Winnifred bent over my +shoulder. + +"That is Eliza's portrait at the age of twenty, and that is Willis +Starr's. Was she not lovely, Amy?" + +Lovely indeed was the face looking out at me from its border of +tarnished gilt. It was the face of a young girl, in shape a perfect +oval, with delicate features and large dark-blue eyes. Her hair, +caught high on the crown and falling on her neck in the long curls of +a bygone fashion, was a warm auburn, and the curves of her bare neck +and shoulders were exquisite. + +"The other picture is that of the man to whom she was betrothed. Tell +me, Amy, do you think him handsome?" + +I looked at the other portrait critically. It was that of a young man +of about twenty-five; he was undeniably handsome, but there was +something I did not like in his face and I said so. + +Aunt Winnifred made no reply--she was taking out the remaining +contents of the box. There was a white silk fan with delicately carved +ivory sticks, a packet of old letters and a folded paper containing +some dried and crumpled flowers. Aunt laid the box aside and unpacked +the chest in silence. First came a ball dress of pale-yellow satin +brocade, made with the trained skirt, "baby" waist and full puffed +sleeves of a former generation. Beneath it was a case containing a +necklace of small but perfect pearls and a pair of tiny satin +slippers. The rest of the compartment was filled with household linen, +fine and costly but yellowed with age--damask table linen and webs of +the uncut fabric. + +In the second compartment lay a dress. Aunt Winnifred lifted it out +reverently. It was a gown of rich silk that had once been white, but +now, like the linen, it was yellow with age. It was simply made and +trimmed with cobwebby old lace. Wrapped around it was a long white +bridal veil, redolent with some strange, old-time perfume that had +kept its sweetness all through the years. + +"Well, Amy, this is all," said Aunt Winnifred with a quiver in her +voice. "And now for the story. Where shall I begin?" + +"At the very beginning, Aunty. You see I know nothing at all except +her name. Tell me who she was and why she put her wedding dress away +here." + +"Poor Eliza!" said Aunt dreamily. "It is a sorrowful story, Amy, and +it seems so long ago now. I must be an old woman. Forty years ago--and +I was only twenty then. Eliza Laurance was my cousin, the only +daughter of Uncle Henry Laurance. My father--your grandfather, Amy, +you don't remember him--had two brothers, each of whom had an only +daughter. Both these girls were called Eliza after your +great-grandmother. I never saw Uncle George's Eliza but once. He was a +rich man and his daughter was much sought after, but she was no +beauty, I promise you that, and proud and vain to the last degree. +Her home was in a distant city and she never came to Wyther Grange. + +"The other Eliza Laurance was a poor man's daughter. She and I were of +the same age and did not look unlike each other, although I was not so +pretty by half. You can see by the portrait how beautiful she was, and +it does her scant justice, for half her charm lay in her arch +expression and her vivacious ways. She had her little faults, of +course, and was rather over much given to romance and sentiment. This +did not seem much of a defect to me then, Amy, for I was young and +romantic too. Mother never cared much for Eliza, I think, but everyone +else liked her. One winter Eliza came to Wyther Grange for a long +visit. The Grange was a very lively place then, Amy. Eliza kept the +old house ringing with merriment. We went out a great deal and she was +always the belle of any festivity we attended. Yet she wore her +honours easily; all the flattery and homage she received did not turn +her head. + +"That winter we first met Willis Starr. He was a newcomer, and nobody +knew much about him, but one or two of the best families took him up, +and his own fascinations did the rest. He became what you would call +the rage. He was considered very handsome, his manners were polished +and easy, and people said he was rich. + +"I don't think, Amy, that I ever trusted Willis Starr. But like all +the rest, I was blinded by his charm. Mother was almost the only one +who did not worship at his shrine, and very often she dropped hints +about penniless adventurers that made Eliza very indignant. + +"From the first he had paid Eliza marked attention and seemed utterly +bewitched by her. Well, his was an easy winning. Eliza loved him with +her whole impulsive, girlish heart and made no attempt to hide it. + +"I shall never forget the night they were first engaged. It was +Eliza's birthday, and we were invited to a ball that evening. This +yellow gown is the very one she wore. I suppose that is why she put it +away here--the gown she wore on the happiest night of her life. I had +never seen her look more beautiful--her neck and arms were bare, and +she wore this string of pearls and carried a bouquet of her favourite +white roses. + +"When we reached home after the dance, Eliza had her happy secret to +tell us. She was engaged to Willis Starr, and they were to be married +in early spring. + +"Willis Starr certainly seemed to be an ideal lover, and Eliza was so +perfectly happy that she seemed to grow more beautiful and radiant +every day. + +"Well, Amy, the wedding day was set. Eliza was to be married from the +Grange, as her own mother was dead, and I was to be bridesmaid. We +made her wedding dress together, she and I. Girls were not above +making their own gowns then, and not a stitch was set in Eliza's save +those put there by loving fingers and blessed by loving wishes. It was +I who draped the veil over her sunny curls--see how yellow and creased +it is now, but it was as white as snow that day. + +"A week before the wedding, Willis Starr was spending the evening at +the Grange. We were all chattering gaily about the coming event, and +in speaking of the invited guests Eliza said something about the +other Eliza Laurance, the great heiress, looking archly at Willis over +her shoulder as she spoke. It was some merry badinage about the cousin +whose namesake she was but whom she so little resembled. + +"We all laughed, but I shall never forget the look that came over +Willis Starr's face. It passed quickly, but the chill fear that it +gave me remained. A few minutes later I left the room on some trifling +errand, and as I returned through the dim hall I was met by Willis +Starr. He laid his hand on my arm and bent his evil face--for it _was_ +evil then, Amy--close to mine. + +"'Tell me,' he said in a low but rude tone, 'is there another Eliza +Laurance who is an heiress?' + +"'Certainly there is,' I said sharply. 'She is our cousin and the +daughter of our Uncle George. Our Eliza is not an heiress. You surely +did not suppose she was!' + +"Willis stepped aside with a mocking smile. + +"'I did--what wonder? I had heard much about the great heiress, Eliza +Laurance, and the great beauty, Eliza Laurance. I supposed they were +one and the same. You have all been careful not to undeceive me.' + +"'You forget yourself, Mr. Starr, when you speak so to me,' I retorted +coldly. 'You have deceived yourself. We have never dreamed of allowing +anyone to think that Eliza was an heiress. She is sweet and lovely +enough to be loved for her own sake.' + +"I went back to the parlour full of dismay. Willis Starr remained +gloomy and taciturn all the rest of the evening, but nobody seemed to +notice it but myself. + +"The next day we were all so busy that I almost forgot the incident +of the previous evening. We girls were up in the sewing room putting +the last touches to the wedding gown. Eliza tried it and her veil on +and was standing so, in all her silken splendour, when a letter was +brought in. I guessed by her blush who was the writer. I laughed and +ran downstairs, leaving her to read it. + +"When I returned she was still standing just where I had left her in +the middle of the room, holding the letter in her hand. Her face was +as white as her veil, and her wide-open eyes had a dazed, agonized +look as of someone who had been stricken a mortal blow. All the soft +happiness and sweetness had gone out of them. They were the eyes of an +old woman, Amy. + +"'Eliza, what is the matter?' I said. 'Has anything happened to +Willis?' + +"She made no answer, but walked to the fireplace, dropped the letter +in a bed of writhing blue flame and watched it burn to white ashes. +Then she turned to me. + +"'Help me take off this gown, Winnie,' she said dully. 'I shall never +wear it again. There will be no wedding. Willis is gone.' + +"'Gone!' I echoed stupidly. + +"'Yes. I am not the heiress, Winnie. It was the fortune, not the girl, +he loved. He says he is too poor for us to dream of marrying when I +have nothing. Oh, such a cruel, heartless letter! Why did he not kill +me? It would have been so much more merciful! I loved him so--I +trusted him so! Oh, Winnie, Winnie, what am I to do!' + +"There was something terrible in the contrast between her passionate +words and her calm face and lifeless voice. I wanted to call Mother, +but she would not let me. She went away to her own room, trailing +along the dark hall in her dress and veil, and locked herself in. + +"Well, I told it all to the others in some fashion. You can imagine +their anger and dismay. Your father, Amy--he was a hot-blooded, +impetuous, young fellow then--went at once to seek Willis Starr. But +he was gone, no one knew where, and the whole country rang with the +gossip and scandal of the affair. Eliza knew nothing of this, for she +was ill and unconscious for many a day. In a novel or story she would +have died, I suppose, and that would have been the end of it. But this +was in real life, and Eliza did not die, although many times we +thought she would. + +"When she did recover, how frightfully changed she was! It almost +broke my heart to see her. Her very nature seemed to have changed +too--all her joyousness and light-heartedness were dead. From that +time she was a faded, dispirited creature, no more like the Eliza we +had known than the merest stranger. And then after a while came other +news--Willis Starr was married to the other Eliza Laurance, the true +heiress. He had made no second mistake. We tried to keep it from Eliza +but she found it out at last. That was the day she came up here alone +and packed this old chest. Nobody ever knew just what she put into it. +But you and I see now, Amy--her ball dress, her wedding gown, her love +letters and, more than all else, her youth and happiness--this old +chest was the tomb of it all. Eliza Laurance was really buried here. + +"She went home soon after. Before she went she exacted a promise from +Mother that the old chest should be left at the Grange unopened until +she came for it herself. But she never came back, and I do not think +she ever intended to, and I never saw her again. + +"That is the story of the old chest. It was all over so long ago--the +heartbreak and the misery--but it all seems to come back to me now. +Poor Eliza!" + +My own eyes were full of tears as Aunt Winnifred went down the stairs, +leaving me sitting dreamily there in the sunset light, with the old +yellowed bridal veil across my lap and the portrait of Eliza Laurance +in my hand. Around me were the relics of her pitiful story--the old, +oft-repeated story of a faithless love and a woman's broken heart--the +gown she had worn, the slippers in which she had danced +light-heartedly at her betrothal ball, her fan, her pearls, her +gloves--and it somehow seemed to me as if I were living in those old +years myself, as if the love and happiness, the betrayal and pain were +part of my own life. Presently Aunt Winnifred came back through the +twilight shadows. + +"Let us put all these things back in their grave, Amy," she said. +"They are of no use to anyone now. The linen might be bleached and +used, I dare say--but it would seem like a sacrilege. It was Mother's +wedding present to Eliza. And the pearls--would you care to have them, +Amy?" + +"Oh, no, no," I said with a little shiver. "I would never wear them, +Aunt Winnifred. I should feel like a ghost if I did. Put everything +back just as we found it--only her portrait. I would like to keep +that." + +Reverently we put gowns and letters and trinkets back into the old +blue chest. Aunt Winnifred closed the lid and turned the key softly. +She bowed her head over it for a minute and then we went together in +silence down the shadowy garret stairs of Wyther Grange. + + + + +The Osbornes' Christmas + + +Cousin Myra had come to spend Christmas at "The Firs," and all the +junior Osbornes were ready to stand on their heads with delight. +Darby--whose real name was Charles--did it, because he was only eight, +and at eight you have no dignity to keep up. The others, being older, +couldn't. + +But the fact of Christmas itself awoke no great enthusiasm in the +hearts of the junior Osbornes. Frank voiced their opinion of it the +day after Cousin Myra had arrived. He was sitting on the table with +his hands in his pockets and a cynical sneer on his face. At least, +Frank flattered himself that it was cynical. He knew that Uncle Edgar +was said to wear a cynical sneer, and Frank admired Uncle Edgar very +much and imitated him in every possible way. But to you and me it +would have looked just as it did to Cousin Myra--a very discontented +and unbecoming scowl. + +"I'm awfully glad to see you, Cousin Myra," explained Frank carefully, +"and your being here may make some things worth while. But Christmas +is just a bore--a regular bore." + +That was what Uncle Edgar called things that didn't interest him, so +that Frank felt pretty sure of his word. Nevertheless, he wondered +uncomfortably what made Cousin Myra smile so queerly. + +"Why, how dreadful!" she said brightly. "I thought all boys and girls +looked upon Christmas as the very best time in the year." + +"We don't," said Frank gloomily. "It's just the same old thing year in +and year out. We know just exactly what is going to happen. We even +know pretty well what presents we are going to get. And Christmas Day +itself is always the same. We'll get up in the morning, and our +stockings will be full of things, and half of them we don't want. Then +there's dinner. It's always so poky. And all the uncles and aunts come +to dinner--just the same old crowd, every year, and they say just the +same things. Aunt Desda always says, 'Why, Frankie, how you have +grown!' She knows I hate to be called Frankie. And after dinner +they'll sit round and talk the rest of the day, and that's all. Yes, I +call Christmas a nuisance." + +"There isn't a single bit of fun in it," said Ida discontentedly. + +"Not a bit!" said the twins, both together, as they always said +things. + +"There's lots of candy," said Darby stoutly. He rather liked +Christmas, although he was ashamed to say so before Frank. + +Cousin Myra smothered another of those queer smiles. + +"You've had too much Christmas, you Osbornes," she said seriously. "It +has palled on your taste, as all good things will if you overdo them. +Did you ever try giving Christmas to somebody else?" + +The Osbornes looked at Cousin Myra doubtfully. They didn't understand. + +"We always send presents to all our cousins," said Frank hesitatingly. +"That's a bore, too. They've all got so many things already it's no +end of bother to think of something new." + +"That isn't what I mean," said Cousin Myra. "How much Christmas do you +suppose those little Rolands down there in the hollow have? Or Sammy +Abbott with his lame back? Or French Joe's family over the hill? If +you have too much Christmas, why don't you give some to them?" + +The Osbornes looked at each other. This was a new idea. + +"How could we do it?" asked Ida. + +Whereupon they had a consultation. Cousin Myra explained her plan, and +the Osbornes grew enthusiastic over it. Even Frank forgot that he was +supposed to be wearing a cynical sneer. + +"I move we do it, Osbornes," said he. + +"If Father and Mother are willing," said Ida. + +"Won't it be jolly!" exclaimed the twins. + +"Well, rather," said Darby scornfully. He did not mean to be scornful. +He had heard Frank saying the same words in the same tone, and thought +it signified approval. + +Cousin Myra had a talk with Father and Mother Osborne that night, and +found them heartily in sympathy with her plans. + +For the next week the Osbornes were agog with excitement and interest. +At first Cousin Myra made the suggestions, but their enthusiasm soon +outstripped her, and they thought out things for themselves. Never did +a week pass so quickly. And the Osbornes had never had such fun, +either. + +Christmas morning there was not a single present given or received at +"The Firs" except those which Cousin Myra and Mr. and Mrs. Osborne +gave to each other. The junior Osbornes had asked that the money which +their parents had planned to spend in presents for them be given to +them the previous week; and given it was, without a word. + +The uncles and aunts arrived in due time, but not with them was the +junior Osbornes' concern. They were the guests of Mr. and Mrs. +Osborne. The junior Osbornes were having a Christmas dinner party of +their own. In the small dining room a table was spread and loaded with +good things. Ida and the twins cooked that dinner all by themselves. +To be sure, Cousin Myra had helped some, and Frank and Darby had +stoned all the raisins and helped pull the home-made candy; and all +together they had decorated the small dining room royally with +Christmas greens. + +Then their guests came. First, all the little Rolands from the Hollow +arrived--seven in all, with very red, shining faces and not a word to +say for themselves, so shy were they. Then came a troop from French +Joe's--four black-eyed lads, who never knew what shyness meant. Frank +drove down to the village in the cutter and brought lame Sammy back +with him, and soon after the last guest arrived--little Tillie Mather, +who was Miss Rankin's "orphan 'sylum girl" from over the road. +Everybody knew that Miss Rankin never kept Christmas. She did not +believe in it, she said, but she did not prevent Tillie from going to +the Osbornes' dinner party. + +Just at first the guests were a little stiff and unsocial; but they +soon got acquainted, and so jolly was Cousin Myra--who had her dinner +with the children in preference to the grown-ups--and so friendly the +junior Osbornes, that all stiffness vanished. What a merry dinner it +was! What peals of laughter went up, reaching to the big dining room +across the hall, where the grown-ups sat in rather solemn state. And +how those guests did eat and frankly enjoy the good things before +them! How nicely they all behaved, even to the French Joes! Myra had +secretly been a little dubious about those four mischievous-looking +lads, but their manners were quite flawless. Mrs. French Joe had been +drilling them for three days--ever since they had been invited to "de +Chrismus dinner at de beeg house." + +After the merry dinner was over, the junior Osbornes brought in a +Christmas tree, loaded with presents. They had bought them with the +money that Mr. and Mrs. Osborne had meant for their own presents, and +a splendid assortment they were. All the French-Joe boys got a pair of +skates apiece, and Sammy a set of beautiful books, and Tillie was made +supremely happy with a big wax doll. Every little Roland got just what +his or her small heart had been longing for. Besides, there were nuts +and candies galore. + +Then Frank hitched up his pony again, but this time into a great pung +sleigh, and the junior Osbornes took their guests for a sleigh-drive, +chaperoned by Cousin Myra. It was just dusk when they got back, +having driven the Rolands and the French Joes and Sammy and Tillie to +their respective homes. + +"This has been the jolliest Christmas I ever spent," said Frank, +emphatically. + +"I thought we were just going to give the others a good time, but it +was they who gave it to us," said Ida. + +"Weren't the French Joes jolly?" giggled the twins. "Such cute +speeches as they would make!" + +"Me and Teddy Roland are going to be chums after this," announced +Darby. "He's an inch taller than me, but I'm wider." + +That night Frank and Ida and Cousin Myra had a little talk after the +smaller Osbornes had been haled off to bed. + +"We're not going to stop with Christmas, Cousin Myra," said Frank, at +the end of it. "We're just going to keep on through the year. We've +never had such a delightful old Christmas before." + +"You've learned the secret of happiness," said Cousin Myra gently. + +And the Osbornes understood what she meant. + + + + +The Romance of Aunt Beatrice + + +Margaret always maintains that it was a direct inspiration of +Providence that took her across the street to see Aunt Beatrice that +night. And Aunt Beatrice believes that it was too. But the truth of +the matter is that Margaret was feeling very unhappy, and went over to +talk to Aunt Beatrice as the only alternative to a fit of crying. +Margaret's unhappiness has nothing further to do with this story, so +it may be dismissed with the remark that it did not amount to much, in +spite of Margaret's tragical attitude, and was dissipated at once and +forever by the arrival of a certain missent letter the next day. + +Aunt Beatrice was alone. Her brother and his wife had gone to the "at +home" which Mrs. Cunningham was giving that night in honour of the +Honourable John Reynolds, M.P. The children were upstairs in bed, and +Aunt Beatrice was darning their stockings, a big basketful of which +loomed up aggressively on the table beside her. Or, to speak more +correctly, she had been darning them. Just when Margaret was sliding +across the icy street Aunt Beatrice was bent forward in her chair, her +hands over her face, while soft, shrinking little sobs shook her from +head to foot. + +When Margaret's imperative knock came at the front door, Aunt Beatrice +started guiltily and wished earnestly that she had waited until she +went to bed before crying, if cry she must. She knew Margaret's knock, +and she did not want her gay young niece, of all people in the world, +to suspect the fact or the cause of her tears. + +"I hope she won't notice my eyes," she thought, as she hastily plumped +a big ugly dark-green shade, with an almond-eyed oriental leering from +it, over the lamp, before going out to let Margaret in. + +Margaret did not notice at first. She was too deeply absorbed in her +own troubles to think that anyone else in the world could be miserable +too. She curled up in the deep easy-chair by the fire, and clasped her +hands behind her curly head with a sigh of physical comfort and mental +unhappiness, while Aunt Beatrice, warily sitting with her back to the +light, took up her work again. + +"You didn't go to Mrs. Cunningham's 'at home,' Auntie," said Margaret +lazily, feeling that she must make some conversation to justify her +appearance. "You were invited, weren't you?" + +Aunt Beatrice nodded. The hole she was darning in the knee of Willie +Hayden's stocking must be done very carefully. Mrs. George Hayden was +particular about such matters. Perhaps this was why Aunt Beatrice did +not speak. + +"Why didn't you go?" asked Margaret absently, wondering why there had +been no letter for her that morning--and this was the third day too! +Could Gilbert be ill? Or was he flirting with some other girl and +forgetting her? Margaret swallowed a big lump in her throat, and +resolved that she would go home next week--no, she wouldn't, +either--if he was as hateful and fickle as that--what was Aunt +Beatrice saying? + +"Well, I'm--I'm not used to going to parties now, my dear. And the +truth is I have no dress fit to wear. At least Bella said so, because +the party was to be a very fashionable affair. She said my old grey +silk wouldn't do at all. Of course she knows. She had to have a new +dress for it, and, we couldn't both have that. George couldn't afford +it these hard times. And, as Bella said, it would be very foolish of +me to get an expensive dress that would be no use to me afterward. But +it doesn't matter. And, of course, somebody had to stay with the +children." + +"Of course," assented Margaret dreamily. Mrs. Cunningham's "at home" +was of no particular interest. The guests were all middle-aged people +whom the M.P. had known in his boyhood and Margaret, in her +presumptuous youth, thought it would be a very prosy affair, although +it had made quite a sensation in quiet little Murraybridge, where +people still called an "at home" a party plain and simple. + +"I saw Mr. Reynolds in church Sunday afternoon," she went on. "He is +very fine-looking, I think. Did you ever meet him?" + +"I used to know him very well long ago," answered Aunt Beatrice, +bowing still lower over her work. "He used to live down in Wentworth, +you know, and he visited his married sister here very often. He was +only a boy at that time. Then--he went out to British Columbia +and--and--we never heard much more about him." + +"He's very rich and owns dozens of mines and railroads and things like +that," said Margaret, "and he's a member of the Dominion Parliament, +too. They say he's one of the foremost men in the House and came very +near getting a portfolio in the new cabinet. I like men like that. +They are so interesting. Wouldn't it be awfully nice and complimentary +to have one of them in love with you? Is he married?" + +"I--I don't know," said Aunt Beatrice faintly. "I have never heard +that he was." + +"There, you've run the needle into your finger," said Margaret +sympathetically. + +"It's of no consequence," said Aunt Beatrice hastily. + +She wiped away the drop of blood and went on with her work. Margaret +watched her dreamily. What lovely hair Aunt Beatrice had! It was so +thick and glossy, with warm bronze tones where the lamp-light fell on +it under that hideous weird old shade. But Aunt Beatrice wore it in +such an unbecoming way. Margaret idly wondered if she would comb her +hair straight back and prim when she was thirty-five. She thought it +very probable if that letter did not come tomorrow. + +From Aunt Beatrice's hair Margaret's eyes fell to Aunt Beatrice's +face. She gave a little jump. Had Aunt Beatrice been crying? Margaret +sat bolt upright. + +"Aunt Beatrice, did you want to go to that party?" she demanded +explosively. "Now tell me the truth." + +"I did," said Aunt Beatrice weakly. Margaret's sudden attack fairly +startled the truth out of her. "It is very silly of me, I know, but I +did want to go. I didn't care about a new dress. I'd have been quite +willing to wear my grey silk, and I could have fixed the sleeves. What +difference would it have made? Nobody would ever have noticed me, but +Bella thought it wouldn't do." + +She paused long enough to give a little sob which she could not +repress. Margaret made use of the opportunity to exclaim violently, +"It's a shame!" + +"I suppose you don't understand why I wanted to go to this particular +party so much," went on Aunt Beatrice shyly. "I'll tell you why--if +you won't laugh at me. I wanted to see John Reynolds--not to talk to +him--oh, I dare say he wouldn't remember me--but just to see him. +Long ago--fifteen years ago--we were engaged. And--and--I loved him so +much then, Margaret." + +"You poor dear!" said Margaret sympathetically. She reached over and +patted her aunt's hand. She thought that this little bit of romance, +long hidden and unsuspected, blossoming out under her eyes, was +charming. In her interest she quite forgot her own pet grievance. + +"Yes--and then we quarrelled. It was a dreadful quarrel and it was +about such a trifle. We parted in anger and he went away. He never +came back. It was all my fault. Well, it is all over long ago and +everybody has forgotten. I--I don't mind it now. But I just wanted to +see him once more and then come quietly away." + +"Aunt Beatrice, you are going to that party yet," said Margaret +decisively. + +"Oh, it is impossible, my dear." + +"No, it isn't. Nothing is impossible when I make up my mind. You must +go. I'll drag you there by main force if it comes to that. Oh, I have +such a jolly plan, Auntie. You know my black and yellow dinner +dress--no, you don't either, for I've never worn it here. The folks at +home all said it was too severe for me--and so it is. Nothing suits me +but the fluffy, chuffy things with a tilt to them. Gil--er--I +mean--well, yes, Gilbert always declared that dress made me look like +a cross between an unwilling nun and a ballet girl, so I took a +dislike to it. But it's as lovely as a dream. Oh, when you see it your +eyes will stick out. You must wear it tonight. It's just your style, +and I'm sure it will fit you, for our figures are so much alike." + +"But it is too late." + +"'Tisn't. It's not more than half an hour since Uncle George and Aunt +Bella went. I'll have you ready in a twinkling." + +"But the fire--and the children!" + +"I'll stay here and look after both. I won't burn the house down, and +if the twins wake up I'll give them--what is it you give +them--soothing syrup? So go at once and get you ready, while I fly +over for the dress. I'll fix your hair up when I get back." + +Margaret was gone before Aunt Beatrice could speak again. Her niece's +excitement seized hold of her too. She flung the stockings into the +basket and the basket into the closet. + +"I will go--and I won't do another bit of darning tonight. I hate +it--I hate it--I hate it! Oh, how much good it does me to say it!" + +When Margaret came flying up the stairs Aunt Beatrice was ready save +for hair and dress. Margaret cast the gown on the bed, revealing all +its beauty of jetted lace and soft yellow silk with a dextrous sweep +of her arm. Aunt Beatrice gave a little cry of admiration. + +"Isn't it lovely?" demanded Margaret. "And I've brought you my opera +cape and my fascinator and my black satin slippers with the cunningest +gold buckles, and some sweet pale yellow roses that Uncle Ned gave me +yesterday. Oh, Aunt Beatrice! What magnificent arms and shoulders you +have! They're like marble. Mine are so scrawny I'm just ashamed to +have people know they belong to me." + +Margaret's nimble fingers were keeping time with her tongue. Aunt +Beatrice's hair went up as if by magic into soft puffs and waves and +twists, and a golden rose was dropped among the bronze masses. Then +the lovely dress was put on and pinned and looped and pulled until it +fell into its simple, classical lines around the tall, curving figure. +Margaret stepped back and clapped her hands admiringly. + +"Oh, Auntie, you're beautiful! Now I'll pop down for the cloak and +fascinator. I left them hanging by the fire." + +When Margaret had gone Aunt Beatrice caught up the lamp and tiptoed +shamefacedly across the hall to the icy-cold spare room. In the long +mirror she saw herself reflected from top to toe--or was it herself! +Could it be--that gracious woman with the sweet eyes and flushed +cheeks, with rounded arms gleaming through their black laces and the +cluster of roses nestling against the warm white flesh of the +shoulder? + +"I do look nice," she said aloud, with a little curtsey to the radiant +reflection. "It is all the dress, I know. I feel like a queen in +it--no, like a girl again--and that's better." + +Margaret went to Mrs. Cunningham's door with her. + +"How I wish I could go in and see the sensation you'll make, Aunt +Beatrice," she whispered. + +"You dear, silly child! It's just the purple and fine linen," laughed +Aunt Beatrice. But she did not altogether think so, and she rang the +doorbell unquailingly. In the hall Mrs. Cunningham herself came +beamingly to greet her. + +"My dear Beatrice! I'm so glad. Bella said you could not come because +you had a headache." + +"My headache got quite better after they left, and so I thought I +would get ready and come, even if it were rather late," said Beatrice +glibly, wondering if Sapphira had ever worn a black-and-yellow dress, +and if so, might not her historic falsehood be traced to its +influence? + +When they came downstairs together, Beatrice, statuesque and erect in +her trailing draperies, and Mrs. Cunningham secretly wondering where +on earth Beatrice Hayden had got such a magnificent dress and what she +had done to herself to make her look as she did--a man came through +the hall. At the foot of the stairs they met. He put out his hand. + +"Beatrice! It must be Beatrice! How little you have changed!" + +Mrs. Cunningham was not particularly noted in Murraybridge for her +tact, but she had a sudden visitation of the saving grace at that +moment, and left the two alone. + +Beatrice put her hand into the M.P.'s. + +"I am glad to see you," she said simply, looking up at him. + +She could not say that he had not changed, for there was little in +this tall, broad-shouldered man of the world, with grey glints in his +hair, to suggest the slim, boyish young lover whose image she had +carried in her heart all the long years. + +But the voice, though deeper and mellower, was the same, and the thin, +clever mouth that went up at one corner and down at the other in a +humorous twist; and one little curl of reddish hair fell over his +forehead away from its orderly fellows, just as it used to when she +had loved to poke her fingers through it; and, more than all, the +deep-set grey eyes looking down into her blue ones were unchanged. +Beatrice felt her heart beating to her fingertips. + +"I thought you were not coming," he said. "I expected to meet you here +and I was horribly disappointed. I thought the bitterness of that +foolish old quarrel must be strong enough to sway you yet." + +"Didn't Bella tell you I had a headache?" faltered Beatrice. + +"Bella? Oh, your brother's wife! I wasn't talking to her. I've been +sulking in corners ever since I concluded you were not coming. How +beautiful you are, Beatrice! You'll let an old friend say that much, +won't you?" + +Beatrice laughed softly. She had forgotten for years that she was +beautiful, but the sweet old knowledge had come back to her again. She +could not help knowing that he spoke the simple truth, but she said +mirthfully, + +"You've learned to flatter since the old days, haven't you? Don't you +remember you used to tell me I was too thin to be pretty? But I +suppose a bit of blarney is a necessary ingredient in the composition +of an M.P." + +He was still holding her hand. With a glance of dissatisfaction at the +open parlour door, he drew her away to the little room at the end of +the hall, which Mrs. Cunningham, for reasons known only to herself, +called her library. + +"Come in here with me," he said masterfully. "I want to have a long +talk with you before the other people get hold of you." + +When Beatrice got home from the party ten minutes before her brother +and his wife, Margaret was sitting Turk fashion in the big armchair, +with her eyes very wide open and owlish. + +"You dear girlie, were you asleep?" asked Aunt Beatrice indulgently. + +Margaret nodded. "Yes, and I've let the fire go out. I hope you're not +cold. I must run before Aunt Bella gets here, or she'll scold. Had a +nice time?" + +"Delightful. You were a dear to lend me this dress. It was so funny to +see Bella staring at it." + +When Margaret had put on her hat and jacket she went as far as the +street door, and then tiptoed back to the sitting-room. Aunt Beatrice +was leaning back in the armchair, with a drooping rose held softly +against her lips, gazing dreamily into the dull red embers. + +"Auntie," said Margaret contritely, "I can't go home without +confessing, although I know it is a heinous offence to interrupt the +kind of musing that goes with dying embers and faded roses in the +small hours. But it would weigh on my conscience all night if I +didn't. I was asleep, but I wakened up just before you came in and +went to the window. I didn't mean to spy upon anyone--but that street +was bright as day! And if you will let an M.P. kiss you on the +doorstep in glaring moonlight, you must expect to be seen." + +"I wouldn't have cared if there had been a dozen onlookers," said Aunt +Beatrice frankly, "and I don't believe he would either." + +Margaret threw up her hands. "Well, my conscience is clear, at least. +And remember, Aunt Beatrice, I'm to be bridesmaid--I insist upon that. +And, oh, won't you ask me to visit you when you go down to Ottawa next +winter? I'm told it's such a jolly place when the House is in session. +And you'll need somebody to help you entertain, you know. The wife of +a cabinet minister has to do lots of that. But I forgot--he isn't a +cabinet minister yet. But he will be, of course. Promise that you'll +have me, Aunt Beatrice, promise quick. I hear Uncle George and Aunt +Bella coming." + +Aunt Beatrice promised. Margaret flew to the door. + +"You'd better keep that dress," she called back softly, as she opened +it. + + + + +The Running Away of Chester + + +Chester did the chores with unusual vim that night. His lips were set +and there was an air of resolution as plainly visible on his small, +freckled face as if it had been stamped there. Mrs. Elwell saw him +flying around, and her grim features took on a still grimmer +expression. + +"Ches is mighty lively tonight," she muttered. "I s'pose he's in a gog +to be off on some foolishness with Henry Wilson. Well, he won't, and +he needn't think it." + +Lige Barton, the hired man, also thought this was Chester's purpose, +but he took a more lenient view of it than did Mrs. Elwell. + +"The little chap is going through things with a rush this evening," he +reflected. "Guess he's laying out for a bit of fun with the Wilson +boy." + +But Chester was not planning anything connected with Henry Wilson, who +lived on the other side of the pond and was the only chum he +possessed. After the chores were done, he lingered a little while +around the barns, getting his courage keyed up to the necessary pitch. + +Chester Stephens was an orphan without kith or kin in the world, +unless his father's stepsister, Mrs. Harriet Elwell, could be called +so. His parents had died in his babyhood, and Mrs. Elwell had taken +him to bring up. She was a harsh woman, with a violent temper, and she +had scolded and worried the boy all his short life. Upton people said +it was a shame, but nobody felt called upon to interfere. Mrs. Elwell +was not a person one would care to make an enemy of. + +She eyed Chester sourly when he went in, expecting some request to be +allowed to go with Henry, and prepared to refuse it sharply. + +"Aunt Harriet," said Chester suddenly, "can I go to school this year? +It begins tomorrow." + +"No," said Mrs. Elwell, when she had recovered from her surprise at +this unexpected question. "You've had schoolin' in plenty--more'n I +ever had, and all you're goin' to get!" + +"But, Aunt Harriet," persisted Chester, his face flushed with +earnestness, "I'm nearly thirteen, and I can barely read and write a +little. The other boys are ever so far ahead of me. I don't know +anything." + +"You know enough to be disrespectful!" exclaimed Mrs. Elwell. "I +suppose you want to go to school to idle away your time, as you do at +home--lazy good-for-nothing that you are!" Chester thought of the +drudgery that had been his portion all his life. He resented being +called lazy when he was willing enough to work, but he made one more +appeal. + +"If you'll let me go to school this year, I'll work twice as hard out +of school to make up for it--indeed, I will. Do let me go, Aunt +Harriet. I haven't been to school a day for over a year." + +"Let's hear no more of this nonsense," said Mrs. Elwell, taking a +bottle from the shelf above her with the air of one who closes a +discussion. "Here, run down to the Bridge and get me this bottle full +of vinegar at Jacob's store. Be smart, too, d'ye hear! I ain't going +to have you idling around the Bridge neither. If you ain't back in +twenty minutes, it won't be well for you." + +Chester did his errand at the Bridge with a heart full of bitter +disappointment and anger. + +"I won't stand it any longer!" he muttered. "I'll run away--I don't +care where, so long as it's away from her. I wish I could get out West +on the harvest excursions." + +On his return home, as he crossed the yard in the dusk, he stumbled +over a stick of wood and fell. The bottle of vinegar slipped from his +hand and was broken on the doorstep. Mrs. Elwell saw the accident from +the window. She rushed out and jerked the unlucky lad to his feet. + +"Take that, you sulky little cub!" she exclaimed, cuffing his ears +soundly. "I'll teach you to break and spill things you're sent for! +You did it on purpose. Get off to bed with you this instant." + +Chester crept off to his garret chamber with a very sullen face. He +was too used to being sent to bed without any supper to care much for +that, although he was hungry. But his whole being was in a tumult of +rebellion over the injustice that was meted out to him. + +"I won't stand it!" he muttered over and over again. "I'll run away. I +won't stay here." + +To talk of running away was one thing. To do it without a cent in your +pocket or a place to run to was another. But Chester had a great deal +of determination in his make-up when it was fairly roused, and his +hard upbringing had made him older and shrewder than his years. He lay +awake late that night, thinking out ways and means, but could arrive +at no satisfactory conclusion. + +The next day Mrs. Elwell said, "Ches, Abner Stearns wants you to go up +there for a fortnight while Tom Bixby is away, and drive the milk +wagon of mornings and do the chores for Mrs. Stearns. You might as +well put in the time 'fore harvest that way as any other. So hustle +off--and mind you behave yourself." + +Chester heard the news gladly. He had not yet devised any feasible +plan for running away, and he always liked to work at the Stearns' +place. To be sure, Mrs. Elwell received all the money he earned, but +Mrs. Stearns was kind to him, and though he had to work hard and +constantly, he was well fed and well treated by all. + +The following fortnight was a comparatively happy one for the lad. +But he did not forget his purpose of shaking the dust of Upton from +his feet as soon as possible, and he cudgelled his brains trying to +find a way. + +On the evening when he left the Stearns' homestead, Mr. Stearns paid +him for his fortnight's work, much to the boy's surprise, for Mrs. +Elwell had always insisted that all such money should be paid directly +to her. Chester found himself the possessor of four dollars--an amount +of riches that almost took away his breath. He had never in his whole +life owned more than ten cents at a time. As he tramped along the road +home, he kept his hand in his pocket, holding fast to the money, as if +he feared it would otherwise dissolve into thin air. + +His mind was firmly made up. He would run away once and for all. This +money was rightly his; he had earned every cent of it. It would surely +last him until he found employment elsewhere. At any rate, he would +go; and even if he starved, he would never come back to Aunt +Harriet's! + +When he reached home, he found Mrs. Elwell in an unusual state of +worry. Lige had given warning--and this on the verge of harvest! + +"Did Stearns say anything about coming down tomorrow to pay me for +your work?" she asked. + +"No, ma'am. He didn't say a word about it," said Chester boldly. + +"Well, I hope he will. Take yourself off to bed, Ches. I'm sick of +seeing you standing there, on one foot or t'other, like a gander." + +Chester had been shifting about uneasily. He realized that, if his +project did not miscarry, he would not see his aunt again, and his +heart softened to her. Harsh as she was, she was the only protector he +had ever known, and the boy had a vague wish to carry away with him +some kindly word or look from her. Such, however, was not +forthcoming, and Chester obeyed her command and took himself off to +the garret. Here he sat down and reflected on his plans. + +He must go that very night. When Mr. Stearns failed to appear on the +morrow, Mrs. Elwell was quite likely to march up and demand the amount +of Chester's wages. It would all come out then, and he would lose his +money--besides, no doubt, getting severely punished into the bargain. + +His preparations did not take long. He had nothing to carry with him. +The only decent suit of clothes he possessed was his well-worn Sunday +one. This he put on, carefully stowing away in his pocket the precious +four dollars. + +He had to wait until he thought his aunt was asleep, and it was about +eleven when he crept downstairs, his heart quaking within him, and got +out by the porch window. When he found himself alone in the clear +moonlight of the August night, a sense of elation filled his cramped +little heart. He was free, and he would never come back here--never! + +"Wisht I could have seen Henry to say good-by to him, though," he +muttered with a wistful glance at the big house across the pond where +the unconscious Henry was sleeping soundly with never a thought of +moonlight flittings for anyone in his curly head. + +Chester meant to walk to Roxbury Station ten miles away. Nobody knew +him there, and he could catch the morning train. Late as it was, he +kept to fields and wood-roads lest he might be seen and recognized. It +was three o'clock when he reached Roxbury, and he knew the train did +not pass through until six. With the serenity of a philosopher who is +starting out to win his way in the world and means to make the best of +things, Chester curled himself up in the hollow space of a big lumber +pile behind the station, and so tired was he that he fell soundly +asleep in a few minutes. + + * * * * * + +Chester was awakened by the shriek of the express at the last crossing +before the station. In a panic of haste he scrambled out of his lumber +and dashed into the station house, where a sleepy, ill-natured agent +stood behind the ticket window. He looked sharply enough at the +freckled, square-jawed boy who asked for a second-class ticket to +Belltown. Chester's heart quaked within him at the momentary thought +that the ticket agent recognized him. He had an agonized vision of +being collared without ceremony and haled straightway back to Aunt +Harriet. When the ticket and his change were pushed out to him, he +snatched them and fairly ran. + +"Bolted as if the police were after him," reflected the agent, who did +not sell many tickets and so had time to take a personal interest in +the purchasers thereof. "I've seen that youngster before, though I +can't recollect where. He's got a most fearful determined look." + +Chester drew an audible sigh of relief when the train left the +station. He was fairly off now and felt that he could defy even +curious railway officials. + +It was not his first train ride, for Mrs. Elwell had once taken him to +Belltown to get an aching tooth extracted, but it was certainly his +first under such exhilarating circumstances, and he meant to enjoy it. +To be sure, he was very hungry, but that, he reflected, was only what +he would probably be many times before he made his fortune, and it was +just as well to get used to it. Meanwhile, it behooved him to keep his +eyes open. On the road from Roxbury to Belltown there was not much to +be seen that morning that Chester did not see. + +The train reached Belltown about noon. He did not mean to stop long +there--it was too near Upton. From the conductor on the train, he +found that a boat left Belltown for Montrose at two in the afternoon. +Montrose was a hundred miles from Upton, and Chester thought he would +be safe there. To Montrose, accordingly, he decided to go, but the +first thing was to get some dinner. He went into a grocery store and +bought some crackers and a bit of cheese. He had somewhere picked up +the idea that crackers and cheese were about as economical food as you +could find for adventurous youths starting out on small capital. + +He found his way to the only public square Belltown boasted, and +munched his food hungrily on a bench under the trees. He would go to +Montrose and there find something to do. Later on he would gradually +work his way out West, where there was more room for an ambitious +small boy to expand and grow. Chester dreamed some dazzling dreams as +he sat there on the bench under the Belltown chestnuts. Passers-by, if +they noticed him at all, saw merely a rather small, poorly clad boy, +with a great many freckles, a square jaw and shrewd, level-gazing grey +eyes. But this same lad was mapping out a very brilliant future for +himself as people passed him heedlessly by. He would get out West, +somehow or other, some time or other, and make a fortune. Then, +perhaps, he would go back to Upton for a visit and shine in his +splendour before all his old neighbours. It all seemed very easy and +alluring, sitting there in the quiet little Belltown square. Chester, +you see, possessed imagination. That, together with the crackers and +cheese, so cheered him up that he felt ready for anything. He was +aroused from a dream of passing Aunt Harriet by in lofty scorn and a +glittering carriage, by the shrill whistle of the boat. Chester +pocketed his remaining crackers and cheese and his visions also, and +was once more his alert, wide-awake self. He had inquired the way to +the wharf from the grocer, so he found no difficulty in reaching it. +When the boat steamed down the muddy little river, Chester was on +board of her. + +He was glad to be out of Belltown, for he was anything but sure that +he would not encounter some Upton people as long as he was in it. They +often went to Belltown on business, but never to Montrose. + +There were not many passengers on the boat, and Chester scrutinized +them all so sharply in turn that he could have sworn to each and every +one of them for years afterwards had it been necessary. The one he +liked best was a middle-aged lady who sat just before him on the +opposite side of the deck She was plump and motherly looking, with a +fresh, rosy face and beaming blue eyes. + +"If I was looking for anyone to adopt me I'd pick her," said Chester +to himself. The more he looked at her, the better he liked her. He +labelled her in his mind as "the nice, rosy lady." + +The nice, rosy lady noticed Chester staring at her after awhile. She +smiled promptly at him--a smile that seemed fairly to irradiate her +round face--and then began fumbling in an old-fashioned reticule she +carried, and from which she presently extracted a chubby little paper +bag. + +"If you like candy, little boy," she said to Chester, "here is some of +my sugar taffy for you." + +Chester did not exactly like being called a little boy. But her voice +and smile were irresistible and won his heart straightway. He took the +candy with a shy, "Thank you, ma'am," and sat holding it in his hand. + +"Eat it," commanded the rosy lady authoritatively. "That is what taffy +is for, you know." + +So Chester ate it. It was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted +in his life, and filled a void which even the crackers and cheese had +left vacant. The rosy lady watched every mouthful he ate as if she +enjoyed it more than he did. When he had finished the taffy she smiled +one of her sociable smiles again and said, "Well, what do you think of +it?" + +"It's the nicest taffy I ever ate," answered Chester enthusiastically, +as if he were a connoisseur in all kinds of taffies. The rosy lady +nodded, well pleased. + +"That is just what everyone says about my sugar taffy. Nobody up our +way can match it, though goodness knows they try hard enough. My +great-grandmother invented the recipe herself, and it has been in our +family ever since. I'm real glad you liked it." + +She smiled at him again, as if his appreciation of her taffy was a +bond of good fellowship between them. She did not know it but, +nevertheless, she was filling the heart of a desperate small boy, who +had run away from home, with hope and encouragement and self-reliance. +If there were such kind folks as this in the world, why, he would get +along all right. The rosy lady's smiles and taffy--the smiles much +more than the taffy--went far to thaw out of him a certain hardness +and resentfulness against people in general that Aunt Harriet's harsh +treatment had instilled into him. Chester instantly made a resolve +that when he grew stout and rosy and prosperous he would dispense +smiles and taffy and good cheer generally to all forlorn small boys on +boats and trains. + +It was almost dark when they reached Montrose. Chester lost sight of +the rosy lady when they left the boat, and it gave him a lonesome +feeling; but he could not indulge in that for long at a time. Here he +was at his destination--at dark, in a strange city a hundred miles +from home. + +"The first thing is to find somewhere to sleep," he said to himself, +resolutely declining to feel frightened, although the temptation was +very strong. + +Montrose was not really a very big place. It was only a bustling +little town of some twenty thousand inhabitants, but to Chester's eyes +it was a vast metropolis. He had never been in any place bigger than +Belltown, and in Belltown you could see one end of it, at least, no +matter where you were. Montrose seemed endless to Chester as he stood +at the head of Water Street and gazed in bewilderment along one of its +main business avenues--a big, glittering, whirling place where one +small boy could so easily be swallowed up that he would never be heard +of again. + +Chester, after paying his fare to Montrose and buying his cheese and +crackers, had just sixty cents left. This must last him until he found +work, so that the luxury of lodgings was out of the question, even if +he had known where to look for them. To be sure, there were benches in +a public square right in front of him; but Chester was afraid that if +he curled up on one of them for the night, a policeman might question +him, and he did not believe he could give a very satisfactory account +of himself. In his perplexity, he thought of his cosy lumber pile at +Roxbury Station and remembered that when he had left the boat he had +noticed a large vacant lot near the wharf which was filled with piles +of lumber. Back to this he went and soon succeeded in finding a place +to stow himself. His last waking thought was that he must be up and +doing bright and early the next morning, and that it must surely be +longer than twenty-four hours since he had crept downstairs and out of +Aunt Harriet's porch window at Upton. + + * * * * * + +Montrose seemed less alarming by daylight, which was not so +bewildering as the blinking electric lights. Chester was up betimes, +ate the last of his cheese and crackers and started out at once to +look for work. He determined to be thorough, and he went straight into +every place of business he came to, from a blacksmith's forge to a +department store, and boldly asked the first person he met if they +wanted a boy there. There was, however, one class of places Chester +shunned determinedly. He never went into a liquor saloon. The last +winter he had been allowed to go to school in Upton, his teacher had +been a pale, patient little woman who hated the liquor traffic with +all her heart. She herself had suffered bitterly through it, and she +instilled into her pupils a thorough aversion to it. Chester would +have chosen death by starvation before he would have sought for +employment in a liquor saloon. But there certainly did not seem room +for him anywhere else. Nobody wanted a boy. The answer to his question +was invariably "No." As the day wore on, Chester's hopes and courage +went down to zero, but he still tramped doggedly about. He would be +thorough, at least. Surely somewhere in this big place, where everyone +seemed so busy, there must be something for him to do. + +Once there seemed a chance of success. He had gone into a big +provision store and asked the clerk behind the counter if they wanted +a boy. + +"Well, we do," said the clerk, looking him over critically, "but I +hardly think you'll fill the bill. However, come in and see the boss." + +He took Chester into a dark, grimy little inner office where a fat, +stubby man was sitting before a desk with his feet upon it. + +"Hey? What!" he said when the clerk explained. "Looking for the place? +Why, sonny, you're not half big enough." + +"Oh, I'm a great deal bigger than I look," cried Chester breathlessly. +"That is, sir--I mean I'm ever so much stronger than I look. I'll work +hard, sir, ever so hard--and I'll grow." + +The fat, stubby man roared with laughter. What was grim earnest to +poor Chester was a joke to him. + +"No doubt you will, my boy," he said genially, "but I'm afraid you'll +hardly grow fast enough to suit us. Boys aren't like pigweed, you +know. No, no, our boy must be a big, strapping fellow of eighteen or +nineteen. He'll have a deal of heavy lifting to do." + +Chester went out of the store with a queer choking in his throat. For +one horrible moment he thought he was going to cry--he, Chester +Stephens, who had run away from home to do splendid things! A nice +ending that would be to his fine dreams! He thrust his hands into his +pockets and strode along the street, biting his lips fiercely. He +would not cry--no, he would not! And he _would_ find work! + +Chester did not cry, but neither, alas, did he find work. He parted +with ten cents of his precious hoard for more crackers, and he spend +the night again in the lumber yard. + +Perhaps I'll have better luck tomorrow, he thought hopefully. + +But it really seemed as if there were to be no luck for Chester except +bad luck. Day after day passed and, although he tramped resolutely +from street to street and visited every place that seemed to offer any +chance, he could get no employment. In spite of his pluck, his heart +began to fail him. + +At the end of a week Chester woke up among his lumber to a realization +that he was at the end of his resources. He had just five cents left +out of the four dollars that were to have been the key to his fortune. +He sat gloomily on the wall of his sleeping apartment and munched the +one solitary cracker he had left. It must carry him through the day +unless he got work. The five cents must be kept for some dire +emergency. + +He started uptown rather aimlessly. In his week's wanderings he had +come to know the city very well and no longer felt confused with its +size and bustle. He envied every busy boy he saw. Back in Upton he had +sometimes resented the fact that he was kept working continually and +was seldom allowed an hour off. Now he was burdened with spare time. +It certainly did not seem as if things were fairly divided, he +thought. And then he thought no more just then, for one of the queer +spells in his head came on. He had experienced them at intervals +during the last three days. Something seemed to break loose in his +head and spin wildly round and round, while houses and people and +trees danced and wobbled all about him. Chester vaguely wondered if +this could be what Aunt Harriet had been wont to call a "judgement." +But then, he had done nothing very bad--nothing that would warrant a +judgement, he thought. It was surely no harm to run away from a place +where you were treated so bad and where they did not seem to want you. +Chester felt bitter whenever he thought of Aunt Harriet. + +Presently he found himself in the market square of Montrose. It was +market day, and the place was thronged with people from the +surrounding country settlements. Chester had hoped that he might pick +up a few cents, holding a horse or cow for somebody or carrying a +market basket, but no such chance offered itself. He climbed up on +some bales of pressed hay in one corner and sat there moodily; there +was dejection in the very dangle of his legs over the bales. Chester, +you see, was discovering what many a boy before him has +discovered--that it is a good deal easier to sit down and make a +fortune in dreams than it is to go out into the world and make it. + +Two men were talking to each other near him. At first Chester gave no +heed to their conversation, but presently a sentence made him prick up +his ears. + +"Yes, there's a pretty fair crop out at Hopedale," one man was saying, +"but whether it's going to be got in in good shape is another matter. +It's terrible hard to get any help. Every spare man-jack far and wide +has gone West on them everlasting harvest excursions. Salome Whitney +at the Mount Hope Farm is in a predicament. She's got a hired man, but +he can't harvest grain all by himself. She spent the whole of +yesterday driving around, trying to get a couple of men or boys to +help him, but I dunno if she got anyone or not." + +The men moved out of earshot at this juncture, but Chester got down +from the bales with a determined look. If workers were wanted in +Hopedale, that was the place for him. He had done a man's work at +harvest time in Upton the year before. Lige Barton had said so +himself. Hope and courage returned with a rush. + +He accosted the first man he met and asked if he could tell him the +way to Hopedale. + +"Reckon I can, sonny. I live in the next district. Want to go there? +If you wait till evening, I can give you a lift part of the way. It's +five miles out." + +"Thank you, sir," said Chester firmly, "but I must go at once if +you'll kindly direct me. It's important." + +"Well, it's a straight road. That's Albemarle Street down +there--follow it till it takes you out to the country, and then keep +straight on till you come to a church painted yellow and white. Turn +to your right, and over the hill is Hopedale. But you'd better wait +for me. You don't look fit to walk five miles." + +But Chester was off. Walk five miles! Pooh! He could walk twenty with +hope to lure him on. Albemarle Street finally frayed off into a real +country road. Chester was glad to find himself out in the country once +more, with the great golden fields basking on either side and the +wooded hills beyond, purple with haze. He had grown to hate the town +with its cold, unheeding faces. It was good to breathe clear air again +and feel the soft, springy soil of the ferny roadside under his tired +little feet. + +Long before the five miles were covered, Chester began to wonder if he +would hold out to the end of them. He had to stop and rest frequently, +when those queer dizzy spells came on. His feet seemed like lead. But +he kept doggedly on. He would not give in now! The white and yellow +church was the most welcome sight that had ever met his eyes. + +Over the hill he met a man and inquired the way to Mount Hope Farm. +Fortunately, it was nearby. At the gate Chester had to stop again to +recover from his dizziness. + +He liked the look of the place, with its great, comfortable barns and +quaint, roomy old farmhouse, all set down in a trim quadrangle of +beeches and orchards. There was an appearance of peace and prosperity +about it. + +If only Miss Salome Whitney will hire me! thought Chester wistfully, +as he crept up the slope. I'm afraid she'll say I'm too small. Wisht I +could stretch three inches all at once. Wisht I wasn't so dizzy. +Wisht-- + +What Chester's third wish was will never be known, for just as he +reached the kitchen door the worst dizzy spell of all came on. Trees, +barns, well-sweep, all whirled around him with the speed of wind. He +reeled and fell, a limp, helpless little body, on Miss Salome +Whitney's broad, spotless sandstone doorstep. + + * * * * * + +In the Mount Hope kitchen Miss Salome was at that moment deep in +discussion with her "help" over the weighty question of how the +damsons were to be preserved. Miss Salome wanted them boiled; +Clemantiny Bosworth, the help, insisted that they ought to be baked. +Clemantiny was always very positive. She had "bossed" Miss Salome for +years, and both knew that in the end the damsons would be baked, but +the argument had to be carried out for dignity's sake. + +"They're so sour when they're baked," protested Miss Salome. + +"Well, you don't want damsons sweet, do you?" retorted Clemantiny +scornfully. "That's the beauty of damsons--their tartness. And they +keep ever so much better baked, Salome--you know they do. My +grandmother _always_ baked hers, and they would keep for three years." + +Miss Salome knew that when Clemantiny dragged her grandmother into the +question, it was time to surrender. Beyond that, dignity degenerated +into stubbornness. It would be useless to say that she did not want to +keep her damsons for three years, and that she was content to eat them +up and trust to Providence for the next year's supply. + +"Well, well, bake them then," she said placidly. "I don't suppose it +makes much difference one way or another. Only, I insist--what was +that noise, Clemantiny? It sounded like something falling against the +porch door." + +"It's that worthless dog of Martin's, I suppose," said Clemantiny, +grasping a broom handle with a grimness that boded ill for the dog. +"Mussing up my clean doorstep with his dirty paws again. I'll fix +him!" + +Clemantiny swept out through the porch and jerked open the door. There +was a moment's silence. Then Miss Salome heard her say, "For the +land's sake! Salome Whitney, come here." + +What Miss Salome saw when she hurried out was a white-faced boy +stretched on the doorstep at Clemantiny's feet. + +"Is he dead?" she gasped. + +"Dead? No," sniffed Clemantiny. "He's fainted, that's what he is. +Where on earth did he come from? He ain't a Hopedale boy." + +"He must be carried right in," exclaimed Miss Salome in distress. +"Why, he may die there. He must be very ill." + +"Looks more to me as if he had fainted from sheer starvation," +returned Clemantiny brusquely as she picked him up in her lean, +muscular arms. "Why, he's skin and bone. He ain't hardly heavier than +a baby. Well, this is a mysterious piece of work. Where'll I put him?" + +"Lay him on the sofa," said Miss Salome as soon as she had recovered +from the horror into which Clemantiny's starvation dictum had thrown +her. A child starving to death on her doorstep! "What do you do for +people in a faint, Clemantiny?" + +"Wet their face--and hist up their feet--and loosen their collar," +said Clemantiny in a succession of jerks, doing each thing as she +mentioned it. "And hold ammonia to their nose. Run for the ammonia, +Salome. Look, will you? Skin and bone!" + +But Miss Salome had gone for the ammonia. There was a look on the +boy's thin, pallid face that tugged painfully at her heart-strings. + +When Chester came back to consciousness with the pungency of the +ammonia reeking through his head, he found himself lying on very soft +pillows in a very big white sunny kitchen, where everything was +scoured to a brightness that dazzled you. Bending over him was a tall, +gaunt woman with a thin, determined face and snapping black eyes, and, +standing beside her with a steaming bowl in her hand, was the nice +rosy lady who had given him the taffy on the boat! + +When he opened his eyes, Miss Salome knew him. + +"Why, it's the little boy I saw on the boat!" she exclaimed. + +"Well, you've come to!" said Clemantiny, eyeing Chester severely. "And +now perhaps you'll explain what you mean by fainting away on doorsteps +and scaring people out of their senses." + +Chester thought that this must be the mistress of Mount Hope Farm, and +hastened to propitiate her. + +"I'm sorry," he faltered feebly. "I didn't mean to--I--" + +"You're not to do any talking until you've had something to eat," +snapped Clemantiny inconsistently. "Here, open your mouth and take +this broth. Pretty doings, I say!" + +Clemantiny spoke as sharply as Aunt Harriet had ever done, but somehow +or other Chester did not feel afraid of her and her black eyes. She +sat down by his side and fed him from the bowl of hot broth with a +deft gentleness oddly in contrast with her grim expression. + +Chester thought he had never in all his life tasted anything so good +as that broth. The boy was really almost starved. He drank every drop +of it. Clemantiny gave a grunt of satisfaction as she handed the empty +bowl and spoon to the silent, smiling Miss Salome. + +"Now, who are you and what do you want?" she said. + +Chester had been expecting this question, and while coming along the +Hopedale road he had thought out an answer to it. He began now, +speaking the words slowly and gaspingly, as if reciting a hastily +learned lesson. + +"My name is Chester Benson. I belong to Upton up the country. My folks +are dead and I came to Montrose to look for work, I've been there a +week and couldn't get anything to do. I heard a man say that you +wanted men to help in the harvest, so I came out to see if you'd hire +me." + +In spite of his weakness, Chester's face turned very red before he got +to the end of his speech. He was new to deception. To be sure, there +was not, strictly speaking, an untrue word in it. As for his name, it +was Chester Benson Stephens. But for all that, Chester could not have +felt or looked more guilty if he had been telling an out-and-out +falsehood at every breath. + +"Humph!" said Clemantiny in a dissatisfied tone. "What on earth do you +suppose a midget like you can do in the harvest field? And we don't +want any more help, anyway. We've got enough." + +Chester grew sick with disappointment. But at this moment Miss Salome +spoke up. + +"No, we haven't, Clemantiny. We want another hand, and I'll hire you, +Chester--that's your name, isn't it? I'll give you good wages, too." + +"Now, Salome!" protested Clemantiny. + +But Miss Salome only said, "I've made up my mind, Clemantiny." + +Clemantiny knew that when Miss Salome did make up her mind and +announced it in that very quiet, very unmistakable tone, she was +mistress of the situation and intended to remain so. + +"Oh, very well," she retorted. "You'll please yourself, Salome, of +course. I think it would be wiser to wait until you found out a little +more about him." + +"And have him starving on people's doorsteps in the meantime?" +questioned Miss Salome severely. + +"Well," returned Clemantiny with the air of one who washes her hands +of a doubtful proposition, "don't blame me if you repent of it." + +By this time Chester had grasped the wonderful fact that his troubles +were ended--for a while, at least. He raised himself up on one arm and +looked gratefully at Miss Salome. + +"Thank you," he said. "I'll work hard. I'm used to doing a lot." + +"There, there!" said Miss Salome, patting his shoulder gently. "Lie +down and rest. Dinner will be ready soon, and I guess you'll be ready +for it." + +To Clemantiny she added in a low, gentle tone, "There's a look on his +face that reminded me of Johnny. It came out so strong when he sat up +just now that it made me feel like crying. Don't you notice it, +Clemantiny?" + +"Can't say that I do," replied that energetic person, who was flying +about the kitchen with a speed that made Chester's head dizzy trying +to follow her with his eyes. "All I can see is freckles and bones--but +if you're satisfied, I am. For law's sake, don't fluster me, Salome. +There's a hundred and one things to be done out of hand. This frolic +has clean dundered the whole forenoon's work." + +After dinner Chester decided that it was time to make himself useful. + +"Can't I go right to work now?" he asked. + +"We don't begin harvest till tomorrow," said Miss Salome. "You'd +better rest this afternoon." + +"Oh, I'm all right now," insisted Chester. "I feel fine. Please give +me something to do." + +"You can go out and cut me some wood for my afternoon's baking," said +Clemantiny. "And see you cut it short enough. Any other boy that's +tried always gets it about two inches too long." + +When he had gone out, she said scornfully to Miss Salome, "Well, what +do you expect that size to accomplish in a harvest field, Salome +Whitney?" + +"Not very much, perhaps," said Miss Salome mildly. "But what could I +do? You wouldn't have me turn the child adrift on the world again, +would you, Clemantiny?" + +Clemantiny did not choose to answer this appeal. She rattled her +dishes noisily into the dishpan. + +"Well, where are you going to put him to sleep?" she demanded. "The +hands you've got will fill the kitchen chamber. There's only the spare +room left. You'll hardly put him there, I suppose? Your philanthropy +will hardly lead you as far as _that_." + +When Clemantiny employed big words and sarcasm at the same time, the +effect was tremendous. But Miss Salome didn't wilt. + +"What makes you so prejudiced against him?" she asked curiously. + +"I'm _not_ prejudiced against him. But that story about himself didn't +ring true. I worked in Upton years ago, and there weren't any Bensons +there then. There's more behind that he hasn't told. I'd find out what +it was before I took him into my house, that's all. But I'm not +prejudiced." + +"Well, well," said Miss Salome soothingly, "we must do the best we can +for him. It's a sort of duty. And as for a room for him--why, I'll put +him in Johnny's." + +Clemantiny opened her mouth and shut it again. She understood that it +would be a waste of breath to say anything more. If Miss Salome had +made up her mind to put this freckled, determined-looking waif, +dropped on her doorstep from heaven knew where, into Johnny's room, +that was an end of the matter. + +"But I'll not be surprised at anything after this," she muttered as +she carried her dishes into the pantry. "First a skinny little urchin +goes and faints on her doorstep. Then she hires him and puts him in +Johnny's room. Johnny's room! Salome Whitney, what _do_ you mean?" + +Perhaps Miss Salome hardly knew what she meant. But somehow her heart +went out warmly to this boy. In spite of Clemantiny's sniffs, she held +to the opinion that he looked like Johnny. Johnny was a little nephew +of hers. She had taken him to bring up when his parents died, and she +had loved him very dearly. He had died four years ago, and since that +time the little front room over the front porch had never been +occupied. It was just as Johnny had left it. Beyond keeping it +scrupulously clean, Miss Salome never allowed it to be disturbed. And +now a somewhat ragged lad from nowhere was to be put into it! No +wonder Clemantiny shook her head when Miss Salome went up to air it. + + * * * * * + +Even Clemantiny had to admit that Chester was willing to work. He +split wood until she called him to stop. Then he carried in the +wood-box full, and piled it so neatly that even the grim handmaiden +was pleased. After that, she sent him to the garden to pick the early +beans. In the evening he milked three cows and did all the chores, +falling into the ways of the place with a deft adaptability that went +far to soften Clemantiny's heart. + +"He's been taught to work somewheres," she admitted grudgingly, "and +he's real polite and respectful. But he looks too cute by half. And +his name isn't Benson any more than mine. When I called him 'Chester +Benson' out there in the cow-yard, he stared at me fer half a minute +'sif I'd called him Nebuchadnezzar." + +When bedtime came, Miss Salome took Chester up to a room whose +whiteness and daintiness quite took away the breath of a lad who had +been used to sleeping in garrets or hired men's kitchen chambers all +his life. Later on Miss Salome came in to see if he was comfortable, +and stood, with her candle in her hand, looking down very kindly at +the thin, shrewd little face on the pillow. + +"I hope you'll sleep real well here, Chester," she said. "I had a +little boy once who used to sleep here. You--you look like him. Good +night." + +She bent over him and kissed his forehead. Chester had never been +kissed by anyone before, so far as he could remember. Something came +up in his throat that felt about as big as a pumpkin. At the same +moment he wished he could have told Miss Salome the whole truth about +himself. I might tell her in the morning, he thought, as he watched +her figure passing out of the little porch chamber. + +But on second thought he decided that this would never do. He felt +sure she would disapprove of his running away, and would probably +insist upon his going straight back to Upton or, at least, informing +Aunt Harriet of his whereabouts. No, he could not tell her. + +Clemantiny was an early riser, but when she came into the kitchen the +next morning the fire was already made and Chester was out in the yard +with three of the five cows milked. + +"Humph!" said Clemantiny amiably. "New brooms sweep clean." + +But she gave him cream with his porridge that morning. Generally, all +Miss Salome's hired hands got from Clemantiny was skim milk. + +Miss Salome's regular hired man lived in a little house down in the +hollow. He soon turned up, and the other two men she had hired for +harvest also arrived. Martin, the man, looked Chester over +quizzically. + +"What do you think you can do, sonny?" + +"Anything," said Chester sturdily. "I'm used to work." + +"He's right," whispered Clemantiny aside. "He's smart as a steel trap. +But just you keep an eye on him all the same, Martin." + +Chester soon proved his mettle in the harvest field. In the brisk +three weeks that followed, even Clemantiny had to admit that he earned +every cent of his wages. His active feet were untiring and his wiry +arms could pitch and stock with the best. When the day's work was +ended, he brought in wood and water for Clemantiny, helped milk the +cows, gathered the eggs, and made on his own responsibility a round +of barns and outhouses to make sure that everything was snug and tight +for the night. + +"Freckles-and-Bones has been well trained somewhere," said Clemantiny +again. + +It was hardly fair to put the bones in now, for Chester was growing +plump and hearty. He had never been so happy in his life. Upton +drudgery and that dreadful week in Montrose seemed like a bad dream. +Here, in the golden meadows of Mount Hope Farm, he worked with a right +good will. The men liked him, and he soon became a favourite with +them. Even Clemantiny relented somewhat. To be sure, she continued +very grim, and still threw her words at him as if they were so many +missiles warranted to strike home. But Chester soon learned that +Clemantiny's bark was worse than her bite. She was really very good to +him and fed him lavishly. But she declared that this was only to put +some flesh on him. + +"It offends me to see bones sticking through anybody's skin like that. +We aren't used to such objects at Mount Hope Farm, thank goodness. +Yes, you may smile, Salome. I like him well enough, and I'll admit +that he knows how to make himself useful, but I don't trust him any +more than ever I did. He's mighty close about his past life. You can't +get any more out of him than juice out of a post. I've tried, and I +know." + +But it was Miss Salome who had won Chester's whole heart. He had never +loved anybody in his hard little life before. He loved her with an +almost dog-like devotion. He forgot that he was working to earn +money--and make his fortune. He worked to please Miss Salome. She was +good and kind and gentle to him, and his starved heart thawed and +expanded in the sunshine of her atmosphere. She went to the little +porch room every night to kiss him good night. Chester would have been +bitterly disappointed if she had failed to go. + +She was greatly shocked to find out that he had never said his prayers +before going to bed. She insisted on teaching him the simple little +one she had used herself when a child. When Chester found that it +would please her, he said it every night. There was nothing he would +not have done for Miss Salome. + +She talked a good deal to him about Johnny and she gave him the +jack-knife that Johnny had owned. + +"It belonged to a good, manly little boy once," she said, "and now I +hope it belongs to another such." + +"I ain't very good," said Chester repentantly, "but I'll try to be, +Miss Salome--honest, I will." + +One day he heard Miss Salome speaking of someone who had run away from +home. "A wicked, ungrateful boy," she called him. Chester blushed +until his freckles were drowned out in a sea of red, and Clemantiny +saw it, of course. When did anything ever escape those merciless black +eyes of Clemantiny's? + +"Do you think it's always wrong for a fellow to run away, Miss +Salome?" he faltered. + +"It can't ever be right," said Miss Salome decidedly. + +"But if he wasn't treated well--and was jawed at--and not let go to +school?" pleaded Chester. + +Clemantiny gave Miss Salome a look as of one who would say, You're +bat-blind if you can't read between the lines of that; but Miss Salome +was placidly unconscious. She was not really thinking of the subject +at all, and did not guess that Chester meant anything more than +generalities. + +"Not even then," she said firmly. "Nothing can justify a boy for +running away--especially as Jarvis Colemen did--never even left a word +behind him to say where he'd gone. His aunt thought he'd fallen into +the river." + +"Don't suppose she would have grieved much if he had," said Clemantiny +sarcastically, all the while watching Chester, until he felt as if +she were boring into his very soul and reading all his past life. + +When the harvest season drew to a close, dismay crept into the soul of +our hero. Where would he go now? He hated to think of leaving Mount +Hope Farm and Miss Salome. He would have been content to stay there +and work as hard as he had ever worked at Upton, merely for the roof +over his head and the food he ate. The making of a fortune seemed a +small thing compared to the privilege of being near Miss Salome. + +"But I suppose I must just up and go," he muttered dolefully. + +One day Miss Salome had a conference with Clemantiny. At the end of it +the latter said, "Do as you please," in the tone she might have used +to a spoiled child. "But if you'd take my advice--which you won't and +never do--you'd write to somebody in Upton and make inquiries about +him first. What he says is all very well and he sticks to it +marvellous, and there's no tripping him up. But there's something +behind, Salome Whitney--mark my words, there's something behind." + +"He looks so like Johnny," said Miss Salome wistfully. + +"And I suppose you think that covers a multitude of sins," said +Clemantiny contemptuously. + + * * * * * + +On the day when the last load of rustling golden sheaves was carried +into the big barn and stowed away in the dusty loft, Miss Salome +called Chester into the kitchen. Chester's heart sank as he obeyed the +summons. + +His time was up, and now he was to be paid his wages and sent away. To +be sure, Martin had told him that morning that a man in East Hopedale +wanted a boy for a spell, and that he, Martin, would see that he got +the place if he wanted it. But that did not reconcile him to leaving +Mount Hope Farm. + +Miss Salome was sitting in her favourite sunny corner of the kitchen +and Clemantiny was flying around with double briskness. The latter's +thin lips were tightly set and disapproval was writ large in every +flutter of her calico skirts. + +"Chester," said Miss Salome kindly, "your time is up today." + +Chester nodded. For a moment he felt as he had felt when he left the +provision store in Montrose. But he would not let Clemantiny see him +cry. Somehow, he would not have minded Miss Salome. + +"What are you thinking of doing now?" Miss Salome went on. + +"There's a man at East Hopedale wants a boy," said Chester, "and +Martin says he thinks I'll suit." + +"That is Jonas Smallman," said Miss Salome thoughtfully. "He has the +name of being a hard master. It isn't right of me to say so, perhaps. +I really don't know much about him. But wouldn't you rather stay here +with me for the winter, Chester?" + +"Ma'am? Miss Salome?" stammered Chester. He heard Clemantiny give a +snort behind him and mutter, "Clean infatuated--clean infatuated," +without in the least knowing what she meant. + +"We really need a chore boy all the year round," said Miss Salome. +"Martin has all he can do with the heavy work. And there are the +apples to be picked. If you care to stay, you shall have your board +and clothes for doing the odd jobs, and you can go to school all +winter. In the spring we will see what need be done then." + +If he would care to stay! Chester could have laughed aloud. His eyes +were shining with joy as he replied, "Oh, Miss Salome, I'll be so glad +to stay! I--I--didn't want to go away. I'll try to do everything you +want me to do. I'll work ever so hard." + +"Humph!" + +This, of course, was from Clemantiny, as she set a pan of apples on +the stove with an emphatic thud. "Nobody ever doubted your willingness +to work. Pity everything else about you isn't as satisfactory." + +"Clemantiny!" said Miss Salome rebukingly. She put her arms about +Chester and drew him to her. "Then it is all settled, Chester. You are +my boy now, and of course I shall expect you to be a good boy." + +If ever a boy was determined to be good, that boy was Chester. That +day was the beginning of a new life for him. He began to go to the +Hopedale school the next week. Miss Salome gave him all Johnny's old +school books and took an eager interest in his studies. + +Chester ought to have been very happy, and at first he was; but as the +bright, mellow days of autumn passed by, a shadow came over his +happiness. He could not help thinking that he had really deceived Miss +Salome, and was deceiving her still--Miss Salome, who had such +confidence in him. He was not what he pretended to be. And as for his +running away, he felt sure that Miss Salome would view that with +horror. As the time passed by and he learned more and more what a high +standard of honour and truth she had, he felt more and more ashamed of +himself. When she looked at him with her clear, trustful, blue eyes, +Chester felt as guilty as if he had systematically deceived her with +intent to do harm. He began to wish that he had the courage to tell +her the whole truth about himself. + +Moreover, he began to think that perhaps he had not done right, after +all, in running away from Aunt Harriet. In Miss Salome's code nothing +could be right that was underhanded, and Chester was very swiftly +coming to look at things through Miss Salome's eyes. He felt sure that +Johnny would never have acted as he had, and if Chester now had one +dear ambition on earth, it was to be as good and manly a fellow as +Johnny must have been. But he could never be that as long as he kept +the truth about himself from Miss Salome. + +"That boy has got something on his mind," said the terrible +Clemantiny, who, Chester felt convinced, could see through a stone +wall. + +"Nonsense! What could he have on his mind?" said Miss Salome. But she +said it a little anxiously. She, too, had noticed Chester's absent +ways and abstracted face. + +"Goodness me, I don't know! I don't suppose he has robbed a bank or +murdered anybody. But he is worrying over something, as plain as +plain." + +"He is getting on very well at school," said Miss Salome. "His teacher +says so, and he is very eager to learn. I don't know what can be +troubling him." + +She was fated not to know for a fortnight longer. During that time +Chester fought out his struggle with himself, and conquered. He must +tell Miss Salome, he decided, with a long sigh. He knew that it would +mean going back to Upton and Aunt Harriet and the old, hard life, but +he would not sail under false colours any longer. + + * * * * * + +Chester went into the kitchen one afternoon when he came home from +school, with his lips set and his jaws even squarer than usual. Miss +Salome was making some of her famous taffy, and Clemantiny was +spinning yarn on the big wheel. + +"Miss Salome," said Chester desperately, "if you're not too busy, +there is something I'd like to tell you." + +"What is it?" asked Miss Salome good-humouredly, turning to him with +her spoon poised in midair over her granite saucepan. + +"It's about myself. I--I--oh, Miss Salome, I didn't tell you the +truth about myself. I've got to tell it now. My name isn't +Benson--exactly--and I ran away from home." + +"Dear me!" said Miss Salome mildly. She dropped her spoon, handle and +all, into the taffy and never noticed it. "Dear me, Chester!" + +"I knew it," said Clemantiny triumphantly. "I knew it--and I always +said it. Run away, did you?" + +"Yes'm. My name is Chester Benson Stephens, and I lived at Upton with +Aunt Harriet Elwell. But she ain't any relation to me, really. She's +only father's stepsister. She--she--wasn't kind to me and she wouldn't +let me go to school--so I ran away." + +"But, dear me, Chester, didn't you know that was very wrong?" said +Miss Salome in bewilderment. + +"No'm--I didn't know it then. I've been thinking lately that maybe it +was. I'm--I'm real sorry." + +"What did you say your real name was?" demanded Clemantiny. + +"Stephens, ma'am." + +"And your mother's name before she was married?" + +"Mary Morrow," said Chester, wondering what upon earth Clemantiny +meant. + +Clemantiny turned to Miss Salome with an air of surrendering a dearly +cherished opinion. + +"Well, ma'am, I guess you must be right about his looking like Johnny. +I must say I never could see the resemblance, but it may well be +there, for he--that very fellow there--and Johnny are first cousins. +Their mothers were sisters!" + +"Clemantiny!" exclaimed Miss Salome. + +"You may well say 'Clemantiny.' Such a coincidence! It doesn't make +you and him any relation, of course--the cousinship is on the mother's +side. But it's there. Mary Morrow was born and brought up in Hopedale. +She went to Upton when I did, and married Oliver Stephens there. Why, +I knew his father as well as I know you." + +"This is wonderful," said Miss Salome. Then she added sorrowfully, +"But it doesn't make your running away right, Chester." + +"Tell us all about it," demanded Clemantiny, sitting down on the +wood-box. "Sit down, boy, sit down--don't stand there looking as if +you were on trial for your life. Tell us all about it." + +Thus adjured, Chester sat down and told them all about it--his +moonlight flitting and his adventures in Montrose. Miss Salome +exclaimed with horror over the fact of his sleeping in a pile of +lumber for seven nights, but Clemantiny listened in silence, never +taking her eyes from the boy's pale face. When Chester finished, she +nodded. + +"We've got it all now. There's nothing more behind, Salome. It would +have been better for you to have told as straight a story at first, +young man." + +Chester knew that, but, having no reply to make, made none. Miss +Salome looked at him wistfully. + +"But, with it all, you didn't do right to run away, Chester," she said +firmly. "I dare say your aunt was severe with you--but two wrongs +never make a right, you know." + +"No'm," said Chester. + +"You must go back to your aunt," continued Miss Salome sadly. + +Chester nodded. He knew this, but he could not trust himself to speak. +Then did Clemantiny arise in her righteous indignation. + +"Well, I never heard of such nonsense, Salome Whitney! What on earth +do you want to send him back for? I knew Harriet Elwell years ago, and +if she's still what she was then, it ain't much wonder Chester ran +away from her. I'd say 'run,' too. Go back, indeed! You keep him right +here, as you should, and let Harriet Elwell look somewhere else for +somebody to scold!" + +"Clemantiny!" expostulated Miss Salome. + +"Oh, I must and will speak my mind, Salome. There's no one else to +take Chester's part, it seems. You have as much claim on him as +Harriet Elwell has. She ain't any real relation to him any more than +you are." + +Miss Salome looked troubled. Perhaps there was something in +Clemantiny's argument. And she hated to think of seeing Chester go. He +looked more like Johnny than ever, as he stood there with his flushed +face and wistful eyes. + +"Chester," she said gravely, "I leave it to you to decide. If you +think you ought to go back to your aunt, well and good. If not, you +shall stay here." + +This was the hardest yet. Chester wished she had not left the decision +to him. It was like cutting off his own hand. But he spoke up +manfully. + +"I--I think I ought to go back, Miss Salome, and I want to pay back +the money, too." + +"I think so, too, Chester, although I'm sorry as sorry can be. I'll go +back to Upton with you. We'll start tomorrow. If, when we get there, +your aunt is willing to let you stay with me, you can come back." + +"There's a big chance of that!" said Clemantiny sourly. "A woman's +likely to give up a boy like Chester--a good, steady worker and as +respectful and obliging as there is between this and sunset--very +likely, isn't she! Well, this taffy is all burnt to the saucepan and +clean ruined--but what's the odds! All I hope, Salome Whitney, is that +the next time you adopt a boy and let him twine himself 'round a +person's heart, you'll make sure first that you are going to stick to +it. I don't like having my affections torn up by the roots." + +Clemantiny seized the saucepan and disappeared with it into the pantry +amid a whirl of pungent smoke. + +Mount Hope Farm was a strangely dismal place that night. Miss Salome +sighed heavily and often as she made her preparations for the morrow's +journey. + +Clemantiny stalked about with her grim face grimmer than ever. As for +Chester, when he went to bed that night in the little porch chamber, +he cried heartily into his pillows. He didn't care for pride any +longer; he just cried and didn't even pretend he wasn't crying when +Miss Salome came in to sit by him a little while and talk to him. That +talk comforted Chester. He realized that, come what might, he would +always have a good friend in Miss Salome--aye, and in Clemantiny, too. + +Chester never knew it, but after he had fallen asleep, with the tears +still glistening on his brown cheeks, Clemantiny tiptoed silently in +with a candle in her hand and bent over him with an expression of +almost maternal tenderness on her face. It was late and an aroma of +boiling sugar hung about her. She had sat up long after Miss Salome +was abed, to boil another saucepan of taffy for Chester to eat on his +journey. + +"Poor, dear child!" she said, softly touching one of his crisp curls. +"It's a shame in Salome to insist on his going back. She doesn't know +what she's sending him to, or she wouldn't. He didn't say much against +his aunt, and Salome thinks she was only just a little bit cranky. But +_I_ could guess." + +Early in the morning Miss Salome and Chester started. They were to +drive to Montrose, leave their team there and take the boat for +Belltown. Chester bade farewell to the porch chamber and the long, +white kitchen and the friendly barns with a full heart. When he +climbed into the wagon, Clemantiny put a big bagful of taffy into his +hands. + +"Good-by, Chester," she said. "And remember, you've always got a +friend in me, anyhow." + +Then Clemantiny went back into the kitchen and cried--good, +rough-spoken, tender-hearted Clemantiny sat down and cried. + +It was an ideal day for travelling--crisp, clear and sunny--but +neither Chester nor Miss Salome was in a mood for enjoyment. + +Back over Chester's runaway route they went, and reached Belltown on +the boat that evening. + +They stayed in Belltown overnight and in the morning took the train to +Roxbury Station. Here Miss Salome hired a team from the storekeeper +and drove out to Upton. + +Chester felt his heart sink as they drove into the Elwell yard. How +well he knew it! + +Miss Salome tied her hired nag to the gatepost and took Chester by the +hand. They went to the door and knocked. It was opened with a jerk and +Mrs. Elwell stood before them. She had probably seen them from the +window, for she uttered no word of surprise at seeing Chester again. +Indeed, she said nothing at all, but only stood rigidly before them. + +Dear me, what a disagreeable-looking woman! thought Miss Salome. But +she said courteously, "Are you Mrs. Elwell?" + +"I am," said that lady forbiddingly. + +"I've brought your nephew home," continued Miss Salome, laying her +hand encouragingly on Chester's shrinking shoulder. "I have had him +hired for some time on my farm at Hopedale, but I didn't know until +yesterday that he had run away from you. When he told me about it, I +thought he ought to come straight back and return your four dollars, +and so did he. So I have brought him." + +"You might have saved yourself the trouble then!" cried Mrs. Elwell +shrilly. Her black eyes flashed with anger. "I'm done with him and +don't want the money. Run away when there was work to do, and thinks +he can come back now that it's all done and loaf all winter, does he? +He shall never enter my house again." + +"That he shall not!" cried Miss Salome, at last finding her tongue. +Her gentle nature was grievously stirred by the heartlessness shown in +the face and voice of Mrs. Elwell. "That he shall not!" she cried +again. "But he shall not want for a home as long as I have one to give +him. Come, Chester, we'll go home." + +"I wish you well of him," Mrs. Elwell said sarcastically. + +Miss Salome already repented her angry retort. She was afraid she had +been undignified, but she wished for a moment that Clemantiny was +there. Wicked as she feared it was, Miss Salome thought she could have +enjoyed a tilt between her ancient handmaid and Mrs. Elwell. + +"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Elwell, if I have used any intemperate +expressions," she said with great dignity. "You provoked me more than +was becoming by your remarks. I wish you good morning." + +Mrs. Elwell slammed the door shut. + +With her cheeks even more than usually rosy, Miss Salome led Chester +down to the gate, untied her horse and drove out of the yard. Not +until they reached the main road did she trust herself to speak to the +dazed lad beside her. + +"What a disagreeable women!" she ejaculated at last. "I don't wonder +you ran away, Chester--I don't, indeed! Though, mind you, I don't +think it was right, for all that. But I'm gladder than words can say +that she wouldn't take you back. You are mine now, and you will stay +mine. I want you to call me Aunt Salome after this. Get up, horse! If +we can catch that train at Roxbury, we'll be home by night yet." + +Chester was too happy to speak. He had never felt so glad and grateful +in his life before. + +They got home that night just as the sun was setting redly behind the +great maples on the western hill. As they drove into the yard, +Clemantiny's face appeared, gazing at them over the high board fence +of the cow-yard. Chester waved his hand at her gleefully. + +"Lawful heart!" said Clemantiny. She set down her pail and came out to +the lane on a run. She caught Chester as he sprang from the wagon and +gave him a hearty hug. + +"I'm glad clean down to my boot soles to see you back again," she +said. + +"He's back for good," said Miss Salome. "Chester, you'd better go in +and study up your lessons for tomorrow." + + + + +The Strike at Putney + + +The church at Putney was one that gladdened the hearts of all the +ministers in the presbytery whenever they thought about it. It was +such a satisfactory church. While other churches here and there were +continually giving trouble in one way or another, the Putneyites were +never guilty of brewing up internal or presbyterial strife. + +The Exeter church people were always quarrelling among themselves and +carrying their quarrels to the courts of the church. The very name of +Exeter gave the members of presbytery the cold creeps. But the Putney +church people never quarrelled. + +Danbridge church was in a chronic state of ministerlessness. No +minister ever stayed in Danbridge longer than he could help. The +people were too critical, and they were also noted heresy hunters. +Good ministers fought shy of Danbridge, and poor ones met with a chill +welcome. The harassed presbytery, worn out with "supplying," were +disposed to think that the millennium would come if ever the +Danbridgians got a minister whom they liked. At Putney they had had +the same minister for fifteen years and hoped and expected to have him +for fifteen more. They looked with horror-stricken eyes on the +Danbridge theological coquetries. + +Bloom Valley church was over head and heels in debt and had no visible +prospect of ever getting out. The moderator said under his breath that +they did over-much praying and too little hoeing. He did not believe +in faith without works. Tarrytown Road kept its head above water but +never had a cent to spare for missions or the schemes of the church. + +In bright and shining contradistinction to these the Putney church had +always paid its way and gave liberally to all departments of church +work. If other springs of supply ran dry the Putneyites +enthusiastically got up a "tea" or a "social," and so raised the +money. Naturally the "heft" of this work fell on the women, but they +did not mind--in very truth, they enjoyed it. The Putney women had the +reputation of being "great church workers," and they plumed themselves +on it, putting on airs at conventions among the less energetic women +of the other churches. + +They were especially strong on societies. There was the Church Aid +Society, the Girls' Flower Band, and the Sewing Circle. There was a +Mission Band and a Helping Hand among the children. And finally there +was the Women's Foreign Mission Auxiliary, out of which the whole +trouble grew which convulsed the church at Putney for a brief time and +furnished a standing joke in presbyterial circles for years +afterwards. To this day ministers and elders tell the story of the +Putney church strike with sparkling eyes and subdued chuckles. It +never grows old or stale. But the Putney elders are an exception. They +never laugh at it. They never refer to it. It is not in the wicked, +unregenerate heart of man to make a jest of his own bitter defeat. + +It was in June that the secretary of the Putney W.F.M. Auxiliary wrote +to a noted returned missionary who was touring the country, asking her +to give an address on mission work before their society. Mrs. +Cotterell wrote back saying that her brief time was so taken up +already that she found it hard to make any further engagements, but +she could not refuse the Putney people who were so well and favourably +known in mission circles for their perennial interest and liberality. +So, although she could not come on the date requested, she would, if +acceptable, come the following Sunday. + +This suited the Putney Auxiliary very well. On the Sunday referred to +there was to be no evening service in the church owing to Mr. +Sinclair's absence. They therefore appointed the missionary meeting +for that night, and made arrangements to hold it in the church itself, +as the classroom was too small for the expected audience. + +Then the thunderbolt descended on the W.F.M.A. of Putney from a clear +sky. The elders of the church rose up to a man and declared that no +woman should occupy the pulpit of the Putney church. It was in direct +contravention to the teachings of St. Paul. + +To make matters worse, Mr. Sinclair declared himself on the elders' +side. He said that he could not conscientiously give his consent to a +woman occupying his pulpit, even when that woman was Mrs. Cotterell +and her subject foreign missions. + +The members of the Auxiliary were aghast. They called a meeting +extraordinary in the classroom and, discarding all forms and +ceremonies in their wrath, talked their indignation out. + +Out of doors the world basked in June sunshine and preened itself in +blossom. The birds sang and chirped in the lichened maples that cupped +the little church in, and peace was over all the Putney valley. Inside +the classroom disgusted women buzzed like angry bees. + +"What on earth are we to do?" sighed the secretary plaintively. Mary +Kilburn was always plaintive. She sat on the steps of the platform, +being too wrought up in her mind to sit in her chair at the desk, and +her thin, faded little face was twisted with anxiety. "All the +arrangements are made and Mrs. Cotterell is coming on the tenth. How +can we tell her that the men won't let her speak?" + +"There was never anything like this in Putney church before," groaned +Mrs. Elder Knox. "It was Andrew McKittrick put them up to it. I always +said that man would make trouble here yet, ever since he moved to +Putney from Danbridge. I've talked and argued with Thomas until I'm +dumb, but he is as set as a rock." + +"I don't see what business the men have to interfere with us anyhow," +said her daughter Lucy, who was sitting on one of the window-sills. +"We don't meddle with them, I'm sure. As if Mrs. Cotterell would +contaminate the pulpit!" + +"One would think we were still in the dark ages," said Frances +Spenslow sharply. Frances was the Putney schoolteacher. Her father was +one of the recalcitrant elders and Frances felt it bitterly--all the +more that she had tried to argue with him and had been sat upon as a +"child who couldn't understand." + +"I'm more surprised at Mr. Sinclair than at the elders," said Mrs. +Abner Keech, fanning herself vigorously. "Elders are subject to queer +spells periodically. They think they assert their authority that way. +But Mr. Sinclair has always seemed so liberal and broad-minded." + +"You never can tell what crotchet an old bachelor will take into his +head," said Alethea Craig bitingly. + +The others nodded agreement. Mr. Sinclair's inveterate celibacy was a +standing grievance with the Putney women. + +"If he had a wife who could be our president this would never have +happened, I warrant you," said Mrs. King sagely. + +"But what are we going to do, ladies?" said Mrs. Robbins briskly. Mrs. +Robbins was the president. She was a big, bustling woman with clear +blue eyes and crisp, incisive ways. Hitherto she had held her peace. +"They must talk themselves out before they can get down to business," +she had reflected sagely. But she thought the time had now come to +speak. + +"You know," she went on, "we can talk and rage against the men all day +if we like. They are not trying to prevent us. But that will do no +good. Here's Mrs. Cotterell invited, and all the neighbouring +auxiliaries notified--and the men won't let us have the church. The +point is, how are we going to get out of the scrape?" + +A helpless silence descended upon the classroom. The eyes of every +woman present turned to Myra Wilson. Everyone could talk, but when it +came to action they had a fashion of turning to Myra. + +She had a reputation for cleverness and originality. She never talked +much. So far today she had not said a word. She was sitting on the +sill of the window across from Lucy Knox. She swung her hat on her +knee, and loose, moist rings of dark hair curled around her dark, +alert face. There was a sparkle in her grey eyes that boded ill to the +men who were peaceably pursuing their avocations, rashly indifferent +to what the women might be saying in the maple-shaded classroom. + +"Have you any suggestion to make, Miss Wilson?" said Mrs. Robbins, +with a return to her official voice and manner. + +Myra put her long, slender index finger to her chin. + +"I think," she said decidedly, "that we must strike." + + * * * * * + +When Elder Knox went in to tea that evening he glanced somewhat +apprehensively at his wife. They had had an altercation before she +went to the meeting, and he supposed she had talked herself into +another rage while there. But Mrs. Knox was placid and smiling. She +had made his favourite soda biscuits for him and inquired amiably +after his progress in hoeing turnips in the southeast meadow. + +She made, however, no reference to the Auxiliary meeting, and when the +biscuits and the maple syrup and two cups of matchless tea had nerved +the elder up, his curiosity got the better of his prudence--for even +elders are human and curiosity knows no gender--and he asked what they +had done at the meeting. + +"We poor men have been shaking in our shoes," he said facetiously. + +"Were you?" Mrs. Knox's voice was calm and faintly amused. "Well, you +didn't need to. We talked the matter over very quietly and came to the +conclusion that the session knew best and that women hadn't any right +to interfere in church business at all." + +Lucy Knox turned her head away to hide a smile. The elder beamed. He +was a peace-loving man and disliked "ructions" of any sort and +domestic ones in particular. Since the decision of the session Mrs. +Knox had made his life a burden to him. He did not understand her +sudden change of base, but he accepted it very thankfully. + +"That's right--that's right," he said heartily. "I'm glad to hear you +coming out so sensible, Maria. I was afraid you'd work yourselves up +at that meeting and let Myra Wilson or Alethea Craig put you up to +some foolishness or other. Well, I guess I'll jog down to the Corner +this evening and order that barrel of pastry flour you want." + +"Oh, you needn't," said Mrs. Knox indifferently. "We won't be needing +it now." + +"Not needing it! But I thought you said you had to have some to bake +for the social week after next." + +"There isn't going to be any social." + +"Not any social?" + +Elder Knox stared perplexedly at his wife. A month previously the +Putney church had been recarpeted, and they still owed fifty dollars +for it. This, the women declared, they would speedily pay off by a big +cake and ice-cream social in the hall. Mrs. Knox had been one of the +foremost promoters of the enterprise. + +"Not any social?" repeated the elder again. "Then how is the money for +the carpet to be got? And _why_ isn't there going to be a social?" + +"The men can get the money somehow, I suppose," said Mrs. Knox. "As +for the social, why, of course, if women aren't good enough to speak +in church they are not good enough to work for it either. Lucy, dear, +will you pass me the cookies?" + +"Lucy dear" passed the cookies and then rose abruptly and left the +table. Her father's face was too much for her. + +"What confounded nonsense is this?" demanded the elder explosively. + +Mrs. Knox opened her mellow brown eyes widely, as if in amazement at +her husband's tone. + +"I don't understand you," she said. "Our position is perfectly +logical." + +She had borrowed that phrase from Myra Wilson, and it floored the +elder. He got up, seized his hat, and strode from the room. + +That night, at Jacob Wherrison's store at the Corner, the Putney men +talked over the new development. The social was certainly off--for a +time, anyway. + +"Best let 'em alone, I say," said Wherrison. "They're mad at us now +and doing this to pay us out. But they'll cool down later on and we'll +have the social all right." + +"But if they don't," said Andrew McKittrick gloomily, "who is going to +pay for that carpet?" + +This was an unpleasant question. The others shirked it. + +"I was always opposed to this action of the session," said Alec Craig. +"It wouldn't have hurt to have let the woman speak. 'Tisn't as if it +was a regular sermon." + +"The session knew best," said Andrew sharply. "And the +minister--you're not going to set your opinion up against his, are +you, Craig?" + +"Didn't know they taught such reverence for ministers in Danbridge," +retorted Craig with a laugh. + +"Best let 'em alone, as Wherrison says," said Abner Keech. + +"Don't see what else we can do," said John Wilson shortly. + + * * * * * + +On Sunday morning the men were conscious of a bare, deserted +appearance in the church. Mr. Sinclair perceived it himself. After +some inward wondering he concluded that it was because there were no +flowers anywhere. The table before the pulpit was bare. On the organ a +vase held a sorry, faded bouquet left over from the previous week. The +floor was' unswept. Dust lay thickly on the pulpit Bible, the choir +chairs, and the pew backs. + +"This church looks disgraceful," said John Robbins in an angry +undertone to his daughter Polly, who was president of the Flower +Band. "What in the name of common sense is the good of your Flower +Banders if you can't keep the place looking decent?" + +"There is no Flower Band now, Father," whispered Polly in turn. "We've +disbanded. Women haven't any business to meddle in church matters. You +know the session said so." + +It was well for Polly that she was too big to have her ears boxed. +Even so, it might not have saved her if they had been anywhere else +than in church. + +Meanwhile the men who were sitting in the choir--three basses and two +tenors--were beginning to dimly suspect that there was something amiss +here too. Where were the sopranos and the altos? Myra Wilson and +Alethea Craig and several other members of the choir were sitting down +in their pews with perfectly unconscious faces. Myra was looking out +of the window into the tangled sunlight and shadow of the great +maples. Alethea Craig was reading her Bible. + +Presently Frances Spenslow came in. Frances was organist, but today, +instead of walking up to the platform, she slipped demurely into her +father's pew at one side of the pulpit. Eben Craig, who was the Putney +singing master and felt himself responsible for the choir, fidgeted +uneasily. He tried to catch Frances's eye, but she was absorbed in +reading the mission report she had found in the rack, and Eben was +finally forced to tiptoe down to the Spenslow pew and whisper, "Miss +Spenslow, the minister is waiting for the doxology. Aren't you going +to take the organ?" + +Frances looked up calmly. Her clear, placid voice was audible not only +to those in the nearby pews, but to the minister. + +"No, Mr. Craig. You know if a woman isn't fit to speak in the church +she can't be fit to sing in it either." + +Eben Craig looked exceedingly foolish. He tiptoed gingerly back to his +place. The minister, with an unusual flush on his thin, ascetic face, +rose suddenly and gave out the opening hymn. + +Nobody who heard the singing in Putney church that day ever forgot it. +Untrained basses and tenors, unrelieved by a single female voice, are +not inspiring. + +There were no announcements of society meetings for the forthcoming +week. On the way home from church that day irate husbands and fathers +scolded, argued, or pleaded, according to their several dispositions. +One and all met with the same calm statement that if a noble, +self-sacrificing woman like Mrs. Cotterell were not good enough to +speak in the Putney church, ordinary, everyday women could not be fit +to take any part whatever in its work. + +Sunday School that afternoon was a harrowing failure. Out of all the +corps of teachers only one was a man, and he alone was at his post. In +the Christian Endeavour meeting on Tuesday night the feminine element +sat dumb and unresponsive. The Putney women never did things by +halves. + +The men held out for two weeks. At the end of that time they +"happened" to meet at the manse and talked the matter over with the +harassed minister. Elder Knox said gloomily, "It's this way. Nothing +can move them women. I know, for I've tried. My authority has been set +at naught in my own household. And I'm laughed at if I show my face in +any of the other settlements." + +The Sunday School superintendent said the Sunday School was going to +wrack and ruin, also the Christian Endeavour. The condition of the +church for dust was something scandalous, and strangers were making a +mockery of the singing. And the carpet had to be paid for. He supposed +they would have to let the women have their own way. + +The next Sunday evening after service Mr. Sinclair arose hesitatingly. +His face was flushed, and Alethea Craig always declared that he looked +"just plain everyday cross." He announced briefly that the session +after due deliberation had concluded that Mrs. Cotterell might occupy +the pulpit on the evening appointed for her address. + +The women all over the church smiled broadly. Frances Spenslow got up +and went to the organ stool. The singing in the last hymn was good and +hearty. Going down the steps after dismissal Mrs. Elder Knox caught +the secretary of the Church Aid by the arm. + +"I guess," she whispered anxiously, "you'd better call a special +meeting of the Aids at my house tomorrow afternoon. If we're to get +that social over before haying begins we've got to do some smart +scurrying." + +The strike in the Putney church was over. + + + + +The Unhappiness of Miss Farquhar + + +Frances Farquhar was a beauty and was sometimes called a society +butterfly by people who didn't know very much about it. Her father was +wealthy and her mother came of an extremely blue-blooded family. +Frances had been out for three years, and was a social favourite. +Consequently, it may be wondered why she was unhappy. + +In plain English, Frances Farquhar had been jilted--just a +commonplace, everyday jilting! She had been engaged to Paul Holcomb; +he was a very handsome fellow, somewhat too evidently aware of the +fact, and Frances was very deeply in love with him--or thought herself +so, which at the time comes to pretty much the same thing. Everybody +in her set knew of her engagement, and all her girl friends envied +her, for Holcomb was a matrimonial catch. + +Then the crash came. Nobody outside the family knew exactly what did +happen, but everybody knew that the Holcomb-Farquhar match was off, +and everybody had a different story to account for it. + +The simple truth was that Holcomb was fickle and had fallen in love +with another girl. There was nothing of the man about him, and it did +not matter to his sublimely selfish caddishness whether he broke +Frances Farquhar's heart or not. He got his freedom and he married +Maud Carroll in six months' time. + +The Farquhars, especially Ned, who was Frances's older brother and +seldom concerned himself about her except when the family honour was +involved, were furious at the whole affair. Mr. Farquhar stormed, and +Ned swore, and Della lamented her vanished role of bridemaid. As for +Mrs. Farquhar, she cried and said it would ruin Frances's future +prospects. + +The girl herself took no part in the family indignation meetings. But +she believed that her heart was broken. Her love and her pride had +suffered equally, and the effect seemed disastrous. + +After a while the Farquhars calmed down and devoted themselves to the +task of cheering Frances up. This they did not accomplish. She got +through the rest of the season somehow and showed a proud front to the +world, not even flinching when Holcomb himself crossed her path. To be +sure, she was pale and thin, and had about as much animation as a +mask, but the same might be said of a score of other girls who were +not suspected of having broken hearts. + +When the summer came Frances asserted herself. The Farquhars went to +Green Harbour every summer. But this time Frances said she would not +go, and stuck to it. The whole family took turns coaxing her and had +nothing to show for their pains. + +"I'm going up to Windy Meadows to stay with Aunt Eleanor while you +are at the Harbour," she declared. "She has invited me often enough." + +Ned whistled. "Jolly time you'll have of it, Sis. Windy Meadows is +about as festive as a funeral. And Aunt Eleanor isn't lively, to put +it in the mildest possible way." + +"I don't care if she isn't. I want to get somewhere where people won't +look at me and talk about--that," said Frances, looking ready to cry. + +Ned went out and swore at Holcomb again, and then advised his mother +to humour Frances. Accordingly, Frances went to Windy Meadows. + +Windy Meadows was, as Ned had said, the reverse of lively. It was a +pretty country place, with a sort of fag-end by way of a little +fishing village, huddled on a wind-swept bit of beach, locally known +as the "Cove." Aunt Eleanor was one of those delightful people, so few +and far between in this world, who have perfectly mastered the art of +minding their own business exclusively. She left Frances in peace. + +She knew that her niece had had "some love trouble or other," and +hadn't gotten over it rightly. + +"It's always best to let those things take their course," said this +philosophical lady to her "help" and confidant, Margaret Ann Peabody. +"She'll get over it in time--though she doesn't think so now, bless +you." + +For the first fortnight Frances revelled in a luxury of unhindered +sorrow. She could cry all night--and all day too, if she +wished--without having to stop because people might notice that her +eyes were red. She could mope in her room all she liked. And there +were no men who demanded civility. + +When the fortnight was over, Aunt Eleanor took crafty counsel with +herself. The letting-alone policy was all very well, but it would not +do to have the girl die on her hands. Frances was getting paler and +thinner every day--and she was spoiling her eyelashes by crying. + +"I wish," said Aunt Eleanor one morning at breakfast, while Frances +pretended to eat, "that I could go and take Corona Sherwood out for a +drive today. I promised her last week that I would, but I've never had +time yet. And today is baking and churning day. It's a shame. Poor +Corona!" + +"Who is she?" asked Frances, trying to realize that there was actually +someone in the world besides herself who was to be pitied. + +"She is our minister's sister. She has been ill with rheumatic fever. +She is better now, but doesn't seem to get strong very fast. She ought +to go out more, but she isn't able to walk. I really must try and get +around tomorrow. She keeps house for her brother at the manse. He +isn't married, you know." + +Frances didn't know, nor did she in the least degree care. But even +the luxury of unlimited grief palls, and Frances was beginning to feel +this vaguely. She offered to go and take Miss Sherwood out driving. + +"I've never seen her," she said, "but I suppose that doesn't matter. I +can drive Grey Tom in the phaeton, if you like." + +It was just what Aunt Eleanor intended, and she saw Frances drive off +that afternoon with a great deal of satisfaction. + +"Give my love to Corona," she told her, "and say for me that she isn't +to go messing about among those shore people until she's perfectly +well. The manse is the fourth house after you turn the third corner." + +Frances kept count of the corners and the houses and found the manse. +Corona Sherwood herself came to the door. Frances had been expecting +an elderly personage with spectacles and grey crimps; she was +surprised to find that the minister's sister was a girl of about her +own age and possessed of a distinct worldly prettiness. Corona was +dark, with a different darkness from that of Frances, who had ivory +outlines and blue-black hair, while Corona was dusky and piquant. + +Her eyes brightened with delight when Frances told her errand. + +"How good of you and Miss Eleanor! I am not strong enough to walk far +yet--or do anything useful, in fact, and Elliott so seldom has time to +take me out." + +"Where shall we go?" asked Frances when they started. "I don't know +much about this locality." + +"Can we drive to the Cove first? I want to see poor little Jacky Hart. +He has been so sick--" + +"Aunt Eleanor positively forbade that," said Frances dubiously. "Will +it be safe to disobey her?" + +Corona laughed. + +"Miss Eleanor blames my poor shore people for making me sick at first, +but it was really not that at all. And I want to see Jacky Hart so +much. He has been ill for some time with some disease of the spine and +he is worse lately. I'm sure Miss Eleanor won't mind my calling just +to see him." + +Frances turned Grey Tom down the shore road that ran to the Cove and +past it to silvery, wind-swept sands, rimming sea expanses crystal +clear. Jacky Hart's home proved to be a tiny little place overflowing +with children. Mrs. Hart was a pale, tired-looking woman with the +patient, farseeing eyes so often found among the women who watch sea +and shore every day and night of their lives for those who sometimes +never return. + +She spoke of Jacky with the apathy of hopelessness. The doctor said he +would not last much longer. She told all her troubles unreservedly to +Corona in her monotonous voice. Her "man" was drinking again and the +mackerel catch was poor. + +When Mrs. Hart asked Corona to go in and see Jacky, Frances went too. +The sick boy, a child with a delicate, wasted face and large, bright +eyes, lay in a tiny bedroom off the kitchen. The air was hot and +heavy. Mrs. Hart stood at the foot of the bed with her tragic face. + +"We have to set up nights with him now," she said. "It's awful hard on +me and my man. The neighbours are kind enough and come sometimes, but +most of them have enough to do. His medicine has to be given every +half hour. I've been up for three nights running now. Jabez was off to +the tavern for two. I'm just about played out." + +She suddenly broke down and began to cry, or rather whimper, in a +heart-broken way. + +Corona looked troubled. "I wish I could come tonight, Mrs. Hart, but +I'm afraid I'm really not strong enough yet." + +"I don't know much about sickness," spoke up Frances firmly, "but if +to sit by the child and give him his medicine regularly is all that is +necessary, I am sure I can do that. I'll come and sit up with Jacky +tonight if you care to have me." + +Afterwards, when she and Corona were driving away, she wondered a good +deal at herself. But Corona was so evidently pleased with her offer, +and took it all so much as a matter of course, that Frances had not +the courage to display her wonder. They had their drive through the +great green bowl of the country valley, brimming over with sunshine, +and afterwards Corona made Frances go home with her to tea. + +Rev. Elliott Sherwood had got back from his pastoral visitations, and +was training his sweet peas in the way they should go against the +garden fence. He was in his shirt sleeves and wore a big straw hat, +and seemed in nowise disconcerted thereby. Corona introduced him, and +he took Grey Tom away and put him in the barn. Then he went back to +his sweet peas. He had had his tea, he said, so that Frances did not +see him again until she went home. She thought he was a very +indifferent young man, and not half so nice as his sister. + +But she went and sat up with Jacky Hart that night, getting to the +Cove at dark, when the sea was a shimmer of fairy tints and the boats +were coming in from the fishing grounds. Jacky greeted her with a +wonderful smile, and later on she found herself watching alone by his +bed. The tiny lamp on the table burned dim, and outside, on the rocks, +there was loud laughing and talking until a late hour. + +Afterwards a silence fell, through which the lap of the waves on the +sands and the far-off moan of the Atlantic surges came sonorously. +Jacky was restless and wakeful, but did not suffer, and liked to talk. +Frances listened to him with a new-born power of sympathy, which she +thought she must have caught from Corona. He told her all the tragedy +of his short life, and how bad he felt, about Dad's taking to drink +and Mammy's having to work so hard. + +The pitiful little sentences made Frances's heart ache. The maternal +instinct of the true woman awoke in her. She took a sudden liking to +the child. He was a spiritual little creature, and his sufferings had +made him old and wise. Once in the night he told Frances that he +thought the angels must look like her. + +"You are so sweet pretty," he said gravely. "I never saw anyone so +pretty, not even Miss C'rona. You look like a picture I once saw on +Mr. Sherwood's table when I was up at the manse one day 'fore I got +so bad I couldn't walk. It was a woman with a li'l baby in her arms +and a kind of rim round her head. I would like something most awful +much." + +"What is it, dear?" said Frances gently. "If I can get or do it for +you, I will." + +"You could," he said wistfully, "but maybe you won't want to. But I do +wish you'd come here just once every day and sit here five minutes and +let me look at you--just that. Will it be too much trouble?" + +Frances stooped and kissed him. "I will come every day, Jacky," she +said; and a look of ineffable content came over the thin little face. +He put up his hand and touched her cheek. + +"I knew you were good--as good as Miss C'rona, and she is an angel. I +love you." + +When morning came Frances went home. It was raining, and the sea was +hidden in mist. As she walked along the wet road, Elliott Sherwood +came splashing along in a little two-wheeled gig and picked her up. He +wore a raincoat and a small cap, and did not look at all like a +minister--or, at least, like Frances's conception of one. + +Not that she knew much about ministers. Her own minister at home--that +is to say, the minister of the fashionable uptown church which she +attended--was a portly, dignified old man with silvery hair and +gold-rimmed glasses, who preached scholarly, cultured sermons and was +as far removed from Frances's personal life as a star in the Milky +Way. + +But a minister who wore rubber coats and little caps and drove about +in a two-wheeled gig, very much mud-bespattered, and who talked about +the shore people as if they were household intimates of his, was +absolutely new to Frances. + +She could not help seeing, however, that the crisp brown hair under +the edges of the unclerical-looking cap curled around a remarkably +well-shaped forehead, beneath which flashed out a pair of very fine +dark-grey eyes; he had likewise a good mouth, which was resolute and +looked as if it might be stubborn on occasion; and, although he was +not exactly handsome, Frances decided that she liked his face. + +He tucked the wet, slippery rubber apron of his conveyance about her +and then proceeded to ask questions. Jacky Hart's case had to be +reported on, and then Mr. Sherwood took out a notebook and looked over +its entries intently. + +"Do you want any more work of that sort to do?" he asked her abruptly. + +Frances felt faintly amused. He talked to her as he might have done to +Corona, and seemed utterly oblivious of the fact that her profile was +classic and her eyes delicious. His indifference piqued Frances a +little in spite of her murdered heart. Well, if there was anything she +could do she might as well do it, she told him briefly, and he, with +equal brevity, gave her directions for finding some old lady who lived +on the Elm Creek road and to whom Corona had read tracts. + +"Tracts are a mild dissipation of Aunt Clorinda's," he said. "She +fairly revels in them. She is half blind and has missed Corona very +much." + +There were other matters also--a dozen or so of factory girls who +needed to be looked after and a family of ragged children to be +clothed. Frances, in some dismay, found herself pledged to help in all +directions, and then ways and means had to be discussed. The long, wet +road, sprinkled with houses, from whose windows people were peering to +see "what girl the minister was driving," seemed very short. Frances +did not know it, but Elliott Sherwood drove a full mile out of his +way that morning to take her home, and risked being late for a very +important appointment--from which it may be inferred that he was not +quite so blind to the beautiful as he had seemed. + +Frances went through the rain that afternoon and read tracts to Aunt +Clorinda. She was so dreadfully tired that night that she forgot to +cry, and slept well and soundly. + +In the morning she went to church for the first time since coming to +Windy Meadows. It did not seem civil not to go to hear a man preach +when she had gone slumming with his sister and expected to assist him +with his difficulties over factory girls. She was surprised at Elliott +Sherwood's sermon, and mentally wondered why such a man had been +allowed to remain for four years in a little country pulpit. Later on +Aunt Eleanor told her it was for his health. + +"He was not strong when he left college, so he came here. But he is as +well as ever now, and I expect he will soon be gobbled up by some of +your city churches. He preached in Castle Street church last winter, +and I believe they were delighted with him." + +This was all of a month later. During that time Frances thought that +she must have been re-created, so far was her old self left behind. +She seldom had an idle moment; when she had, she spent it with Corona. +The two girls had become close friends, loving each other with the +intensity of exceptional and somewhat exclusive natures. + +Corona grew strong slowly, and could do little for her brother's +people, but Frances was an excellent proxy, and Elliott Sherwood kept +her employed. Incidentally, Frances had come to know the young +minister, with his lofty ideals and earnest efforts, very well. He +had got into a ridiculous habit of going to her--her, Frances +Farquhar!--for advice in many perplexities. + +Frances had nursed Jacky Hart and talked temperance to his father and +read tracts to Aunt Clorinda and started a reading circle among the +factory girls and fitted out all the little Jarboes with dresses and +coaxed the shore children to go to school and patched up a feud +between two 'longshore families and done a hundred other things of a +similar nature. + +Aunt Eleanor said nothing, as was her wise wont, but she talked it +over with Margaret Ann Peabody, and agreed with that model domestic +when she said: "Work'll keep folks out of trouble and help 'em out of +it when they are in. Just as long as that girl brooded over her own +worries and didn't think of anyone but herself she was miserable. But +as soon as she found other folks were unhappy, too, and tried to help +'em out a bit, she helped herself most of all. She's getting fat and +rosy, and it is plain to be seen that the minister thinks there isn't +the like of her on this planet." + +One night Frances told Corona all about Holcomb. Elliott Sherwood was +away, and Frances had gone up to stay all night with Corona at the +manse. They were sitting in the moonlit gloom of Corona's room, and +Frances felt confidential. She had expected to feel badly and cry a +little while she told it. But she did not, and before she was half +through, it did not seem as if it were worth telling after all. Corona +was deeply sympathetic. She did not say a great deal, but what she did +say put Frances on better terms with herself. + +"Oh, I shall get over it," the latter declared finally. "Once I +thought I never would--but the truth is, I'm getting over it now. I'm +very glad--but I'm horribly ashamed, too, to find myself so fickle." + +"I don't think you are fickle, Frances," said Corona gravely, +"because I don't think you ever really loved that man at all. You only +imagined you did. And he was not worthy of you. You are so good, dear; +those shore people just worship you. Elliott says you can do anything +you like with them." + +Frances laughed and said she was not at all good. Yet she was pleased. +Later on, when she was brushing her hair before the mirror and smiling +absently at her reflection, Corona said: "Frances, what is it like to +be as pretty as you are?" + +"Nonsense!" said Frances by way of answer. + +"It is not nonsense at all. You must know you are very lovely, +Frances. Elliott says you are the most beautiful girl he has ever +seen." + +For a girl who has told herself a dozen times that she would never +care again for masculine admiration, Frances experienced a very odd +thrill of delight on hearing that the minister of Windy Meadows +thought her beautiful. She knew he admired her intellect and had +immense respect for what he called her "genius for influencing +people," but she had really believed all along that, if Elliott +Sherwood had been asked, he could not have told whether she was a whit +better looking than Kitty Martin of the Cove, who taught a class in +Sunday school and had round rosy cheeks and a snub nose. + +The summer went very quickly. One day Jacky Hart died--drifted out +with the ebb tide, holding Frances's hand. She had loved the patient, +sweet-souled little creature and missed him greatly. + +When the time to go home came Frances felt dull. She hated to leave +Windy Meadows and Corona and her dear shore people and Aunt Eleanor +and--and--well, Margaret Ann Peabody. + +Elliott Sherwood came up the night before she went away. When +Margaret Ann showed him reverentially in, Frances was sitting in a +halo of sunset light, and the pale, golden chrysanthemums in her hair +shone like stars in the blue-black coils. + +Elliott Sherwood had been absent from Windy Meadows for several days. +There was a subdued jubilance in his manner. + +"You think I have come to say good-bye, but I haven't," he told her. +"I shall see you again very soon, I hope. I have just received a call +to Castle Street church, and it is my intention to accept. So Corona +and I will be in town this winter." + +Frances tried to tell him how glad she was, but only stammered. +Elliott Sherwood came close up to her as she stood by the window in +the fading light, and said-- + +But on second thoughts I shall not record what he said--or what she +said either. Some things should be left to the imagination. + + + + +Why Mr. Cropper Changed His Mind + + +"Well, Miss Maxwell, how did you get along today?" asked Mr. Baxter +affably, when the new teacher came to the table. + +She was a slight, dark girl, rather plain-looking, but with a smart, +energetic way. Mr. Baxter approved of her; he "liked her style," as he +would have said. + +The summer term had just opened in the Maitland district. Esther +Maxwell was a stranger, but she was a capable girl, and had no doubt +of her own ability to get and keep the school in good working order. +She smiled brightly at Mr. Baxter. + +"Very well for a beginning. The children seem bright and teachable and +not hard to control." + +Mr. Baxter nodded. "There are no bad children in the school except the +Cropper boys--and they can be good enough if they like. Reckon they +weren't there today?" + +"No." + +"Well, Miss Maxwell, I think it only fair to tell you that you may +have trouble with those boys when they do come. Forewarned is +forearmed, you know. Mr. Cropper was opposed to our hiring you. Not, +of course, that he had any personal objection to you, but he is set +against female teachers, and when a Cropper is set there is nothing on +earth can change him. He says female teachers can't keep order. He's +started in with a spite at you on general principles, and the boys +know it. They know he'll back them up in secret, no matter what they +do, just to prove his opinions. Cropper is sly and slippery, and it is +hard to corner him." + +"Are the boys big?" queried Esther anxiously. + +"Yes. Thirteen and fourteen and big for their age. You can't whip +'em--that is the trouble. A man might, but they'd twist you around +their fingers. You'll have your hands full, I'm afraid. But maybe +they'll behave all right after all." + +Mr. Baxter privately had no hope that they would, but Esther hoped +for the best. She could not believe that Mr. Cropper would carry his +prejudices into a personal application. This conviction was +strengthened when he overtook her walking from school the next day and +drove her home. He was a big, handsome man with a very suave, polite +manner. He asked interestedly about her school and her work, hoped she +was getting on well, and said he had two young rascals of his own to +send soon. Esther felt relieved. She thought that Mr. Baxter had +exaggerated matters a little. + +"That plum tree of Mrs. Charley's is loaded with fruit again this +year," remarked Mr. Baxter at the tea table that evening. "I came past +it today on my way 'cross lots home from the woods. There will be +bushels of plums on it." + +"I don't suppose poor Mrs. Charley will get one of them any more than +she ever has," said Mrs. Baxter indignantly. "It's a burning shame, +that's what it is! I just wish she could catch the Croppers once." + +"You haven't any proof that it is really them, Mary," objected her +husband, "and you shouldn't make reckless accusations before folks." + +"I know very well it is them," retorted Mrs. Baxter, "and so do you, +Adoniram. And Mrs. Charley knows it too, although she can't prove +it--more's the pity! I don't say Isaac Cropper steals those plums with +his own hands. But he knows who does--and the plums go into Mehitable +Cropper's preserving kettle; there's nothing surer." + +"You see, Miss Maxwell, it's this way," explained Mr. Baxter, turning +to Esther. "Mrs. Charley Cropper's husband was Isaac's brother. They +never got on well together, and when Charley died there was a +tremendous fuss about the property. Isaac acted mean and scandalous +clear through, and public opinion has been down on him ever since. But +Mrs. Charley is a pretty smart woman, and he didn't get the better of +her in everything. There was a strip of disputed land between the two +farms, and she secured it. There's a big plum tree growing on it +close to the line fence. It's the finest one in Maitland. But Mrs. +Charley never gets a plum from it." + +"But what becomes of them?" asked Esther. + +"They disappear," said Mr. Baxter, with a significant nod. "When the +plums are anything like ripe Mrs. Charley discovers some day that +there isn't one left on the tree. She has never been able to get a +scrap of proof as to who took them, or she'd make it hot for them. But +nobody in Maitland has any doubt in his own mind that Isaac Cropper +knows where those plums go." + +"I don't think Mr. Cropper would steal," protested Esther. + +"Well, he doesn't consider it stealing, you know. He claims the land +and says the plums are his. I don't doubt that he is quite clear in +his own mind that they are. And he does hate Mrs. Charley. I'd give +considerable to see the old sinner fairly caught, but he is too deep." + +"I think Mr. Baxter is too hard on Mr. Cropper," said Esther to +herself later on. "He has probably some private prejudice against +him." + + * * * * * + +But a month later she had changed her opinion. During that time the +Cropper boys had come to school. + +At first Esther had been inclined to like them. They were handsome +lads, with the same smooth way that characterized their father, and +seemed bright and intelligent. For a few days all went well, and +Esther felt decidedly relieved. + +But before long a subtle spirit of insubordination began to make +itself felt in the school. Esther found herself powerless to cope with +it. The Croppers never openly defied her, but they did precisely as +they pleased. The other pupils thought themselves at liberty to follow +this example, and in a month's time poor Esther had completely lost +control of her little kingdom. Some complaints were heard among the +ratepayers and even Mr. Baxter looked dubious. She knew that unless +she could regain her authority she would be requested to hand in her +resignation, but she was baffled by the elusive system of defiance +which the Cropper boys had organized. + +One day she resolved to go to Mr. Cropper himself and appeal to his +sense of justice, if he had any. It had been an especially hard day in +school. When she had been absent at the noon hour all the desks in the +schoolroom had been piled in a pyramid on the floor, books and slates +interchanged, and various other pranks played. When questioned every +pupil denied having done or helped to do it. Alfred and Bob Cropper +looked her squarely in the eyes and declared their innocence in their +usual gentlemanly fashion, yet Esther felt sure that they were the +guilty ones. She also knew what exaggerated accounts of the affair +would be taken home to Maitland tea tables, and she felt like sitting +down to cry. But she did not. Instead she set her mouth firmly, helped +the children restore the room to order, and after school went up to +Isaac Cropper's house. + +That gentleman himself came in from the harvest field looking as +courtly as usual, even in his rough working clothes. He shook hands +heartily, told her he was glad to see her, and began talking about the +weather. Esther was not to be turned from her object thus, although +she felt her courage ebbing away from her as it always did in the +presence of the Cropper imperviousness. + +"I have come up to see you about Alfred and Robert, Mr. Cropper," she +said. "They are not behaving well in school." + +"Indeed!" Mr. Cropper's voice expressed bland surprise. "That is +strange. As a rule I do not think Alfred and Robert have been +troublesome to their teachers. What have they been doing now?" + +"They refuse to obey my orders," said Esther faintly. + +"Ah, well, Miss Maxwell, perhaps you will pardon my saying that a +teacher should be able to enforce her orders. My boys are +high-spirited fellows and need a strong, firm hand to restrain them. I +have always said I considered it advisable to employ a male teacher +in Maitland school. We should have better order. Not that I disapprove +of you personally--far from it. I should be glad to see you succeed. +But I have heard many complaints regarding the order in school at +present." + +"I had no trouble until your boys came," retorted Esther, losing her +temper a little, "and I believe that if you were willing to co-operate +with me that I could govern them." + +"Well, you see," said Mr. Cropper easily, "when I send my boys to +school I naturally expect that the teacher will be capable of doing +the work she has been hired to do." + +"Then you refuse to help me?" said Esther in a trembling voice. + +"Why, my dear young lady, what can I do? Boys soon know when they can +disobey a teacher with impunity. No doubt you will be able to secure a +school easier to control and will do good work. But here, as I have +already said, we need a firm hand at the helm. But you are not going +yet, Miss Maxwell? You need some refreshment after your long walk. +Mrs. Cropper will bring you in something." + +"No, thank you," said poor Esther. She felt that she must get away at +once or she would burst into heartsick tears under those steely, bland +blue eyes. When she got home she shut herself up in her room and +cried. There was nothing for her to do but resign, she thought +dismally. + +On the following Saturday Esther went for an afternoon walk, carrying +her kodak with her. It was a brilliantly fine autumn day, and woods +and fields were basking in a mellow haze. Esther went across lots to +Mrs. Charley Cropper's house, intending to make a call. But the house +was locked up and evidently deserted, so she rambled past it to the +back fields. Passing through a grove of maples she came out among +leafy young saplings on the other side. Just beyond her, with its +laden boughs hanging over the line fence, was the famous plum tree. +Esther looked at it for a moment. Then an odd smile gleamed over her +face and she lifted her kodak. + +Monday evening Esther called on Mr. Cropper again. After the +preliminary remarks in which he indulged, she said, with seeming +irrelevance, that Saturday had been a fine day. + +"There was an excellent light for snapshots," she went on coolly. "I +went out with my kodak and was lucky enough to get a good negative. I +have brought you up a proof. I thought you would be interested in it." + +She rose and placed the proof on the table before Mr. Cropper. The +plum tree came out clearly. Bob and Alf Cropper were up among the +boughs picking the plums. On the ground beneath them stood their +father with a basket of fruit in his hand. + +Mr. Cropper looked at the proof and from it to Esther. His eyes had +lost their unconcerned glitter, but his voice was defiant. + +"The plums are mine by right," he said. + +"Perhaps," said Esther calmly, "but there are some who do not think +so. Mrs. Charley, for instance--she would like to see this proof, I +think." + +"Don't show it to her," cried Mr. Cropper hastily. "I tell you, Miss +Maxwell, the plums are mine. But I am tired of fighting over them and +I had decided before this that I'd let her have them after this. It's +only a trifle, anyhow. And about that little matter we were discussing +the other night, Miss Maxwell. I have been thinking it over, and I +admit I was somewhat unreasonable. I'll talk to Alfred and Robert and +see what I can do." + +"Very well," said Esther quietly. "The matter of the plums isn't my +business and I don't wish to be involved in your family feuds, +especially as you say that you mean to allow Mrs. Charley to enjoy her +own in future. As for the school, we will hope that matters will +improve." + +"You'll leave the proof with me, won't you?" said Mr. Cropper +eagerly. + +"Oh, certainly," said Esther, smiling. "I have the negative still, you +know." + +From that time out the Cropper boys were models of good behaviour and +the other turbulent spirits, having lost their leaders, were soon +quelled. Complaint died away, and at the end of the term Esther was +re-engaged. + +"You seem to have won old Cropper over to your side entirely," Mr. +Baxter told her that night. "He said at the meeting today that you +were the best teacher we had ever had and moved to raise your salary. +I never knew Isaac Cropper to change his opinions so handsomely." + +Esther smiled. She knew it had taken a powerful lever to change Mr. +Cropper's opinion, but she kept her own counsel. + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Lucy Maud Montgomery Short Stories, +1902 to 1903, by Lucy Maud Montgomery + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MONTGOMERY SHORT STORIES *** + +***** This file should be named 24874.txt or 24874.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/8/7/24874/ + +Produced by Alicia Williams, Jeannie Howse and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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