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diff --git a/24876.txt b/24876.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..81b4e29 --- /dev/null +++ b/24876.txt @@ -0,0 +1,10480 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Lucy Maud Montgomery Short Stories, 1905 to +1906, 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, 1905 to 1906 + +Author: Lucy Maud Montgomery + +Release Date: March 19, 2008 [EBook #24876] + +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, 1905 to 1906 + + +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 1905 to 1906 + + A Correspondence and a Climax 1905 + An Adventure on Island Rock 1906 + At Five O'Clock in the Morning 1905 + Aunt Susanna's Birthday Celebration 1905 + Bertie's New Year 1905 + Between the Hill and the Valley 1905 + Clorinda's Gifts 1906 + Cyrilla's Inspiration 1905 + Dorinda's Desperate Deed 1906 + Her Own People 1905 + Ida's New Year Cake 1905 + In the Old Valley 1906 + Jane Lavinia 1906 + Mackereling Out in the Gulf 1905 + Millicent's Double 1905 + The Blue North Room 1906 + The Christmas Surprise At Enderly Road 1905 + The Dissipation of Miss Ponsonby 1906 + The Falsoms' Christmas Dinner 1906 + The Fraser Scholarship 1905 + The Girl at the Gate 1906 + The Light on the Big Dipper 1906 + The Prodigal Brother 1906 + The Redemption of John Churchill 1906 + The Schoolmaster's Letter 1905 + The Story of Uncle Dick 1906 + The Understanding of Sister Sara 1905 + The Unforgotten One 1906 + The Wooing of Bessy 1906 + Their Girl Josie 1906 + When Jack and Jill Took a Hand 1905 + + + + +A Correspondence and A Climax + + +At sunset Sidney hurried to her room to take off the soiled and faded +cotton dress she had worn while milking. She had milked eight cows and +pumped water for the milk-cans afterward in the fag-end of a hot +summer day. She did that every night, but tonight she had hurried more +than usual because she wanted to get her letter written before the +early farm bedtime. She had been thinking it out while she milked the +cows in the stuffy little pen behind the barn. This monthly letter was +the only pleasure and stimulant in her life. Existence would have +been, so Sidney thought, a dreary, unbearable blank without it. She +cast aside her milking-dress with a thrill of distaste that tingled to +her rosy fingertips. As she slipped into her blue-print afternoon +dress her aunt called to her from below. Sidney ran out to the dark +little entry and leaned over the stair railing. Below in the kitchen +there was a hubbub of laughing, crying, quarrelling children, and a +reek of bad tobacco smoke drifted up to the girl's disgusted nostrils. + +Aunt Jane was standing at the foot of the stairs with a lamp in one +hand and a year-old baby clinging to the other. She was a big +shapeless woman with a round good-natured face--cheerful and vulgar as +a sunflower was Aunt Jane at all times and occasions. + +"I want to run over and see how Mrs. Brixby is this evening, Siddy, +and you must take care of the baby till I get back." + +Sidney sighed and went downstairs for the baby. It never would have +occurred to her to protest or be petulant about it. She had all her +aunt's sweetness of disposition, if she resembled her in nothing else. +She had not grumbled because she had to rise at four that morning, get +breakfast, milk the cows, bake bread, prepare seven children for +school, get dinner, preserve twenty quarts of strawberries, get tea, +and milk the cows again. All her days were alike as far as hard work +and dullness went, but she accepted them cheerfully and +uncomplainingly. But she did resent having to look after the baby when +she wanted to write her letter. + +She carried the baby to her room, spread a quilt on the floor for him +to sit on, and gave him a box of empty spools to play with. +Fortunately he was a phlegmatic infant, fond of staying in one place, +and not given to roaming about in search of adventures; but Sidney +knew she would have to keep an eye on him, and it would be distracting +to literary effort. + +She got out her box of paper and sat down by the little table at the +window with a small kerosene lamp at her elbow. The room was small--a +mere box above the kitchen which Sidney shared with two small cousins. +Her bed and the cot where the little girls slept filled up almost all +the available space. The furniture was poor, but everything was +neat--it was the only neat room in the house, indeed, for tidiness was +no besetting virtue of Aunt Jane's. + +Opposite Sidney was a small muslined and befrilled toilet-table, above +which hung an eight-by-six-inch mirror, in which Sidney saw herself +reflected as she devoutly hoped other people did not see her. Just at +that particular angle one eye appeared to be as large as an orange, +while the other was the size of a pea, and the mouth zigzagged from +ear to ear. Sidney hated that mirror as virulently as she could hate +anything. It seemed to her to typify all that was unlovely in her +life. The mirror of existence into which her fresh young soul had +looked for twenty years gave back to her wistful gaze just such +distortions of fair hopes and ideals. + +Half of the little table by which she sat was piled high with +books--old books, evidently well read and well-bred books, classics of +fiction and verse every one of them, and all bearing on the flyleaf +the name of Sidney Richmond, thereby meaning not the girl at the +table, but her college-bred young father who had died the day before +she was born. Her mother had died the day after, and Sidney thereupon +had come into the hands of good Aunt Jane, with those books for her +dowry, since nothing else was left after the expenses of the double +funeral had been paid. + +One of the books had Sidney Richmond's name printed on the title-page +instead of written on the flyleaf. It was a thick little volume of +poems, published in his college days--musical, unsubstantial, pretty +little poems, every one of which the girl Sidney loved and knew by +heart. + +Sidney dropped her pointed chin in her hands and looked dreamily out +into the moonlit night, while she thought her letter out a little more +fully before beginning to write. Her big brown eyes were full of +wistfulness and romance; for Sidney was romantic, albeit a faithful +and understanding acquaintance with her father's books had given to +her romance refinement and reason, and the delicacy of her own nature +had imparted to it a self-respecting bias. + +Presently she began to write, with a flush of real excitement on her +face. In the middle of things the baby choked on a small twist spool +and Sidney had to catch him up by the heels and hold him head downward +until the trouble was ejected. Then she had to soothe him, and finally +write the rest of her letter holding him on one arm and protecting the +epistle from the grabs of his sticky little fingers. It was certainly +letter-writing under difficulties, but Sidney seemed to deal with them +mechanically. Her soul and understanding were elsewhere. + +Four years before, when Sidney was sixteen, still calling herself a +schoolgirl by reason of the fact that she could be spared to attend +school four months in the winter when work was slack, she had been +much interested in the "Maple Leaf" department of the Montreal weekly +her uncle took. It was a page given over to youthful Canadians and +filled with their contributions in the way of letters, verses, and +prize essays. Noms de plume were signed to these, badges were sent to +those who joined the Maple Leaf Club, and a general delightful sense +of mystery pervaded the department. + +Often a letter concluded with a request to the club members to +correspond with the writer. One such request went from Sidney under +the pen-name of "Ellen Douglas." The girl was lonely in Plainfield; +she had no companions or associates such as she cared for; the Maple +Leaf Club represented all that her life held of outward interest, and +she longed for something more. + +Only one answer came to "Ellen Douglas," and that was forwarded to her +by the long-suffering editor of "The Maple Leaf." It was from John +Lincoln of the Bar N Ranch, Alberta. He wrote that, although his age +debarred him from membership in the club (he was twenty, and the limit +was eighteen), he read the letters of the department with much +interest, and often had thought of answering some of the requests for +correspondents. He never had done so, but "Ellen Douglas's" letter was +so interesting that he had decided to write to her. Would she be kind +enough to correspond with him? Life on the Bar N, ten miles from the +outposts of civilization, was lonely. He was two years out from the +east, and had not yet forgotten to be homesick at times. + +Sidney liked the letter and answered it. Since then they had written +to each other regularly. There was nothing sentimental, hinted at or +implied, in the correspondence. Whatever the faults of Sidney's +romantic visions were, they did not tend to precocious flirtation. The +Plainfield boys, attracted by her beauty and repelled by her +indifference and aloofness, could have told that. She never expected +to meet John Lincoln, nor did she wish to do so. In the correspondence +itself she found her pleasure. + +John Lincoln wrote breezy accounts of ranch life and adventures on the +far western plains, so alien and remote from snug, humdrum Plainfield +life that Sidney always had the sensation of crossing a gulf when she +opened a letter from the Bar N. As for Sidney's own letter, this is +the way it read as she wrote it: + + + "The Evergreens," Plainfield. + + Dear Mr. Lincoln: + + The very best letter I can write in the half-hour before the + carriage will be at the door to take me to Mrs. Braddon's + dance shall be yours tonight. I am sitting here in the library + arrayed in my smartest, newest, whitest, silkiest gown, with a + string of pearls which Uncle James gave me today about my + throat--the dear, glistening, sheeny things! And I am looking + forward to the "dances and delight" of the evening with keen + anticipation. + + You asked me in your last letter if I did not sometimes grow + weary of my endless round of dances and dinners and social + functions. No, no, never! I enjoy every one of them, every + minute of them. I love life and its bloom and brilliancy; I + love meeting new people; I love the ripple of music, the hum + of laughter and conversation. Every morning when I awaken the + new day seems to me to be a good fairy who will bring me some + beautiful gift of joy. + + The gift she gave me today was my sunset gallop on my grey + mare Lady. The thrill of it is in my veins yet. I distanced + the others who rode with me and led the homeward canter alone, + rocking along a dark, gleaming road, shadowy with tall firs + and pines, whose balsam made all the air resinous around me. + Before me was a long valley filled with purple dusk, and + beyond it meadows of sunset and great lakes of saffron and + rose where a soul might lose itself in colour. On my right was + the harbour, silvered over with a rising moon. Oh, it was all + glorious--the clear air with its salt-sea tang, the aroma of + the pines, the laughter of my friends behind me, the spring + and rhythm of Lady's grey satin body beneath me! I wanted to + ride on so forever, straight into the heart of the sunset. + + Then home and to dinner. We have a houseful of guests at + present--one of them an old statesman with a massive silver + head, and eyes that have looked into people's thoughts so long + that you have an uncanny feeling that they can see right + through your soul and read motives you dare not avow even to + yourself. I was terribly in awe of him at first, but when I + got acquainted with him I found him charming. He is not above + talking delightful nonsense even to a girl. I sat by him at + dinner, and he talked to me--not nonsense, either, this time. + He told me of his political contests and diplomatic battles; + he was wise and witty and whimsical. I felt as if I were + drinking some rare, stimulating mental wine. What a privilege + it is to meet such men and take a peep through their wise eyes + at the fascinating game of empire-building! + + I met another clever man a few evenings ago. A lot of us went + for a sail on the harbour. Mrs. Braddon's house party came + too. We had three big white boats that skimmed down the + moonlit channel like great white sea birds. There was another + boat far across the harbour, and the people in it were + singing. The music drifted over the water to us, so sad and + sweet and beguiling that I could have cried for very pleasure. + One of Mrs. Braddon's guests said to me: + + "That is the soul of music with all its sense and earthliness + refined away." + + I hadn't thought about him before--I hadn't even caught his + name in the general introduction. He was a tall, slight man, + with a worn, sensitive face and iron-grey hair--a quiet man + who hadn't laughed or talked. But he began to talk to me then, + and I forgot all about the others. I never had listened to + anybody in the least like him. He talked of books and music, + of art and travel. He had been all over the world, and had + seen everything everybody else had seen and everything they + hadn't too, I think. I seemed to be looking into an enchanted + mirror where all my own dreams and ideals were reflected back + to me, but made, oh, so much more beautiful! + + On my way home after the Braddon people had left us somebody + asked me how I liked Paul Moore! The man I had been talking + with was Paul Moore, the great novelist! I was almost glad I + hadn't known it while he was talking to me--I should have been + too awed and reverential to have really enjoyed his + conversation. As it was, I had contradicted him twice, and he + had laughed and liked it. But his books will always have a new + meaning to me henceforth, through the insight he himself has + given me. + + It is such meetings as these that give life its sparkle for + me. But much of its abiding sweetness comes from my friendship + with Margaret Raleigh. You will be weary of my rhapsodies over + her. But she is such a rare and wonderful woman; much older + then I am, but so young in heart and soul and freshness of + feeling! She is to me mother and sister and wise, + clear-sighted friend. To her I go with all my perplexities and + hopes and triumphs. She has sympathy and understanding for my + every mood. I love life so much for giving me such a + friendship! + + This morning I wakened at dawn and stole away to the shore + before anyone else was up. I had a delightful run-away. The + long, low-lying meadows between "The Evergreens" and the shore + were dewy and fresh in that first light, that was as fine and + purely tinted as the heart of one of my white roses. On the + beach the water was purring in little blue ripples, and, oh, + the sunrise out there beyond the harbour! All the eastern + Heaven was abloom with it. And there was a wind that came + dancing and whistling up the channel to replace the beautiful + silence with a music more beautiful still. + + The rest of the folks were just coming downstairs when I got + back to breakfast. They were all yawny, and some were grumpy, + but I had washed my being in the sunrise and felt as + blithesome as the day. Oh, life is so good to live! + + Tomorrow Uncle James's new vessel, the _White Lady_, is to be + launched. We are going to make a festive occasion of it, and I + am to christen her with a bottle of cobwebby old wine. + + But I hear the carriage, and Aunt Jane is calling me. I had a + great deal more to say--about your letter, your big "round-up" + and your tribulations with your Chinese cook--but I've only + time now to say goodbye. You wish me a lovely time at the + dance and a full programme, don't you? + + Yours sincerely, + Sidney Richmond. + +Aunt Jane came home presently and carried away her sleeping baby. +Sidney said her prayers, went to bed, and slept soundly and serenely. + +She mailed her letter the next day, and a month later an answer came. +Sidney read it as soon as she left the post office, and walked the +rest of the way home as in a nightmare, staring straight ahead of her +with wide-open, unseeing brown eyes. + +John Lincoln's letter was short, but the pertinent paragraph of it +burned itself into Sidney's brain. He wrote: + + I am going east for a visit. It is six years since I was home, + and it seems like three times six. I shall go by the C.P.R., + which passes through Plainfield, and I mean to stop off for a + day. You will let me call and see you, won't you? I shall have + to take your permission for granted, as I shall be gone before + a letter from you can reach the Bar N. I leave for the east in + five days, and shall look forward to our meeting with all + possible interest and pleasure. + +Sidney did not sleep that night, but tossed restlessly about or cried +in her pillow. She was so pallid and hollow-eyed the next morning that +Aunt Jane noticed it, and asked her what the matter was. + +"Nothing," said Sidney sharply. Sidney had never spoken sharply to her +aunt before. The good woman shook her head. She was afraid the child +was "taking something." + +"Don't do much today, Siddy," she said kindly. "Just lie around and +take it easy till you get rested up. I'll fix you a dose of quinine." + +Sidney refused to lie around and take it easy. She swallowed the +quinine meekly enough, but she worked fiercely all day, hunting out +superfluous tasks to do. That night she slept the sleep of exhaustion, +but her dreams were unenviable and the awakening was terrible. + +Any day, any hour, might bring John Lincoln to Plainfield. What should +she do? Hide from him? Refuse to see him? But he would find out the +truth just the same; she would lose his friendships and respect just +as surely. Sidney trod the way of the transgressor, and found that its +thorns pierced to bone and marrow. Everything had come to an +end--nothing was left to her! In the untried recklessness of twenty +untempered years she wished she could die before John Lincoln came to +Plainfield. The eyes of youth could not see how she could possibly +live afterward. + + * * * * * + +Some days later a young man stepped from the C.P.R. train at +Plainfield station and found his way to the one small hotel the place +boasted. After getting his supper he asked the proprietor if he could +direct him to "The Evergreens." + +Caleb Williams looked at his guest in bewilderment. "Never heerd o' +such a place," he said. + +"It is the name of Mr. Conway's estate--Mr. James Conway," explained +John Lincoln. + +"Oh, Jim Conway's place!" said Caleb. "Didn't know that was what he +called it. Sartin I kin tell you whar' to find it. You see that road +out thar'? Well, just follow it straight along for a mile and a half +till you come to a blacksmith's forge. Jim Conway's house is just this +side of it on the right--back from the road a smart piece and no other +handy. You can't mistake it." + +John Lincoln did not expect to mistake it, once he found it; he knew +by heart what it appeared like from Sidney's description: an old +stately mansion of mellowed brick, covered with ivy and set back from +the highway amid fine ancestral trees, with a pine-grove behind it, a +river to the left, and a harbour beyond. + +He strode along the road in the warm, ruddy sunshine of early evening. +It was not a bad-looking road at all; the farmsteads sprinkled along +it were for the most part snug and wholesome enough; yet somehow it +was different from what he had expected it to be. And there was no +harbour or glimpse of distant sea visible. Had the hotel-keeper made a +mistake? Perhaps he had meant some other James Conway. + +Presently he found himself before the blacksmith's forge. Beside it +was a rickety, unpainted gate opening into a snake-fenced lane +feathered here and there with scrubby little spruces. It ran down a +bare hill, crossed a little ravine full of young white-stemmed +birches, and up another bare hill to an equally bare crest where a +farmhouse was perched--a farmhouse painted a stark, staring yellow and +the ugliest thing in farmhouses that John Lincoln had ever seen, even +among the log shacks of the west. He knew now that he had been +misdirected, but as there seemed to be nobody about the forge he +concluded that he had better go to the yellow house and inquire +within. He passed down the lane and over the little rustic bridge that +spanned the brook. Just beyond was another home-made gate of poles. + +Lincoln opened it, or rather he had his hand on the hasp of twisted +withes which secured it, when he was suddenly arrested by the +apparition of a girl, who flashed around the curve of young birch +beyond and stood before him with panting breath and quivering lips. + +"I beg your pardon," said John Lincoln courteously, dropping the gate +and lifting his hat. "I am looking for the house of Mr. James +Conway--'The Evergreens.' Can you direct me to it?" + +"That is Mr. James Conway's house," said the girl, with the tragic air +and tone of one driven to desperation and an impatient gesture of her +hand toward the yellow nightmare above them. + +"I don't think he can be the one I mean," said Lincoln perplexedly. +"The man I am thinking of has a niece, Miss Richmond." + +"There is no other James Conway in Plainfield," said the girl. "This +is his place--nobody calls it 'The Evergreens' but myself. I am Sidney +Richmond." + +For a moment they looked at each other across the gate, sheer +amazement and bewilderment holding John Lincoln mute. Sidney, burning +with shame, saw that this stranger was exceedingly good to look +upon--tall, clean-limbed, broad-shouldered, with clear-cut bronzed +features and a chin and eyes that would have done honour to any man. +John Lincoln, among all his confused sensations, was aware that this +slim, agitated young creature before him was the loveliest thing he +ever had seen, so lithe was her figure, so glossy and dark and silken +her bare, wind-ruffled hair, so big and brown and appealing her eyes, +so delicately oval her flushed cheeks. He felt that she was frightened +and in trouble, and he wanted to comfort and reassure her. But how +could she be Sidney Richmond? + +"I don't understand," he said perplexedly. + +"Oh!" Sidney threw out her hands in a burst of passionate protest. +"No, and you never will understand--I can't make you understand." + +"I don't understand," said John Lincoln again. "Can you be Sidney +Richmond--the Sidney Richmond who has written to me for four years?" + +"I am." + +"Then, those letters--" + +"Were all lies," said Sidney bluntly and desperately. "There was +nothing true in them--nothing at all. This is my home. We are poor. +Everything I told you about it and my life was just imagination." + +"Then why did you write them?" he asked blankly. "Why did you deceive +me?" + +"Oh, I didn't mean to deceive you! I never thought of such a thing. +When you asked me to write to you I wanted to, but I didn't know what +to write about to a stranger. I just couldn't write you about my life +here, not because it was hard, but it was so ugly and empty. So I +wrote instead of the life I wanted to live--the life I did live in +imagination. And when once I had begun, I had to keep it up. I found +it so fascinating, too! Those letters made that other life seem real +to me. I never expected to meet you. These last four days since your +letter came have been dreadful to me. Oh, please go away and forgive +me if you can! I know I can never make you understand how it came +about." + +Sidney turned away and hid her burning face against the cool white +bark of the birch tree behind her. It was worse than she had even +thought it would be. He was so handsome, so manly, so earnest-eyed! +Oh, what a friend to lose! + +John Lincoln opened the gate and went up to her. There was a great +tenderness in his face, mingled with a little kindly, friendly +amusement. + +"Please don't distress yourself so, Sidney," he said, unconsciously +using her Christian name. "I think I do understand. I'm not such a +dull fellow as you take me for. After all, those letters were +true--or, rather, there was truth in them. You revealed yourself more +faithfully in them than if you had written truly about your narrow +outward life." + +Sidney turned her flushed face and wet eyes slowly toward him, a +little smile struggling out amid the clouds of woe. This young man was +certainly good at understanding. "You--you'll forgive me then?" she +stammered. + +"Yes, if there is anything to forgive. And for my own part, I am glad +you are not what I have always thought you were. If I had come here +and found you what I expected, living in such a home as I expected, I +never could have told you or even thought of telling you what you have +come to mean to me in these lonely years during which your letters +have been the things most eagerly looked forward to. I should have +come this evening and spent an hour or so with you, and then have gone +away on the train tomorrow morning, and that would have been all. + +"But I find instead just a dreamy romantic little girl, much like my +sisters at home, except that she is a great deal cleverer. And as a +result I mean to stay a week at Plainfield and come to see you every +day, if you will let me. And on my way back to the Bar N I mean to +stop off at Plainfield again for another week, and then I shall tell +you something more--something it would be a little too bold to say +now, perhaps, although I could say it just as well and truly. All this +if I may. May I, Sidney?" + +He bent forward and looked earnestly into her face. Sidney felt a +new, curious, inexplicable thrill at her heart. "Oh, yes.--I suppose +so," she said shyly. + +"Now, take me up to the house and introduce me to your Aunt Jane," +said John Lincoln in satisfied tone. + + + + +An Adventure on Island Rock + + +"Who was the man I saw talking to you in the hayfield?" asked Aunt +Kate, as Uncle Richard came to dinner. + +"Bob Marks," said Uncle Richard briefly. "I've sold Laddie to him." + +Ernest Hughes, the twelve-year-old orphan boy whom Uncle "boarded and +kept" for the chores he did, suddenly stopped eating. + +"Oh, Mr. Lawson, you're not going to sell Laddie?" he cried chokily. + +Uncle Richard stared at him. Never before, in the five years that +Ernest had lived with him, had the quiet little fellow spoken without +being spoken to, much less ventured to protest against anything Uncle +Richard might do. + +"Certainly I am," answered the latter curtly. "Bob offered me twenty +dollars for the dog, and he's coming after him next week." + +"Oh, Mr. Lawson," said Ernest, rising to his feet, his small, freckled +face crimson. "Oh, don't sell Laddie! _Please_, Mr. Lawson, don't sell +him!" + +"What nonsense is this?" said Uncle Richard sharply. He was a man who +brooked no opposition from anybody, and who never changed his mind +when it was once made up. + +"Don't sell Laddie!" pleaded Ernest miserably. "He is the only friend +I've got. I can't live if Laddie goes away. Oh, don't sell him, Mr. +Lawson!" + +"Sit down and hold your tongue," said Uncle Richard sternly. "The dog +is mine, and I shall do with him as I think fit. He is sold, and that +is all there is about it. Go on with your dinner." + +But Ernest for the first time did not obey. He snatched his cap from +the back of his chair, dashed it down over his eyes, and ran from the +kitchen with a sob choking his breath. Uncle Richard looked angry, but +Aunt Kate hastened to soothe him. + +"Don't be vexed with the boy, Richard," she said. "You know he is very +fond of Laddie. He's had to do with him ever since he was a pup, and +no doubt he feels badly at the thought of losing him. I'm rather sorry +myself that you have sold the dog." + +"Well, he _is_ sold and there's an end of it. I don't say but that the +dog is a good dog. But he is of no use to us, and twenty dollars will +come in mighty handy just now. He's worth that to Bob, for he is a +good watch dog, so we've both made a fair bargain." + +Nothing more was said about Ernest or Laddie. I had taken no part in +the discussion, for I felt no great interest in the matter. Laddie was +a nice dog; Ernest was a quiet, inoffensive little fellow, five years +younger than myself; that was all I thought about either of them. + +I was spending my vacation at Uncle Richard's farm on the Nova Scotian +Bay of Fundy shore. I was a great favourite with Uncle Richard, partly +because he had been much attached to my mother, his only sister, +partly because of my strong resemblance to his only son, who had died +several years before. Uncle Richard was a stern, undemonstrative man, +but I knew that he entertained a deep and real affection for me, and I +always enjoyed my vacation sojourns at his place. + +"What are you going to do this afternoon, Ned?" he asked, after the +disturbance caused by Ernest's outbreak had quieted down. + +"I think I'll row out to Island Rock," I replied. "I want to take some +views of the shore from it." + +Uncle Richard nodded. He was much interested in my new camera. + +"If you're on it about four o'clock, you'll get a fine view of the +'Hole in the Wall' when the sun begins to shine on the water through +it," he said. "I've often thought it would make a handsome picture." + +"After I've finished taking the pictures, I think I'll go down shore +to Uncle Adam's and stay all night," I said. "Jim's dark room is more +convenient than mine, and he has some pictures he is going to develop +tonight, too." + +I started for the shore about two o'clock. Ernest was sitting on the +woodpile as I passed through the yard, with his arms about Laddie's +neck and his face buried in Laddie's curly hair. Laddie was a handsome +and intelligent black-and-white Newfoundland, with a magnificent coat. +He and Ernest were great chums. I felt sorry for the boy who was to +lose his pet. + +"Don't take it so hard, Ern," I said, trying to comfort him. "Uncle +will likely get another pup." + +"I don't want any other pup!" Ernest blurted out. "Oh, Ned, won't you +try and coax your uncle not to sell him? Perhaps he'd listen to you." + +I shook my head. I knew Uncle Richard too well to hope that. + +"Not in this case, Ern," I said. "He would say it did not concern me, +and you know nothing moves him when he determines on a thing. You'll +have to reconcile yourself to losing Laddie, I'm afraid." + +Ernest's tow-coloured head went down on Laddie's neck again, and I, +deciding that there was no use in saying anything more, proceeded +towards the shore, which was about a mile from Uncle Richard's house. +The beach along his farm and for several farms along shore was a +lonely, untenanted one, for the fisher-folk all lived two miles +further down, at Rowley's Cove. About three hundred yards from the +shore was the peculiar formation known as Island Rock. This was a +large rock that stood abruptly up out of the water. Below, about the +usual water-line, it was seamed and fissured, but its summit rose up +in a narrow, flat-topped peak. At low tide twenty feet of it was above +water, but at high tide it was six feet and often more under water. + +I pushed Uncle Richard's small flat down the rough path and rowed out +to Island Rock. Arriving there, I thrust the painter deep into a +narrow cleft. This was the usual way of mooring it, and no doubt of +its safety occurred to me. + +I scrambled up the rock and around to the eastern end, where there was +a broader space for standing and from which some capital views could +be obtained. The sea about the rock was calm, but there was quite a +swell on and an off-shore breeze was blowing. There were no boats +visible. The tide was low, leaving bare the curious caves and +headlands along shore, and I secured a number of excellent snapshots. +It was now three o'clock. I must wait another hour yet before I could +get the best view of the "Hole in the Wall"--a huge, arch-like opening +through a jutting headland to the west of me. I went around to look at +it, when I saw a sight that made me stop short in dismay. This was +nothing less than the flat, drifting outward around the point. The +swell and suction of the water around the rock must have pulled her +loose--and I was a prisoner! At first my only feeling was one of +annoyance. Then a thought flashed into my mind that made me dizzy with +fear. The tide would be high that night. If I could not escape from +Island Rock I would inevitably be drowned. + +I sat down limply on a ledge and tried to look matters fairly in the +face. I could not swim; calls for help could not reach anybody; my +only hope lay in the chance of somebody passing down the shore or of +some boat appearing. + +I looked at my watch. It was a quarter past three. The tide would +begin to turn about five, but it would be at least ten before the rock +would be covered. I had, then, little more than six hours to live +unless rescued. + +The flat was by this time out of sight around the point. I hoped that +the sight of an empty flat drifting down shore might attract someone's +attention and lead to investigation. That seemed to be my only hope. +No alarm would be felt at Uncle Richard's because of my +non-appearance. They would suppose I had gone to Uncle Adam's. + +I have heard of time seeming long to a person in my predicament, but +to me it seemed fairly to fly, for every moment decreased my chance of +rescue. I determined I would not give way to cowardly fear, so, with a +murmured prayer for help, I set myself to the task of waiting for +death as bravely as possible. At intervals I shouted as loudly as I +could and, when the sun came to the proper angle for the best view of +the "Hole in the Wall," I took the picture. It afterwards turned out +to be a great success, but I have never been able to look at it +without a shudder. + +At five the tide began to come in. Very, very slowly the water rose +around Island Rock. Up, up, up it came, while I watched it with +fascinated eyes, feeling like a rat in a trap. The sun fell lower and +lower; at eight o'clock the moon rose large and bright; at nine it was +a lovely night, dear, calm, bright as day, and the water was swishing +over the highest ledge of the rock. With some difficulty I climbed to +the top and sat there to await the end. I had no longer any hope of +rescue but, by a great effort, I preserved self-control. If I had to +die, I would at least face death staunchly. But when I thought of my +mother at home, it tasked all my energies to keep from breaking down +utterly. + +Suddenly I heard a whistle. Never was sound so sweet. I stood up and +peered eagerly shoreward. Coming around the "Hole in the Wall" +headland, on top of the cliffs, I saw a boy and a dog. I sent a wild +halloo ringing shoreward. + +The boy started, stopped and looked out towards Island Rock. The next +moment he hailed me. It was Ernest's voice, and it was Laddie who was +barking beside him. + +"Ernest," I shouted wildly, "run for help--quick! quick! The tide will +be over the rock in half an hour! Hurry, or you will be too late!" + +Instead of starting off at full speed, as I expected him to do, Ernest +stood still for a moment, and then began to pick his steps down a +narrow path over the cliff, followed by Laddie. + +"Ernest," I shouted frantically, "what are you doing? Why don't you go +for help?" + +Ernest had by this time reached a narrow ledge of rock just above the +water-line. I noticed that he was carrying something over his arm. + +"It would take too long," he shouted. "By the time I got to the Cove +and a boat could row back here, you'd be drowned. Laddie and I will +save you. Is there anything there you can tie a rope to? I've a coil +of rope here that I think will be long enough to reach you. I've been +down to the Cove and Alec Martin sent it up to your uncle." + +I looked about me; a smooth, round hole had been worn clean through a +thin part of the apex of the rock. + +"I could fasten the rope if I had it!" I called. "But how can you get +it to me?" + +For answer Ernest tied a bit of driftwood to the rope and put it into +Laddie's mouth. The next minute the dog was swimming out to me. As +soon as he came close I caught the rope. It was just long enough to +stretch from shore to rock, allowing for a couple of hitches which +Ernest gave around a small boulder on the ledge. I tied my camera case +on my head by means of some string I found in my pocket, then I +slipped into the water and, holding to the rope, went hand over hand +to the shore with Laddie swimming beside me. Ernest held on to the +shoreward end of the rope like grim death, a task that was no light +one for his small arms. When I finally scrambled up beside him, his +face was dripping with perspiration and he trembled like a leaf. + +"Ern, you are a brick!" I exclaimed. "You've saved my life!" + +"No, it was Laddie," said Ernest, refusing to take any credit at all. + +We hurried home and arrived at Uncle Richard's about ten, just as they +were going to bed. When Uncle Richard heard what had happened, he +turned very pale, and murmured, "Thank God!" Aunt Kate got me out of +my wet clothes as quickly as possible, put me away to bed in hot +blankets and dosed me with ginger tea. I slept like a top and felt +none the worse for my experience the next morning. + +At the breakfast table Uncle Richard scarcely spoke. But, just as we +finished, he said abruptly to Ernest, "I'm not going to sell Laddie. +You and the dog saved Ned's life between you, and no dog who helped do +that is ever going to be sold by me. Henceforth he belongs to you. I +give him to you for your very own." + +"Oh, Mr. Lawson!" said Ernest, with shining eyes. + +I never saw a boy look so happy. As for Laddie, who was sitting beside +him with his shaggy head on Ernest's knee, I really believe the dog +understood, too. The look in his eyes was almost human. Uncle Richard +leaned over and patted him. + +"Good dog!" he said. "Good dog!" + + + + +At Five O'Clock in the Morning + + +Fate, in the guise of Mrs. Emory dropping a milk-can on the platform +under his open window, awakened Murray that morning. Had not Mrs. +Emory dropped that can, he would have slumbered peacefully until his +usual hour for rising--a late one, be it admitted, for of all the +boarders at Sweetbriar Cottage Murray was the most irregular in his +habits. + +"When a young man," Mrs. Emory was wont to remark sagely and a trifle +severely, "prowls about that pond half of the night, a-chasing of +things what he calls 'moonlight effecks,' it ain't to be wondered at +that he's sleepy in the morning. And it ain't the convenientest thing, +nuther and noways, to keep the breakfast table set till the farm folks +are thinking of dinner. But them artist men are not like other people, +say what you will, and allowance has to be made for them. And I must +say that I likes him real well and approves of him every other way." + +If Murray had slept late that morning--well, he shudders yet over that +"if." But aforesaid Fate saw to it that he woke when the hour of +destiny and the milk-can struck, and having awakened he found he could +not go to sleep again. It suddenly occurred to him that he had never +seen a sunrise on the pond. Doubtless it would be very lovely down +there in those dewy meadows at such a primitive hour; he decided to +get up and see what the world looked like in the young daylight. + +He scowled at a letter lying on his dressing table and thrust it into +his pocket that it might be out of sight. He had written it the night +before and the writing of it was going to cost him several things--a +prospective million among others. So it is hardly to be wondered at if +the sight of it did not reconcile him to the joys of early rising. + +"Dear life and heart!" exclaimed Mrs. Emory, pausing in the act of +scalding a milk-can when Murray emerged from a side door. "What on +earth is the matter, Mr. Murray? You ain't sick now, surely? I told +you them pond fogs was p'isen after night! If you've gone and got--" + +"Nothing is the matter, dear lady," interrupted Murray, "and I haven't +gone and got anything except an acute attack of early rising which is +not in the least likely to become chronic. But at what hour of the +night do you get up, you wonderful woman? Or rather do you ever go to +bed at all? Here is the sun only beginning to rise and--positively +yes, you have all your cows milked." + +Mrs. Emory purred with delight. + +"Folks as has fourteen cows to milk has to rise betimes," she answered +with proud humility. "Laws, I don't complain--I've lots of help with +the milking. How Mrs. Palmer manages, I really cannot comperhend--or +rather, how she has managed. I suppose she'll be all right now since +her niece came last night. I saw her posting to the pond pasture not +ten minutes ago. She'll have to milk all them seven cows herself. But +dear life and heart! Here I be palavering away and not a bite of +breakfast ready for you!" + +"I don't want any breakfast until the regular time for it," assured +Murray. "I'm going down to the pond to see the sun rise." + +"Now don't you go and get caught in the ma'sh," anxiously called Mrs. +Emory, as she never failed to do when she saw him starting for the +pond. Nobody ever had got caught in the marsh, but Mrs. Emory lived in +a chronic state of fear lest someone should. + +"And if you once got stuck in that black mud you'd be sucked right +down and never seen or heard tell of again till the day of judgment, +like Adam Palmer's cow," she was wont to warn her boarders. + +Murray sought his favourite spot for pond dreaming--a bloomy corner of +the pasture that ran down into the blue water, with a dump of leafy +maples on the left. He was very glad he had risen early. A miracle was +being worked before his very eyes. The world was in a flush and +tremor of maiden loveliness, instinct with all the marvellous fleeting +charm of girlhood and spring and young morning. Overhead the sky was a +vast high-sprung arch of unstained crystal. Down over the sand dunes, +where the pond ran out into the sea, was a great arc of primrose +smitten through with auroral crimsonings. Beneath it the pond waters +shimmered with a hundred fairy hues, but just before him they were +clear as a flawless mirror. The fields around him glistened with dews, +and a little wandering wind, blowing lightly from some bourne in the +hills, strayed down over the slopes, bringing with it an unimaginable +odour and freshness, and fluttered over the pond, leaving a little +path of dancing silver ripples across the mirror-glory of the water. +Birds were singing in the beech woods over on Orchard Knob Farm, +answering to each other from shore to shore, until the very air was +tremulous with the elfin music of this wonderful midsummer dawn. + +"I will get up at sunrise every morning of my life hereafter," +exclaimed Murray rapturously, not meaning a syllable of it, but +devoutly believing he did. + +Just as the fiery disc of the sun peered over the sand dunes Murray +heard music that was not of the birds. It was a girl's voice singing +beyond the maples to his left--a clear sweet voice, blithely trilling +out the old-fashioned song, "Five O'Clock in the Morning." + +"Mrs. Palmer's niece!" + +Murray sprang to his feet and tiptoed cautiously through the maples. +He had heard so much from Mrs. Palmer about her niece that he felt +reasonably well acquainted with her. Moreover, Mrs. Palmer had assured +him that Mollie was a very pretty girl. Now a pretty girl milking cows +at sunrise in the meadows sounded well. + +Mrs. Palmer had not over-rated her niece's beauty. Murray said so to +himself with a little whistle of amazement as he leaned unseen on the +pasture fence and looked at the girl who was milking a placid Jersey +less than ten yards away from him. Murray's artistic instinct +responded to the whole scene with a thrill of satisfaction. + +He could see only her profile, but that was perfect, and the colouring +of the oval cheek and the beautiful curve of the chin were something +to adore. Her hair, ruffled into lovable little ringlets by the +morning wind, was coiled in glistening chestnut masses high on her +bare head, and her arms, bare to the elbow, were as white as marble. +Presently she began to sing again, and this time Murray joined in. She +half rose from her milking stool and cast a startled glance at the +maples. Then she dropped back again and began to milk determinedly, +but Murray could have sworn that he saw a demure smile hovering about +her lips. That, and the revelation of her full face, decided him. He +sprang over the fence and sauntered across the intervening space of +lush clover blossoms. + +"Good morning," he said coolly. He had forgotten her other name, and +it did not matter; at five o'clock in the morning people who met in +dewy clover fields might disregard the conventionalities. "Isn't it +rather a large contract for you to be milking seven cows all alone? +May I help you?" + +Mollie looked up at him over her shoulder. She had glorious grey eyes. +Her face was serene and undisturbed. "Can you milk?" she asked. + +"Unlikely as it may seem, I can," said Murray. "I have never confessed +it to Mrs. Emory, because I was afraid she would inveigle me into +milking her fourteen cows. But I don't mind helping you. I learned to +milk when I was a shaver on my vacations at a grandfatherly farm. May +I have that extra pail?" + +Murray captured a milking stool and rounded up another Jersey. Before +sitting down he seemed struck with an idea. + +"My name is Arnold Murray. I board at Sweetbriar Cottage, next farm to +Orchard Knob. That makes us near neighbours." + +"I suppose it does," said Mollie. + +Murray mentally decided that her voice was the sweetest he had ever +heard. He was glad he had arranged his cow at such an angle that he +could study her profile. It was amazing that Mrs. Palmer's niece +should have such a profile. It looked as if centuries of fine breeding +were responsible for it. + +"What a morning!" he said enthusiastically. "It harks back to the days +when earth was young. They must have had just such mornings as this in +Eden." + +"Do you always get up so early?" asked Mollie practically. + +"Always," said Murray without a blush. Then--"But no, that is a fib, +and I cannot tell fibs to you. The truth is your tribute. I never get +up early. It was fate that roused me and brought me here this morning. +The morning is a miracle--and you, I might suppose you were born of +the sunrise, if Mrs. Palmer hadn't told me all about you." + +"What did she tell you about me?" asked Mollie, changing cows. Murray +discovered that she was tall and that the big blue print apron +shrouded a singularly graceful figure. + +"She said you were the best-looking girl in Bruce county. I have seen +very few of the girls in Bruce county, but I know she is right." + +"That compliment is not nearly so pretty as the sunrise one," said +Mollie reflectively. "Mrs. Palmer has told me things about you," she +added. + +"Curiosity knows no gender," hinted Murray. + +"She said you were good-looking and lazy and different from other +people." + +"All compliments," said Murray in a gratified tone. + +"Lazy?" + +"Certainly. Laziness is a virtue in these strenuous days, I was not +born with it, but I have painstakingly acquired it, and I am proud of +my success. I have time to enjoy life." + +"I think that I like you," said Mollie. + +"You have the merit of being able to enter into a situation," he +assured her. + +When the last Jersey was milked they carried the pails down to the +spring where the creamers were sunk and strained the milk into them. +Murray washed the pails and Mollie wiped them and set them in a +gleaming row on the shelf under a big maple. + +"Thank you," she said. + +"You are not going yet," said Murray resolutely. "The time I saved you +in milking three cows belongs to me. We will spend it in a walk along +the pond shore. I will show you a path I have discovered under the +beeches. It is just wide enough for two. Come." + +He took her hand and drew her through the copse into a green lane, +where the ferns grew thickly on either side and the pond waters +plashed dreamily below them. He kept her hand in his as they went down +the path, and she did not try to withdraw it. About them was the +great, pure silence of the morning, faintly threaded with caressing +sounds--croon of birds, gurgle of waters, sough of wind. The spirit of +youth and love hovered over them and they spoke no word. + +When they finally came out on a little green nook swimming in early +sunshine and arched over by maples, with the wide shimmer of the pond +before it and the gold dust of blossoms over the grass, the girl drew +a long breath of delight. + +"It is a morning left over from Eden, isn't it?" said Murray. + +"Yes," said Mollie softly. + +Murray bent toward her. "You are Eve," he said. "You are the only +woman in the world--for me. Adam must have told Eve just what he +thought about her the first time he saw her. There were no +conventionalities in Eden--and people could not have taken long to +make up their minds. We are in Eden just now. One can say what he +thinks in Eden without being ridiculous. You are divinely fair, Eve. +Your eyes are stars of the morning--your cheek has the flush it stole +from the sunrise-your lips are redder than the roses of paradise. And +I love you, Eve." + +Mollie lowered her eyes and the long fringe of her lashes lay in a +burnished semi-circle on her cheek. + +"I think," she said slowly, "that it must have been very delightful in +Eden. But we are not really there, you know--we are only playing that +we are. And it is time for me to go back. I must get the +breakfast--that sounds too prosaic for paradise." + +Murray bent still closer. + +"Before we remember that we are only playing at paradise, will you +kiss me, dear Eve?" + +"You are very audacious," said Mollie coldly. + +"We are in Eden yet," he urged. "That makes all the difference." + +"Well," said Mollie. And Murray kissed her. + +They had passed back over the fern path and were in the pasture before +either spoke again. Then Murray said, "We have left Eden behind--but +we can always return there when we will. And although we were only +playing at paradise, I was not playing at love. I meant all I said, +Mollie." + +"Have you meant it often?" asked Mollie significantly. + +"I never meant it--or even played at it--before," he answered. "I +did--at one time--contemplate the possibility of playing at it. But +that was long ago--as long ago as last night. I am glad to the core of +my soul that I decided against it before I met you, dear Eve. I have +the letter of decision in my coat pocket this moment. I mean to mail +it this afternoon." + +"'Curiosity knows no gender,'" quoted Mollie. + +"Then, to satisfy your curiosity, I must bore you with some personal +history. My parents died when I was a little chap, and my uncle +brought me up. He has been immensely good to me, but he is a bit of a +tyrant. Recently he picked out a wife for me--the daughter of an old +sweetheart of his. I have never even seen her. But she has arrived in +town on a visit to some relatives there. Uncle Dick wrote to me to +return home at once and pay my court to the lady; I protested. He +wrote again--a letter, short and the reverse of sweet. If I refused to +do my best to win Miss Mannering he would disown me--never speak to me +again--cut me off with a quarter. Uncle always means what he +says--that is one of our family traits, you understand. I spent some +miserable, undecided days. It was not the threat of disinheritance +that worried me, although when you have been brought up to regard +yourself as a prospective millionaire it is rather difficult to adjust +your vision to a pauper focus. But it was the thought of alienating +Uncle Dick. I love the dear, determined old chap like a father. But +last night my guardian angel was with me and I decided to remain my +own man. So I wrote to Uncle Dick, respectfully but firmly declining +to become a candidate for Miss Mannering's hand." + +"But you have never seen her," said Mollie. "She may +be--almost--charming." + +"'If she be not fair to me, what care I how fair she be?'" quoted +Murray. "As you say, she may be--almost charming; but she is not Eve. +She is merely one of a million other women, as far as I am concerned. +Don't let's talk of her. Let us talk only of ourselves--there is +nothing else that is half so interesting." + +"And will your uncle really cast you off?" asked Mollie. + +"Not a doubt of it." + +"What will you do?" + +"Work, dear Eve. My carefully acquired laziness must be thrown to the +winds and I shall work. That is the rule outside of Eden. Don't worry. +I've painted pictures that have actually been sold. I'll make a living +for us somehow." + +"Us?" + +"Of course. You are engaged to me." + +"I am not," said Mollie indignantly. + +"Mollie! Mollie! After that kiss! Fie, fie!" + +"You are very absurd," said Mollie, "But your absurdity has been +amusing. I have--yes, positively--I have enjoyed your Eden comedy. But +now you must not come any further with me. My aunt might not approve. +Here is my path to Orchard Knob farmhouse. There, I presume, is yours +to Sweetbriar Cottage. Good morning." + +"I am coming over to see you this afternoon," said Murray coolly. "But +you needn't be afraid. I will not tell tales out of Eden. I will be a +hypocrite and pretend to Mrs. Palmer that we have never met before. +But you and I will know and remember. Now, you may go. I reserve to +myself the privilege of standing here and watching you out of sight." + + * * * * * + +That afternoon Murray strolled over to Orchard Knob, going into the +kitchen without knocking as was the habit in that free and easy world. +Mrs. Palmer was lying on the lounge with a pungent handkerchief bound +about her head, but keeping a vigilant eye on a very pretty, very +plump brown-eyed girl who was stirring a kettleful of cherry preserve +on the range. + +"Good afternoon, Mrs. Palmer," said Murray, wondering where Mollie +was. "I'm sorry to see that you look something like an invalid." + +"I've a raging, ramping headache," said Mrs. Palmer solemnly. "I had +it all night and I'm good for nothing. Mollie, you'd better take them +cherries off. Mr. Murray, this is my niece, Mollie Booth." + +"What?" said Murray explosively. + +"Miss Mollie Booth," repeated Mrs. Palmer in a louder tone. + +Murray regained outward self-control and bowed to the blushing Mollie. + +"And what about Eve?" he thought helplessly. "Who--what was she? Did I +dream her? Was she a phantom of delight? No, no, phantoms don't milk +cows. She was flesh and blood. No chilly nymph exhaling from the mists +of the marsh could have given a kiss like that." + +"Mollie has come to stay the rest of the summer with me," said Mrs. +Palmer. "I hope to goodness my tribulations with hired girls is over +at last. They have made a wreck of me." + +Murray rapidly reflected. This development, he decided, released him +from his promise to tell no tales. "I met a young lady down in the +pond pasture this morning," he said deliberately. "I talked with her +for a few minutes. I supposed her to be your niece. Who was she?" + +"Oh, that was Miss Mannering," said Mrs. Palmer. + +"What?" said Murray again. + +"Mannering--Dora Mannering," said Mrs. Palmer loudly, wondering if Mr. +Murray were losing his hearing. "She came here last night just to see +me. I haven't seen her since she was a child of twelve. I used to be +her nurse before I was married. I was that proud to think she thought +it worth her while to look me up. And, mind you, this morning, when +she found me crippled with headache and not able to do a hand's turn, +that girl, Mr. Murray, went and milked seven cows"--"only four," +murmured Murray, but Mrs. Palmer did not hear him--"for me. Couldn't +prevent her. She said she had learned to milk for fun one summer when +she was in the country, and she did it. And then she got breakfast for +the men--Mollie didn't come till the ten o'clock train. Miss Mannering +is as capable as if she had been riz on a farm." + +"Where is she now?" demanded Murray. + +"Oh, she's gone." + +"What?" + +"Gone," shouted Mrs. Palmer, "gone. She left on the train Mollie come +on. Gracious me, has the man gone crazy? He hasn't seemed like himself +at all this afternoon." + +Murray had bolted madly out of the house and was striding down the +lane. + +Blind fool--unspeakable idiot that he had been! To take her for Mrs. +Palmer's niece--that peerless creature with the calm acceptance of any +situation, which marked the woman of the world, with the fine +appreciation and quickness of repartee that spoke of generations of +culture--to imagine that she could be Mollie Booth! He had been blind, +besottedly blind. And now he had lost her! She would never forgive +him; she had gone without a word or sign. + +As he reached the last curve of the lane where it looped about the +apple trees, a plump figure came flying down the orchard slope. + +"Mr. Murray, Mr. Murray," Mollie Booth called breathlessly. "Will you +please come here just a minute?" + +Murray crossed over to the paling rather grumpily. He did not want to +talk with Mollie Booth just then. Confound it, what did the girl want? +Why was she looking so mysterious? + +Mollie produced a little square grey envelope from some feminine +hiding place and handed it over the paling. + +"She give me this at the station--Miss Mannering did," she gasped, +"and asked me to give it to you without letting Aunt Emily Jane see. I +couldn't get a chanst when you was in, but as soon as you went I +slipped out by the porch door and followed you. You went so fast I +near died trying to head you off." + +"You dear little soul," said Murray, suddenly radiant. "It is too bad +you have had to put yourself so out of breath on my account. But I am +immensely obliged to you. The next time your young man wants a trusty +private messenger just refer him to me." + +"Git away with you," giggled Mollie. "I must hurry back 'fore Aunt +Emily Jane gits wind I'm gone. I hope there's good news in your girl's +letter. My, but didn't you look flat when Aunt said she'd went!" + +Murray beamed at her idiotically. When she had vanished among the +trees he opened his letter. + + "Dear Mr. Murray," it ran, "your unblushing audacity of the + morning deserves some punishment. I hereby punish you by + prompt departure from Orchard Knob. Yet I do not dislike + audacity, at some times, in some places, in some people. It is + only from a sense of duty that I punish it in this case. And + it was really pleasant in Eden. If you do not mail that + letter, and if you still persist in your very absurd + interpretation of the meaning of Eve's kiss, we may meet again + in town. Until then I remain, + + "Very sincerely yours, + "Dora Lynne Mannering." + +Murray kissed the grey letter and put it tenderly away in his pocket. +Then he took his letter to his uncle and tore it into tiny fragments. +Finally he looked at his watch. + +"If I hurry, I can catch the afternoon train to town," he said. + + + + +Aunt Susanna's Birthday Celebration + + +Good afternoon, Nora May. I'm real glad to see you. I've been watching +you coming down the hill and I hoping you'd turn in at our gate. Going +to visit with me this afternoon? That's good. I'm feeling so happy and +delighted and I've been hankering for someone to tell it all to. + +Tell you about it? Well, I guess I might as well. It ain't any breach +of confidence. + +You didn't know Anne Douglas? She taught school here three years ago, +afore your folks moved over from Talcott. She belonged up Montrose way +and she was only eighteen when she came here to teach. She boarded +with us and her and me were the greatest chums. She was just a sweet +girl. + +She was the prettiest teacher we ever had, and that's saying a good +deal, for Springdale has always been noted for getting good-looking +schoolmarms, just as Miller's Road is noted for its humly ones. + +Anne had _yards_ of brown wavy hair and big, dark blue eyes. Her face +was kind o' pale, but when she smiled you would have to smile too, if +you'd been chief mourner at your own funeral. She was a well-spring of +joy in the house, and we all loved her. + +Gilbert Martin began to drive her the very first week she was here. +Gilbert is my sister Julia's son, and a fine young fellow he is. It +ain't good manners to brag of your own relations, but I'm always +forgetting and doing it. Gil was a great pet of mine. He was so bright +and nice-mannered everybody liked him. Him and Anne were a +fine-looking couple, Nora May. Not but what they had their +shortcomings. Anne's nose was a mite too long and Gil had a crooked +mouth. Besides, they was both pretty proud and sperrited and +high-strung. + +But they thought an awful lot of each other. It made me feel young +again to see 'em. Anne wasn't a mossel vain, but nights she expected +Gil she'd prink for hours afore her glass, fixing her hair this way +and that, and trying on all her good clothes to see which become her +most. I used to love her for it. And I used to love to see the way +Gil's face would light up when she came into a room or place where he +was. Amanda Perkins, she says to me once, "Anne Douglas and Gil Martin +are most terrible struck on each other." And she said it in a tone +that indicated that it was a dreadful disgraceful and unbecoming state +of affairs. Amanda had a disappointment once and it soured her. I +immediately responded, "Yes, they are most terrible struck on each +other," and I said it in a tone that indicated I thought it a most +beautiful and lovely thing that they should be so. + +And so it was. You're rather too young to be thinking of such things, +Nora May, but you'll remember my words when the time comes. + +Another nephew of mine, James Ebenezer Lawson--he calls himself James +E. back there in town, and I don't blame him, for I never could stand +Ebenezer for a name myself; but that's neither here nor there. Well, +he said their love was idyllic, I ain't very sure what that means. I +looked it up in the dictionary after James Ebenezer left--I wouldn't +display my ignorance afore him--but I can't say that I was much the +wiser for it. Anyway, it meant something real nice; I was sure of that +by the way James Ebenezer spoke and the wistful look in his eyes. +James Ebenezer isn't married; he was to have been, and she died a +month afore the wedding day. He was never the same man again. + +Well, to get back to Gilbert and Anne. When Anne's school year ended +in June she resigned and went home to get ready to be married. The +wedding was to be in September, and I promised Anne faithful I'd go +over to Montrose in August for two weeks and help her to get her +quilts ready. Anne thought that nobody could quilt like me. I was as +tickled as a girl at the thought of visiting with Anne for two weeks, +but I never went; things happened before August. + +I don't know rightly how the trouble began. Other folks--jealous +folks--made mischief. Anne was thirty miles away and Gilbert couldn't +see her every day to keep matters clear and fair. Besides, as I've +said, they were both proud and high-sperrited. The upshot of it was +they had a terrible quarrel and the engagement was broken. + +When two people don't care overly much for each other, Nora May, a +quarrel never amounts to much between them, and it's soon made up. But +when they love each other better than life it cuts so deep and hurts +so much that nine times out of ten they won't ever forgive each other. +The more you love anybody, Nora May, the more he can hurt you. To be +sure, you're too young to be thinking of such things. + +It all came like a thunderclap on Gil's friends here at Greendale, +because we hadn't ever suspected things were going wrong. The first +thing we knew was that Anne had gone up west to teach school again at +St. Mary's, eighty miles away, and Gilbert, he went out to Manitoba on +a harvest excursion and stayed there. It just about broke his parents' +hearts. He was their only child and they just worshipped him. + +Gil and Anne both wrote to me off and on, but never a word, not so +much as a name, did they say of each other. I'd 'a' writ and asked 'em +the rights of the fuss if I could, in hopes of patching it up, but I +can't write now--my hand is too shaky--and mebbe it was just as well, +for meddling is terribly risky work in a love trouble, Nora May. +Ninety-nine times out of a hundred the last state of a meddler and +them she meddles with is worse than the first. + +So I just set tight and said nothing, while everybody else in the clan +was talking Anne and Gil sixty words to the minute. + +Well, last birthday morning I was feeling terrible disperrited. I had +made up my mind that my birthday was always to be a good thing for +other people, and there didn't seem one blessed thing I could do to +make anybody glad. Emma Matilda and George and the children were all +well and happy and wanted for nothing that I could give them. I begun +to be afraid I'd lived long enough, Nora May. When a woman gets to the +point where she can't give a gift of joy to anyone, there ain't much +use in her living. I felt real old and worn out and useless. + +I was sitting here under these very trees--they was just budding out +in leaf then, as young and cheerful as if they wasn't a hundred years +old. And I sighed right out loud and said, "Oh, Grandpa Holland, it's +time I was put away up on the hill there with you." And with that the +gate banged and there was Nancy Jane Whitmore's boy, Sam, with two +letters for me. + +One was from Anne up at St. Mary's and the other was from Gil out in +Manitoba. + +I read Anne's first. She just struck right into things in the first +paragraph. She said her year at St. Mary's was nearly up, and when it +was she meant to quit teaching and go away to New York and learn to be +a trained nurse. She said she was just broken-hearted about Gilbert, +and would always love him to the day of her death. But she knew he +didn't care anything more about her after the way he had acted, and +there was nothing left for her in life but to do something for other +people, and so on and so on, for twelve mortal pages. Anne is a fine +writer, and I just cried like a babe over that letter, it was so +touching, although I was enjoying myself hugely all the time, I was so +delighted to find out that Anne loved Gilbert still. I was getting +skeered she didn't, her letters all winter had been so kind of jokey +and frivolous, all about the good times she was having, and the +parties she went to, and the new dresses she got. New dresses! When I +read that letter of Anne's, I knew that all the purple and fine linen +in the world was just like so much sackcloth and ashes to her as long +as Gilbert was sulking out on a prairie farm. + +Well, I wiped my eyes and polished up my specs, but I might have +spared myself the trouble, for in five minutes, Nora May, there was I +sobbing again; over Gilbert's letter. By the most curious coincidence +he had opened his heart to me too. Being a man, he wasn't so +discursive as Anne; he said his say in four pages, but I could read +the heartache between the lines. He wrote that he was going to +Klondike and would start in a month's time. He was sick of living now +that he'd lost Anne. He said he loved her better than his life and +always would, and could never forget her, but he knew she didn't care +anything about him now after the way she'd acted, and he wanted to get +as far away from her and the torturing thought of her as he could. So +he was going to Klondike--going to Klondike, Nora May, when his mother +was writing to him to come home every week and Anne was breaking her +heart for him at St. Mary's. + +Well, I folded up them letters and, says I, "Grandpa Holland, I guess +my birthday celebration is here ready to hand." I thought real hard. I +couldn't write myself to explain to those two people that they each +thought the world of each other still--my hands are too stiff; and I +couldn't get anyone else to write because I couldn't let out what +they'd told me in confidence. So I did a mean, dishonourable thing, +Nora May. I sent Anne's letter to Gilbert and Gilbert's to Anne. I +asked Emma Matilda to address them, and Emma Matilda did it and asked +no questions. I brought her up that way. + +Then I settled down to wait. In less than a month Gilbert's mother had +a letter from him saying that he was coming home to settle down and +marry Anne. He arrived home yesterday and last night Anne came to +Springdale on her way home from St. Mary's. They came to see me this +morning and said things to me I ain't going to repeat because they +would sound fearful vain. They were so happy that they made me feel as +if it was a good thing to have lived eighty years in a world where +folks could be so happy. They said their new joy was my birthday gift +to them. The wedding is to be in September and I'm going to Montrose +in August to help Anne with her quilts. I don't think anything will +happen to prevent this time--no quarrelling, anyhow. Those two young +creatures have learned their lesson. You'd better take it to heart +too, Nora May. It's less trouble to learn it at second hand. Don't you +ever quarrel with your real beau--it don't matter about the sham ones, +of course. Don't take offence at trifles or listen to what other +people tell you about him--outsiders, that is, that want to make +mischief. What you think about him is of more importance than what +they do. To be sure, you're too young yet to be thinking of such +things at all. But just mind what old Aunt Susanna told you when your +time comes. + + + + +Bertie's New Year + + +He stood on the sagging doorstep and looked out on the snowy world. +His hands were clasped behind him, and his thin face wore a +thoughtful, puzzled look. The door behind him opened jerkingly, and a +scowling woman came out with a pan of dishwater in her hand. + +"Ain't you gone yet, Bert?" she said sharply. "What in the world are +you hanging round for?" + +"It's early yet," said Bertie cheerfully. "I thought maybe George +Fraser'd be along and I'd get a lift as far as the store." + +"Well, I never saw such laziness! No wonder old Sampson won't keep you +longer than the holidays if you're no smarter than that. Goodness, if +I don't settle that boy!"--as the sound of fretful crying came from +the kitchen behind her. + +"What is wrong with William John?" asked Bertie. + +"Why, he wants to go out coasting with those Robinson boys, but he +can't. He hasn't got any mittens and he would catch his death of cold +again." + +Her voice seemed to imply that William John had died of cold several +times already. + +Bertie looked soberly down at his old, well-darned mittens. It was +very cold, and he would have a great many errands to run. He shivered, +and looked up at his aunt's hard face as she stood wiping her dish-pan +with a grim frown which boded no good to the discontented William +John. Then he suddenly pulled off his mittens and held them out. + +"Here--he can have mine. I'll get on without them well enough." + +"Nonsense!" said Mrs. Ross, but less unkindly. "The fingers would +freeze off you. Don't be a goose." + +"It's all right," persisted Bertie. "I don't need them--much. And +William John doesn't hardly ever get out." + +He thrust them into her hand and ran quickly down the street, as +though he feared that the keen air might make him change his mind in +spite of himself. He had to stop a great many times that day to +breathe on his purple hands. Still, he did not regret having lent his +mittens to William John--poor, pale, sickly little William John, who +had so few pleasures. + +It was sunset when Bertie laid an armful of parcels down on the steps +of Doctor Forbes's handsome house. His back was turned towards the big +bay window at one side, and he was busy trying to warm his hands, so +he did not see the two small faces looking at him through the frosty +panes. + +"Just look at that poor little boy, Amy," said the taller of the two. +"He is almost frozen, I believe. Why doesn't Caroline hurry and open +the door?" + +"There she goes now," said Amy. "Edie, couldn't we coax her to let him +come in and get warm? He looks so cold." And she drew her sister out +into the hall, where the housekeeper was taking Bertie's parcels. + +"Caroline," whispered Edith timidly, "please tell that poor little +fellow to come in and get warm--he looks very cold." + +"He's used to the cold, I warrant you," said the housekeeper rather +impatiently. "It won't hurt him." + +"But it is Christmas week," said Edith gravely, "and you know, +Caroline, when Mamma was here she used to say that we ought to be +particularly thoughtful of others who were not so happy or well-off as +we were at this time." + +Perhaps Edith's reference to her mother softened Caroline, for she +turned to Bertie and said cordially enough, "Come in, and warm +yourself before you go. It's a cold day." + +Bertie shyly followed her to the kitchen. + +"Sit up to the fire," said Caroline, placing a chair for him, while +Edith and Amy came round to the other side of the stove and watched +him with friendly interest. + +"What's your name?" asked Caroline. + +"Robert Ross, ma'am." + +"Oh, you're Mrs. Ross's nephew then," said Caroline, breaking eggs +into her cake-bowl, and whisking them deftly round. "And you're +Sampson's errand boy just now? My goodness," as the boy spread his +blue hands over the fire, "where are your mittens, child? You're never +out without mittens a day like this!" + +"I lent them to William John--he hadn't any," faltered Bertie. He did +not know but that the lady might consider it a grave crime to be +mittenless. + +"No mittens!" exclaimed Amy in dismay. "Why, I have three pairs. And +who is William John?" + +"He is my cousin," said Bertie. "And he's awful sickly. He wanted to +go out to play, and he hadn't any mittens, so I lent him mine. I +didn't miss them--much." + +"What kind of a Christmas did you have?" + +"We didn't have any." + +"No Christmas!" said Amy, quite overcome. "Oh, well, I suppose you are +going to have a good time on New Year's instead." + +Bertie shook his head. + +"No'm, I guess not. We never have it different from other times." + +Amy was silent from sheer amazement. Edith understood better, and she +changed the subject. + +"Have you any brothers or sisters, Bertie?" + +"No'm," returned Bertie cheerfully. "I guess there's enough of us +without that. I must be going now. I'm very much obliged to you." + +Edith slipped from the room as he spoke, and met him again at the +door. She held out a pair of warm-looking mittens. + +"These are for William John," she said simply, "so that you can have +your own. They are a pair of mine which are too big for me. I know +Papa will say it is all right. Goodbye, Bertie." + +"Goodbye--and thank you," stammered Bertie, as the door closed. Then +he hastened home to William John. + +That evening Doctor Forbes noticed a peculiarly thoughtful look on +Edith's face as she sat gazing into the glowing coal fire after +dinner. He laid his hand on her dark curls inquiringly. + +"What are you musing over?" + +"There was a little boy here today," began Edith. + +"Oh, such a dear little boy," broke in Amy eagerly from the corner, +where she was playing with her kitten. "His name was Bertie Ross. He +brought up the parcels, and we asked him in to get warm. He had no +mittens, and his hands were almost frozen. And, oh, Papa, just +think!--he said he never had any Christmas or New Year at all." + +"Poor little fellow!" said the doctor. "I've heard of him; a pretty +hard time he has of it, I think." + +"He was so pretty, Papa. And Edie gave him her blue mittens for +William John." + +"The plot deepens. Who is William John?" + +"Oh, a cousin or something, didn't he say Edie? Anyway, he is sick, +and he wanted to go coasting, and Bertie gave him his mittens. And I +suppose he never had any Christmas either." + +"There are plenty who haven't," said the doctor, taking up his paper +with a sigh. "Well, girlies, you seem interested in this little fellow +so, if you like, you may invite him and his cousin to take dinner with +you on New Year's night." + +"Oh, Papa!" said Edith, her eyes shining like stars. + +The doctor laughed. "Write him a nice little note of invitation--you +are the lady of the house, you know--and I'll see that he gets it +tomorrow." + +And this was how it came to pass that Bertie received the next day his +first invitation to dine out. He read the little note through three +times in order fully to take in its contents, and then went around the +rest of the day in deep abstraction as though he was trying to decide +some very important question. It was with the same expression that he +opened the door at home in the evening. His aunt was stirring some +oatmeal mush on the stove. + +"Is that you, Bert?" She spoke sharply. She always spoke sharply, even +when not intending it; it had grown to be a habit. + +"Yes'm," said Bertie meekly, as he hung up his cap. + +"I s'pose you've only got one day more at the store," said Mrs. Ross. +"Sampson didn't say anything about keeping you longer, did he?" + +"No. He said he couldn't--I asked him." + +"Well, I didn't expect he would. You'll have a holiday on New Year's +anyhow; whether you'll have anything to eat or not is a different +question." + +"I've an invitation to dinner," said Bertie timidly, "me and William +John. It's from Doctor Forbes's little girls--the ones that gave me +the mittens." + +He handed her the little note, and Mrs. Ross stooped down and read it +by the fitful gleam of light which came from the cracked stove. + +"Well, you can please yourself," she said as she handed it back, "but +William John couldn't go if he had ten invitations. He caught cold +coasting yesterday. I told him he would, but he was bound to go, and +now he's laid up for a week. Listen to him barking in the bedroom +there." + +"Well, then, I won't go either," said Bertie with a sigh, it might be +of relief, or it might be of disappointment. "I wouldn't go there all +alone." + +"You're a goose!" said his aunt. "They wouldn't eat you. But as I +said, please yourself. Anyhow, hold your tongue about it to William +John, or you'll have him crying and bawling to go too." + +The caution came too late. William John had already heard it, and when +his mother went in to rub his chest with liniment, she found him with +the ragged quilt over his head crying. + +"Come, William John, I want to rub you." + +"I don't want to be rubbed--g'way," sobbed William John. "I heard you +out there--you needn't think I didn't. Bertie's going to Doctor +Forbes's to dinner and I can't go." + +"Well, you've only yourself to thank for it," returned his mother. "If +you hadn't persisted in going out coasting yesterday when I wanted you +to stay in, you'd have been able to go to Doctor Forbes's. Little boys +who won't do as they're told always get into trouble. Stop crying, +now. I dare say if Bertie goes they'll send you some candy, or +something." + +But William John refused to be comforted. He cried himself to sleep +that night, and when Bertie went in to see him next morning, he found +him sitting up in bed with his eyes red and swollen and the faded +quilt drawn up around his pinched face. + +"Well, William John, how are you?" + +"I ain't any better," replied William John mournfully. "I s'pose +you'll have a great time tomorrow night, Bertie?" + +"Oh, I'm not going since you can't," said Bertie cheerily. He thought +this would comfort William John, but it had exactly the opposite +effect. William John had cried until he could cry no more, but he +turned around and sobbed. + +"There now!" he said in tearless despair. "That's just what I +expected. I did s'pose if I couldn't go you would, and tell me about +it. You're mean as mean can be." + +"Come now, William John, don't be so cross. I thought you'd rather +have me home, but I'll go, if you want me to." + +"Honest, now?" + +"Yes, honest. I'll go anywhere to please you. I must be off to the +store now. Goodbye." + +Thus committed, Bertie took his courage in both hands and went. The +next evening at dusk found him standing at Doctor Forbes's door with +a very violently beating heart. He was carefully dressed in his +well-worn best suit and a neat white collar. The frosty air had +crimsoned his cheeks and his hair was curling round his face. + +Caroline opened the door and showed him into the parlour, where Edith +and Amy were eagerly awaiting him. + +"Happy New Year, Bertie," cried Amy. "And--but, why, where is William +John?" + +"He couldn't come," answered Bertie anxiously--he was afraid he might +not be welcome without William John. "He's real sick. He caught cold +and has to stay in bed; but he wanted to come awful bad." + +"Oh, dear me! Poor William John!" said Amy in a disappointed tone. But +all further remarks were cut short by the entrance of Doctor Forbes. + +"How do you do?" he said, giving Bertie's hand a hearty shake. "But +where is the other little fellow my girls were expecting?" + +Bertie patiently reaccounted for William John's non-appearance. + +"It's a bad time for colds," said the doctor, sitting down and +attacking the fire. "I dare say, though, you have to run so fast these +days that a cold couldn't catch you. I suppose you'll soon be leaving +Sampson's. He told me he didn't need you after the holiday season was +over. What are you going at next? Have you anything in view?" + +Bertie shook his head sorrowfully. + +"No, sir; but," he added more cheerfully, "I guess I'll find something +if I hunt around lively. I almost always do." + +He forgot his shyness; his face flushed hopefully, and he looked +straight at the doctor with his bright, earnest eyes. The doctor poked +the fire energetically and looked very wise. But just then the girls +came up and carried Bertie off to display their holiday gifts. And +there was a fur cap and a pair of mittens for him! He wondered whether +he was dreaming. + +"And here's a picture-book for William John," said Amy, "and there is +a sled out in the kitchen for him. Oh, there's the dinner-bell. I'm +awfully hungry. Papa says that is my 'normal condition,' but I don't +know what that means." + +As for that dinner--Bertie might sometimes have seen such a repast in +delightful dreams, but certainly never out of them. It was a feast to +be dated from. + +When the plum pudding came on, the doctor, who had been notably +silent, leaned back in his chair, placed his finger-tips together, and +looked critically at Bertie. + +"So Mr. Sampson can't keep you?" + +Bertie's face sobered at once. He had almost forgotten his +responsibilities. + +"No, sir. He says I'm too small for the heavy work." + +"Well, you are rather small--but no doubt you will grow. Boys have a +queer habit of doing that. I think you know how to make yourself +useful. I need a boy here to run errands and look after my horse. If +you like, I'll try you. You can live here, and go to school. I +sometimes hear of places for boys in my rounds, and the first good one +that will suit you, I'll bespeak for you. How will that do?" + +"Oh, sir, you are too good," said Bertie with a choke in his voice. + +"Well, that is settled," said the doctor genially. "Come on Monday +then. And perhaps we can do something for that other little chap, +William, or John, or whatever his name is. Will you have some more +pudding, Bertie?" + +"No, thank you," said Bertie. Pudding, indeed! He could not have eaten +another mouthful after such wonderful and unexpected good fortune. + +After dinner they played games, and cracked nuts, and roasted apples, +until the clock struck nine; then Bertie got up to go. + +"Off, are you?" said the doctor, looking up from his paper. "Well, +I'll expect you on Monday, remember." + +"Yes, sir," said Bertie happily. He was not likely to forget. + +As he went out Amy came through the hall with a red sled. + +"Here is William John's present. I've tied all the other things on so +that they can't fall off." + +Edith was at the door-with a parcel. "Here are some nuts and candies +for William John," she said. "And tell him we all wish him a 'Happy +New Year.'" + +"Thank you," said Bertie. "I've had a splendid time. I'll tell William +John. Goodnight." + +He stepped out. It was frostier than ever. The snow crackled and +snapped, the stars were keen and bright, but to Bertie, running down +the street with William John's sled thumping merrily behind him, the +world was aglow with rosy hope and promise. He was quite sure he could +never forget this wonderful New Year. + + + + +Between the Hill and the Valley + + +It was one of the moist, pleasantly odorous nights of early spring. +There was a chill in the evening air, but the grass was growing green +in sheltered spots, and Jeffrey Miller had found purple-petalled +violets and pink arbutus on the hill that day. Across a valley filled +with beech and fir, there was a sunset afterglow, creamy yellow and +pale red, with a new moon swung above it. It was a night for a man to +walk alone and dream of his love, which was perhaps why Jeffrey Miller +came so loiteringly across the springy hill pasture, with his hands +full of the mayflowers. + +He was a tall, broad-shouldered man of forty, and looking no younger, +with dark grey eyes and a tanned, clean-cut face, clean-shaven save +for a drooping moustache. Jeffrey Miller was considered a handsome +man, and Bayside people had periodical fits of wondering why he had +never married. They pitied him for the lonely life he must lead alone +there at the Valley Farm, with only a deaf old housekeeper as a +companion, for it did not occur to the Bayside people in general that +a couple of shaggy dogs could be called companions, and they did not +know that books make very excellent comrades for people who know how +to treat them. + +One of Jeffrey's dogs was with him now--the oldest one, with white +breast and paws and a tawny coat. He was so old that he was half-blind +and rather deaf, but, with one exception, he was the dearest of living +creatures to Jeffrey Miller, for Sara Stuart had given him the +sprawly, chubby little pup years ago. + +They came down the hill together. A group of men were standing on the +bridge in the hollow, discussing Colonel Stuart's funeral of the day +before. Jeffrey caught Sara's name and paused on the outskirts of the +group to listen. Sometimes he thought that if he were lying dead under +six feet of turf and Sara Stuart's name were pronounced above him, his +heart would give a bound of life. + +"Yes, the old kunnel's gone at last," Christopher Jackson was saying. +"He took his time dyin', that's sartain. Must be a kind of relief for +Sara--she's had to wait on him, hand and foot, for years. But no doubt +she'll feel pretty lonesome. Wonder what she'll do?" + +"Is there any particular reason for her to do anything?" asked Alec +Churchill. + +"Well, she'll have to leave Pinehurst. The estate's entailed and goes +to her cousin, Charles Stuart." + +There were exclamations of surprise from the other men on hearing +this. Jeffrey drew nearer, absently patting his dog's head. He had not +known it either. + +"Oh, yes," said Christopher, enjoying all the importance of exclusive +information. "I thought everybody knew that. Pinehurst goes to the +oldest male heir. The old kunnel felt it keen that he hadn't a son. Of +course, there's plenty of money and Sara'll get that. But I guess +she'll feel pretty bad at leaving her old home. Sara ain't as young as +she used to be, neither. Let me see--she must be thirty-eight. Well, +she's left pretty lonesome." + +"Maybe she'll stay on at Pinehurst," said Job Crowe. "It'd only be +right for her cousin to give her a home there." + +Christopher shook his head. + +"No, I understand they're not on very good terms. Sara don't like +Charles Stuart or his wife--and I don't blame her. She won't stay +there, not likely. Probably she'll go and live in town. Strange she +never married. She was reckoned handsome, and had plenty of beaus at +one time." + +Jeffrey swung out of the group and started homeward with his dog. To +stand by and hear Sara Stuart discussed after this fashion was more +than he could endure. The men idly watched his tall, erect figure as +he went along the valley. + +"Queer chap, Jeff," said Alec Churchill reflectively. + +"Jeff's all right," said Christopher in a patronizing way. "There +ain't a better man or neighbour alive. I've lived next farm to him for +thirty years, so I ought to know. But he's queer sartainly--not like +other people--kind of unsociable. He don't care for a thing 'cept dogs +and reading and mooning round woods and fields. That ain't natural, +you know. But I must say he's a good farmer. He's got the best farm in +Bayside, and that's a real nice house he put up on it. Ain't it an odd +thing he never married? Never seemed to have no notion of it. I can't +recollect of Jeff Miller's ever courting anybody. That's another +unnatural thing about him." + +"I've always thought that Jeff thought himself a cut or two above the +rest of us," said Tom Scovel with a sneer. "Maybe he thinks the +Bayside girls ain't good enough for him." + +"There ain't no such dirty pride about Jeff," pronounced Christopher +conclusively. "And the Millers _are_ the best family hereabouts, +leaving the kunnel's out. And Jeff's well off--nobody knows how well, +I reckon, but I can guess, being his land neighbour. Jeff ain't no +fool nor loafer, if he is a bit queer." + +Meanwhile, the object of these remarks was striding homeward and +thinking, not of the men behind him, but of Sara Stuart. He must go to +her at once. He had not intruded on her since her father's death, +thinking her sorrow too great for him to meddle with. But this was +different. Perhaps she needed the advice or assistance only he could +give. To whom else in Bayside could she turn for it but to him, her +old friend? Was it possible that she must leave Pinehurst? The thought +struck cold dismay to his soul. How could he bear his life if she went +away? + +He had loved Sara Stuart from childhood. He remembered vividly the day +he had first seen her--a spring day, much like this one had been; he, +a boy of eight, had gone with his father to the big, sunshiny hill +field and he had searched for birds' nests in the little fir copses +along the crest while his father plowed. He had so come upon her, +sitting on the fence under the pines at the back of Pinehurst--a child +of six in a dress of purple cloth. Her long, light brown curls fell +over her shoulders and rippled sleekly back from her calm little brow; +her eyes were large and greyish blue, straight-gazing and steadfast. +To the end of his life the boy was to carry in his heart the picture +she made there under the pines. + +"Little boy," she had said, with a friendly smile, "will you show me +where the mayflowers grow?" + +Shyly enough he had assented, and they set out together for the +barrens beyond the field, where the arbutus trailed its stars of +sweetness under the dusty dead grasses and withered leaves of the old +year. The boy was thrilled with delight. She was a fairy queen who +thus graciously smiled on him and chattered blithely as they searched +for mayflowers in the fresh spring sunshine. He thought it a +wonderful thing that it had so chanced. It overjoyed him to give the +choicest dusters he found into her slim, waxen little fingers, and +watch her eyes grow round with pleasure in them. When the sun began to +lower over the beeches she had gone home with her arms full of +arbutus, but she had turned at the edge of the pineland and waved her +hand at him. + +That night, when he told his mother of the little girl he had met on +the hill, she had hoped anxiously that he had been "very polite," for +the little girl was a daughter of Colonel Stuart, newly come to +Pinehurst. Jeffrey, reflecting, had not been certain that he had been +polite; "But I am sure she liked me," he said gravely. + +A few days later a message came from Mrs. Stuart on the hill to Mrs. +Miller in the valley. Would she let her little boy go up now and then +to play with Sara? Sara was very lonely because she had no playmates. +So Jeff, overjoyed, had gone to his divinity's very home, where the +two children played together many a day. All through their childhood +they had been fast friends. Sara's parents placed no bar to their +intimacy. They had soon concluded that little Jeff Miller was a very +good playmate for Sara. He was gentle, well-behaved, and manly. + +Sara never went to the district school which Jeff attended; she had +her governess at home. With no other boy or girl in Bayside did she +form any friendship, but her loyalty to Jeff never wavered. As for +Jeff, he worshipped her and would have done anything she commanded. He +belonged to her from the day they had hunted arbutus on the hill. + +When Sara was fifteen she had gone away to school. Jeff had missed her +sorely. For four years he saw her only in the summers, and each year +she had seemed taller, statelier, further from him. When she graduated +her father took her abroad for two years; then she came home, a +lovely, high-bred girl, dimpling on the threshold of womanhood; and +Jeffrey Miller was face to face with two bitter facts. One was that he +loved her--not with the boy-and-girl love of long ago, but with the +love of a man for the one woman in the world; and the other was that +she was as far beyond his reach as one of those sunset stars of which +she had always reminded him in her pure, clear-shining loveliness. + +He looked these facts unflinchingly in the face until he had grown +used to them, and then he laid down his course for himself. He loved +Sara--and he did not wish to conquer his love, even if it had been +possible. It were better to love her, whom he could never win, than to +love and be loved by any other woman. His great office in life was to +be her friend, humble and unexpectant; to be at hand if she should +need him for ever so trifling a service; never to presume, always to +be faithful. + +Sara had not forgotten her old friend. But their former comradeship +was now impossible; they could be friends, but never again +companions. Sara's life was full and gay; she had interests in which +he had no share; her social world was utterly apart from his; she was +of the hill and its traditions, he was of the valley and its people. +The democracy of childhood past, there was no common ground on which +they might meet. Only one thing Jeffrey had found it impossible to +contemplate calmly. Some day Sara would marry--a man who was her +equal, who sat at her father's table as a guest. In spite of himself, +Jeffrey's heart filled with hot rebellion at the thought; it was like +a desecration and a robbery. + +But, as the years went by, this thing he dreaded did not happen. Sara +did not marry, although gossip assigned her many suitors not unworthy +of her. She and Jeffrey were always friends, although they met but +seldom. Sometimes she sent him a book; it was his custom to search for +the earliest mayflowers and take them to her; once in a long while +they met and talked of many things. Jeffrey's calendar from year to +year was red-lettered by these small happenings, of which nobody knew, +or, knowing, would have cared. + +So he and Sara drifted out of youth, together yet apart. Her mother +had died, and Sara was the gracious, stately mistress of Pinehurst, +which grew quieter as the time went on; the lovers ceased to come, and +holiday friends grew few; with the old colonel's failing health the +gaieties and lavish entertaining ceased. Jeffrey thought that Sara +must often be lonely, but she never said so; she remained sweet, +serene, calm-eyed, like the child he had met on the hill. Only, now +and then, Jeffrey fancied he saw a shadow on her face--a shadow so +faint and fleeting that only the eye of an unselfish, abiding love, +made clear-sighted by patient years, could have seen it. It hurt him, +that shadow; he would have given anything in his power to have +banished it. + +And now this long friendship was to be broken. Sara was going away. At +first he had thought only of her pain, but now his own filled his +heart. How could he live without her? How could he dwell in the valley +knowing that she had gone from the hill? Never to see her light shine +down on him through the northern gap in the pines at night! Never to +feel that perhaps her eyes rested on him now and then as he went about +his work in the valley fields! Never to stoop with a glad thrill over +the first spring flowers because it was his privilege to take them to +her! Jeffrey groaned aloud. No, he could not go up to see her that +night; he must wait--he must strengthen himself. + +Then his heart rebuked him. This was selfishness; this was putting his +own feelings before hers--a thing he had sworn never to do. Perhaps +she needed him--perhaps she had wondered why he had not come to offer +her such poor service as might be in his power. He turned and went +down through the orchard lane, taking the old field-path across the +valley and up the hill, which he had traversed so often and so +joyfully in boyhood. It was dark now, and a few stars were shining in +the silvery sky. The wind sighed among the pines as he walked under +them. Sometimes he felt that he must turn back--that his pain was +going to master him; then he forced himself to go on. + +The old grey house where Sara lived seemed bleak and stricken in the +dull light, with its leafless vines clinging to it. There were no +lights in it. It looked like a home left soulless. + +Jeffrey went around to the garden door and knocked. He had expected +the maid to open it, put Sara herself came. + +"Why, Jeff," she said, with pleasure in her tones. "I am so glad to +see you. I have been wondering why you had not come before." + +"I did not think you would want to see me yet," he said hurriedly. "I +have thought about you every hour--but I feared to intrude." + +"_You_ couldn't intrude," she said gently. "Yes, I have wanted to see +you, Jeff. Come into the library." + +He followed her into the room where they had always sat in his rare +calls. Sara lighted the lamp on the table. As the light shot up she +stood clearly revealed in it--a tall, slender woman in a trailing gown +of grey. Even a stranger, not knowing her age, would have guessed it +to be what it was, yet it would have been hard to say what gave the +impression of maturity. Her face was quite unlined--a little pale, +perhaps, with more finely cut outlines than those of youth. Her eyes +were clear and bright; her abundant brown hair waved back from her +face in the same curves that Jeffrey had noted in the purple-gowned +child of six, under the pines. Perhaps it was the fine patience and +serenity in her face that told her tale of years. Youth can never +acquire it. + +Her eyes brightened when she saw the mayflowers he carried. She came +and took them from him, and her hands touched his, sending a little +thrill of joy through him. + +"How lovely they are! And the first I have seen this spring. You +always bring me the first, don't you, Jeff? Do you remember the first +day we spent picking mayflowers together?" + +Jeff smiled. Could he forget? But something held him back from speech. + +Sara put the flowers in a vase on the table, but slipped one starry +pink cluster into the lace on her breast. She came and sat down beside +Jeffrey; he saw that her beautiful eyes had been weeping, and that +there were lines of pain around her lips. Some impulse that would not +be denied made him lean over and take her hand. She left it +unresistingly in his clasp. + +"I am very lonely now, Jeff," she said sadly. "Father has gone. I have +no friends left." + +"You have me," said Jeffrey quietly. + +"Yes. I shouldn't have said that. You are my friend, I know, Jeff. +But, but--I must leave Pinehurst, you know." + +"I learned that tonight for the first time," he answered. + +"Did you ever come to a place where _everything_ seemed ended--where +it seemed that there was nothing--simply nothing--left, Jeff?" she +said wistfully. "But, no, it couldn't seem so to a man. Only a woman +could fully understand what I mean. That is how I feel now. While I +had Father to live for it wasn't so hard. But now there is nothing. +And I must go away." + +"Is there anything I can do?" muttered Jeffrey miserably. He knew now +that he had made a mistake in coming tonight; he could not help her. +His own pain had unmanned him. Presently he would say something +foolish or selfish in spite of himself. + +Sara turned her eyes on him. + +"There is nothing anybody can do, Jeff," she said piteously. Her +eyes, those clear child-eyes, filled with tears. "I shall be +braver--stronger--after a while. But just now I have no strength left. +I feel like a lost, helpless child. Oh, Jeff!" + +She put her slender hands over her face and sobbed. Every sob cut +Jeffrey to the heart. + +"Don't--don't, Sara," he said huskily. "I can't bear to see you suffer +so. I'd die for you if it would do you any good. I love you--I love +you! I never meant to tell you so, but it is the truth. I oughtn't to +tell you now. Don't think that I'm trying to take any advantage of +your loneliness and sorrow. I know--I have always known--that you are +far above me. But that couldn't prevent my loving you--just humbly +loving you, asking nothing else. You may be angry with my presumption, +but I can't help telling you that I love you. That's all. I just want +you to know it." + +Sara had turned away her head. Jeffrey was overcome with contrition. +Ah, he had no business to speak so--he had spoiled the devotion of +years. Who was he that he should have dared to love her? Silence alone +had justified his love, and now he had lost that justification. She +would despise him. He had forfeited her friendship for ever. + +"Are you angry, Sara?" he questioned sadly, after a silence. + +"I think I am," said Sara. She kept her stately head averted. "If--if +you have loved me, Jeff, why did you never tell me so before?" + +"How could I dare?" he said gravely. "I knew I could never win +you--that I had no right to dream of you so. Oh, Sara, don't be angry! +My love has been reverent and humble. I have asked nothing. I ask +nothing now but your friendship. Don't take that from me, Sara. Don't +be angry with me." + +"I _am_ angry," repeated Sara, "and I think I have a right to be." + +"Perhaps so," he said simply, "but not because I have loved you. Such +love as mine ought to anger no woman, Sara. But you have a right to be +angry with me for presuming to put it into words. I should not have +done so--but I could not help it. It rushed to my lips in spite of me. +Forgive me." + +"I don't know whether I can forgive you for not telling me before," +said Sara steadily. "_That_ is what I have to forgive--not your +speaking at last, even if it was dragged from you against your will. +Did you think I would make you such a very poor wife, Jeff, that you +would not ask me to marry you?" + +"Sara!" he said, aghast. "I--I--you were as far above me as a star in +the sky--I never dreamed--I never hoped----" + +"That I could care for you?" said Sara, looking round at last. "Then +you were more modest than a man ought to be, Jeff. I did not know that +you loved me, or I should have found some way to make you speak out +long ago. I should not have let you waste all these years. I've loved +you--ever since we picked mayflowers on the hill, I think--ever since +I came home from school, I know. I never cared for anyone +else--although I tried to, when I thought you didn't care for me. It +mattered nothing to me that the world may have thought there was some +social difference between us. There, Jeff, you cannot accuse me of not +making my meaning plain." + +"Sara," he whispered, wondering, bewildered, half-afraid to believe +this unbelievable joy. "I'm not half worthy of you--but--but"--he bent +forward and put his arm around her, looking straight into her clear, +unshrinking eyes. "Sara, will you be my wife?" + +"Yes." She said the word clearly and truly. "And I will think myself a +proud and happy and honoured woman to be so, Jeff. Oh, I don't shrink +from telling you the truth, you see. You mean too much to me for me to +dissemble it. I've hidden it for eighteen years because I didn't think +you wanted to hear it, but I'll give myself the delight of saying it +frankly now." + +She lifted her delicate, high-bred face, fearless love shining in +every lineament, to his, and they exchanged their first kiss. + + + + +Clorinda's Gifts + + +"It is a dreadful thing to be poor a fortnight before Christmas," said +Clorinda, with the mournful sigh of seventeen years. + +Aunt Emmy smiled. Aunt Emmy was sixty, and spent the hours she didn't +spend in a bed, on a sofa or in a wheel chair; but Aunt Emmy was never +heard to sigh. + +"I suppose it is worse then than at any other time," she admitted. + +That was one of the nice things about Aunt Emmy. She always +sympathized and understood. + +"I'm worse than poor this Christmas ... I'm stony broke," said +Clorinda dolefully. "My spell of fever in the summer and the +consequent doctor's bills have cleaned out my coffers completely. Not +a single Christmas present can I give. And I did so want to give some +little thing to each of my dearest people. But I simply can't afford +it ... that's the hateful, ugly truth." + +Clorinda sighed again. + +"The gifts which money can purchase are not the only ones we can +give," said Aunt Emmy gently, "nor the best, either." + +"Oh, I know it's nicer to give something of your own work," agreed +Clorinda, "but materials for fancy work cost too. That kind of gift is +just as much out of the question for me as any other." + +"That was not what I meant," said Aunt Emmy. + +"What did you mean, then?" asked Clorinda, looking puzzled. + +Aunt Emmy smiled. + +"Suppose you think out my meaning for yourself," she said. "That would +be better than if I explained it. Besides, I don't think I _could_ +explain it. Take the beautiful line of a beautiful poem to help you in +your thinking out: 'The gift without the giver is bare.'" + +"I'd put it the other way and say, 'The giver without the gift is +bare,'" said Clorinda, with a grimace. "That is my predicament +exactly. Well, I hope by next Christmas I'll not be quite bankrupt. +I'm going into Mr. Callender's store down at Murraybridge in February. +He has offered me the place, you know." + +"Won't your aunt miss you terribly?" said Aunt Emmy gravely. + +Clorinda flushed. There was a note in Aunt Emmy's voice that disturbed +her. + +"Oh, yes, I suppose she will," she answered hurriedly. "But she'll get +used to it very soon. And I will be home every Saturday night, you +know. I'm dreadfully tired of being poor, Aunt Emmy, and now that I +have a chance to earn something for myself I mean to take it. I can +help Aunt Mary, too. I'm to get four dollars a week." + +"I think she would rather have your companionship than a part of your +salary, Clorinda," said Aunt Emmy. "But of course you must decide for +yourself, dear. It is hard to be poor. I know it. I am poor." + +"You poor!" said Clorinda, kissing her. "Why, you are the richest +woman I know, Aunt Emmy--rich in love and goodness and contentment." + +"And so are you, dearie ... rich in youth and health and happiness and +ambition. Aren't they all worth while?" + +"Of course they are," laughed Clorinda. "Only, unfortunately, +Christmas gifts can't be coined out of them." + +"Did you ever try?" asked Aunt Emmy. "Think out that question, too, in +your thinking out, Clorinda." + +"Well, I must say bye-bye and run home. I feel cheered up--you always +cheer people up, Aunt Emmy. How grey it is outdoors. I do hope we'll +have snow soon. Wouldn't it be jolly to have a white Christmas? We +always have such faded brown Decembers." + +Clorinda lived just across the road from Aunt Emmy in a tiny white +house behind some huge willows. But Aunt Mary lived there too--the +only relative Clorinda had, for Aunt Emmy wasn't really her aunt at +all. Clorinda had always lived with Aunt Mary ever since she could +remember. + +Clorinda went home and upstairs to her little room under the eaves, +where the great bare willow boughs were branching athwart her windows. +She was thinking over what Aunt Emmy had said about Christmas gifts +and giving. + +"I'm sure I don't know what she could have meant," pondered Clorinda. +"I do wish I could find out if it would help me any. I'd love to +remember a few of my friends at least. There's Miss Mitchell ... she's +been so good to me all this year and helped me so much with my +studies. And there's Mrs. Martin out in Manitoba. If I could only send +her something! She must be so lonely out there. And Aunt Emmy herself, +of course; and poor old Aunt Kitty down the lane; and Aunt Mary and, +yes--Florence too, although she did treat me so meanly. I shall never +feel the same to her again. But she gave me a present last Christmas, +and so out of mere politeness I ought to give her something." + +Clorinda stopped short suddenly. She had just remembered that she +would not have liked to say that last sentence to Aunt Emmy. +Therefore, there was something wrong about it. Clorinda had long ago +learned that there was sure to be something wrong in anything that +could not be said to Aunt Emmy. So she stopped to think it over. + +Clorinda puzzled over Aunt Emmy's meaning for four days and part of +three nights. Then all at once it came to her. Or if it wasn't Aunt +Emmy's meaning it was a very good meaning in itself, and it grew +clearer and expanded in meaning during the days that followed, +although at first Clorinda shrank a little from some of the +conclusions to which it led her. + +"I've solved the problem of my Christmas giving for this year," she +told Aunt Emmy. "I have some things to give after all. Some of them +quite costly, too; that is, they will cost me something, but I know +I'll be better off and richer after I've paid the price. That is what +Mr. Grierson would call a paradox, isn't it? I'll explain all about it +to you on Christmas Day." + +On Christmas Day, Clorinda went over to Aunt Emmy's. It was a faded +brown Christmas after all, for the snow had not come. But Clorinda +did not mind; there was such joy in her heart that she thought it the +most delightful Christmas Day that ever dawned. + +She put the queer cornery armful she carried down on the kitchen floor +before she went into the sitting room. Aunt Emmy was lying on the sofa +before the fire, and Clorinda sat down beside her. + +"I've come to tell you all about it," she said. + +Aunt Emmy patted the hand that was in her own. + +"From your face, dear girl, it will be pleasant hearing and telling," +she said. + +Clorinda nodded. + +"Aunt Emmy, I thought for days over your meaning ... thought until I +was dizzy. And then one evening it just came to me, without any +thinking at all, and I knew that I could give some gifts after all. I +thought of something new every day for a week. At first I didn't think +I _could_ give some of them, and then I thought how selfish I was. I +would have been willing to pay any amount of money for gifts if I had +had it, but I wasn't willing to pay what I had. I got over that, +though, Aunt Emmy. Now I'm going to tell you what I did give. + +"First, there was my teacher, Miss Mitchell. I gave her one of +father's books. I have so many of his, you know, so that I wouldn't +miss one; but still it was one I loved very much, and so I felt that +that love made it worth while. That is, I felt that on second thought. +At first, Aunt Emmy, I thought I would be ashamed to offer Miss +Mitchell a shabby old book, worn with much reading and all marked over +with father's notes and pencillings. I was afraid she would think it +queer of me to give her such a present. And yet somehow it seemed to +me that it was better than something brand new and unmellowed--that +old book which father had loved and which I loved. So I gave it to +her, and she understood. I think it pleased her so much, the real +meaning in it. She said it was like being given something out of +another's heart and life. + +"Then you know Mrs. Martin ... last year she was Miss Hope, my dear +Sunday School teacher. She married a home missionary, and they are in +a lonely part of the west. Well, I wrote her a letter. Not just an +ordinary letter; dear me, no. I took a whole day to write it, and you +should have seen the postmistress's eyes stick out when I mailed it. I +just told her everything that had happened in Greenvale since she went +away. I made it as newsy and cheerful and loving as I possibly could. +Everything bright and funny I could think of went into it. + +"The next was old Aunt Kitty. You know she was my nurse when I was a +baby, and she's very fond of me. But, well, you know, Aunt Emmy, I'm +ashamed to confess it, but really I've never found Aunt Kitty very +entertaining, to put it mildly. She is always glad when I go to see +her, but I've never gone except when I couldn't help it. She is very +deaf, and rather dull and stupid, you know. Well, I gave her a whole +day. I took my knitting yesterday, and sat with her the whole time and +just talked and talked. I told her all the Greenvale news and gossip +and everything else I thought she'd like to hear. She was so pleased +and proud; she told me when I came away that she hadn't had such a +nice time for years. + +"Then there was ... Florence. You know, Aunt Emmy, we were always +intimate friends until last year. Then Florence once told Rose Watson +something I had told her in confidence. I found it out and I was so +hurt. I couldn't forgive Florence, and I told her plainly I could +never be a real friend to her again. Florence felt badly, because she +really did love me, and she asked me to forgive her, but it seemed as +if I couldn't. Well, Aunt Emmy, that was my Christmas gift to her ... +my forgiveness. I went down last night and just put my arms around her +and told her that I loved her as much as ever and wanted to be real +close friends again. + +"I gave Aunt Mary her gift this morning. I told her I wasn't going to +Murraybridge, that I just meant to stay home with her. She was so +glad--and I'm glad, too, now that I've decided so." + +"Your gifts have been real gifts, Clorinda," said Aunt Emmy. +"Something of you--the best of you--went into each of them." + +Clorinda went out and brought her cornery armful in. + +"I didn't forget you, Aunt Emmy," she said, as she unpinned the paper. + +There was a rosebush--Clorinda's own pet rosebush--all snowed over +with fragrant blossoms. + +Aunt Emmy loved flowers. She put her finger under one of the roses and +kissed it. + +"It's as sweet as yourself, dear child," she said tenderly. "And it +will be a joy to me all through the lonely winter days. You've found +out the best meaning of Christmas giving, haven't you, dear?" + +"Yes, thanks to you, Aunt Emmy," said Clorinda softly. + + + + +Cyrilla's Inspiration + + +It was a rainy Saturday afternoon and all the boarders at Mrs. +Plunkett's were feeling dull and stupid, especially the Normal School +girls on the third floor, Cyrilla Blair and Carol Hart and Mary +Newton, who were known as The Trio, and shared the big front room +together. + +They were sitting in that front room, scowling out at the weather. At +least, Carol and Mary were scowling. Cyrilla never scowled; she was +sitting curled up on her bed with her Greek grammar, and she smiled at +the rain and her grumbling chums as cheerfully as possible. + +"For pity's sake, Cyrilla, put that grammar away," moaned Mary. "There +is something positively uncanny about a girl who can study Greek on +Saturday afternoons--at least, this early in the term." + +"I'm not really studying," said Cyrilla, tossing the book away. "I'm +only pretending to. I'm really just as bored and lonesome as you are. +But what else is there to do? We can't stir outside the door; we've +nothing to read; we can't make candy since Mrs. Plunkett has forbidden +us to use the oil stove in our room; we'll probably quarrel all round +if we sit here in idleness; so I've been trying to brush up my Greek +verbs by way of keeping out of mischief. Have you any better +employment to offer me?" + +"If it were only a mild drizzle we might go around and see the +Patterson girls," sighed Carol. "But there is no venturing out in such +a downpour. Cyrilla, you are supposed to be the brainiest one of us. +Prove your claim to such pre-eminence by thinking of some brand-new +amusement, especially suited to rainy afternoons. That will be putting +your grey matter to better use than squandering it on Greek verbs out +of study limits." + +"If only I'd got a letter from home today," said Mary, who seemed +determined to persist in gloom. "I wouldn't mind the weather. Letters +are such cheery things:--especially the letters my sister writes. +They're so full of fun and nice little news. The reading of one cheers +me up for the day. Cyrilla Blair, what is the matter? You nearly +frightened me to death!" Cyrilla had bounded from her bed to the +centre of the floor, waving her Greek grammar wildly in the air. + +"Girls, I have an inspiration!" she exclaimed. + +"Good! Let's hear it," said Carol. + +"Let's write letters--rainy-day letters--to everyone in the house," +said Cyrilla. "You may depend all the rest of the folks under Mrs. +Plunkett's hospitable roof are feeling more or less blue and lonely +too, as well as ourselves. Let's write them the jolliest, nicest +letters we can compose and get Nora Jane to take them to their rooms. +There's that pale little sewing girl, I don't believe she ever gets +letters from anybody, and Miss Marshall, I'm sure _she_ doesn't, and +poor old Mrs. Johnson, whose only son died last month, and the new +music teacher who came yesterday, a letter of welcome to her--and old +Mr. Grant, yes, and Mrs. Plunkett too, thanking her for all her +kindness to us. You knew she has been awfully nice to us in spite of +the oil stove ukase. That's six--two apiece. Let's do it, girls." + +Cyrilla's sudden enthusiasm for her plan infected the others. + +"It's a nice idea," said Mary, brightening up. "But who's to write to +whom? I'm willing to take anybody but Miss Marshall. I couldn't write +a line to her to save my life. She'd be horrified at anything funny or +jokey and our letters will have to be mainly nonsense--nonsense of the +best brand, to be sure, but still nonsense." + +"Better leave Miss Marshall out," suggested Carol. "You know she +disapproves of us anyhow. She'd probably resent a letter of the sort, +thinking we were trying to play some kind of joke on her." + +"It would never do to leave her out," said Cyrilla decisively. "Of +course, she's a bit queer and unamiable, but, girls, think of thirty +years of boarding-house life, even with the best of Plunketts. +Wouldn't that sour anybody? You know it would. You'd be cranky and +grumbly and disagreeable too, I dare say. I'm really sorry for Miss +Marshall. She's had a very hard life. Mrs. Plunkett told me all about +her one day. I don't think we should mind her biting little speeches +and sharp looks. And anyway, even if she is really as disagreeable as +she sometimes seems to be, why, it must make it all the harder for +her, don't you think? So she needs a letter most of all. I'll write to +her, since it's my suggestion. We'll draw lots for the others." + +Besides Miss Marshall, the new music teacher fell to Cyrilla's share. +Mary drew Mrs. Plunkett and the dressmaker, and Carol drew Mrs. +Johnson and old Mr. Grant. For the next two hours the girls wrote +busily, forgetting all about the rainy day, and enjoying their +epistolary labours to the full. It was dusk when all the letters were +finished. + +"Why, hasn't the afternoon gone quickly after all!" exclaimed Carol. +"I just let my pen run on and jotted down any good working idea that +came into my head. Cyrilla Blair, that big fat letter is never for +Miss Marshall! What on earth did you find to write her?" + +"It wasn't so hard when I got fairly started," said Cyrilla, smiling. +"Now, let's hunt up Nora Jane and send the letters around so that +everybody can read his or hers before tea-time. We should have a +choice assortment of smiles at the table instead of all those frowns +and sighs we had at dinner." Miss Emily Marshall was at that moment +sitting in her little back room, all alone in the dusk, with the rain +splashing drearily against the windowpanes outside. Miss Marshall was +feeling as lonely and dreary as she looked--and as she had often felt +in her life of sixty years. She told herself bitterly that she hadn't +a friend in the world--not even one who cared enough for her to come +and see her or write her a letter now and then. She thought her +boarding-house acquaintances disliked her and she resented their +dislike, without admitting to herself that her ungracious ways were +responsible for it. She smiled sourly when little ripples of laughter +came faintly down the hall from the front room where The Trio were +writing their letters and laughing over the fun they were putting into +them. + +"If they were old and lonesome and friendless they wouldn't see much +in life to laugh at, I guess," said Miss Marshall bitterly, drawing +her shawl closer about her sharp shoulders. "They never think of +anything but themselves and if a day passes that they don't have 'some +fun' they think it's a fearful thing to put up with. I'm sick and +tired of their giggling and whispering." + +In the midst of these amiable reflections Miss Marshall heard a knock +at her door. When she opened it there stood Nora Jane, her broad red +face beaming with smiles. + +"Please, Miss, here's a letter for you," she said. + +"A letter for me!" Miss Marshall shut her door and stared at the fat +envelope in amazement. Who could have written it? The postman came +only in the morning. Was it some joke, perhaps? Those giggling girls? +Miss Marshall's face grew harder as she lighted her lamp and opened +the letter suspiciously. + +"Dear Miss Marshall," it ran in Cyrilla's pretty girlish writing, "we +girls are so lonesome and dull that we have decided to write rainy-day +letters to everybody in the house just to cheer ourselves up. So I'm +going to write to you just a letter of friendly nonsense." + +Pages of "nonsense" followed, and very delightful nonsense it was, for +Cyrilla possessed the happy gift of bright and easy letter-writing. +She commented wittily on all the amusing episodes of the +boarding-house life for the past month; she described a cat-fight she +had witnessed from her window that morning and illustrated it by a +pen-and-ink sketch of the belligerent felines; she described a lovely +new dress her mother had sent her from home and told all about the +class party to which she had worn it; she gave an account of her +vacation camping trip to the mountains and pasted on one page a number +of small snapshots taken during the outing; she copied a joke she had +read in the paper that morning and discussed the serial story in the +boarding-house magazine which all the boarders were reading; she wrote +out the directions for a new crocheted tidy her sister had made--Miss +Marshall had a mania for crocheting; and she finally wound up with +"all the good will and good wishes that Nora Jane will consent to +carry from your friend, Cyrilla Blair." + +Before Miss Marshall had finished reading that letter she had cried +three times and laughed times past counting. More tears came at the +end--happy, tender tears such as Miss Marshall had not shed for years. +Something warm and sweet and gentle seemed to thrill to life within +her heart. So those girls were not such selfish, heedless young +creatures as she had supposed! How kind it had been in Cyrilla Blair +to think of her and write so to her. She no longer felt lonely and +neglected. Her whole sombre world had been brightened to sunshine by +that merry friendly letter. + +Mrs. Plunkett's table was surrounded by a ring of smiling faces that +night. Everybody seemed in good spirits in spite of the weather. The +pale little dressmaker, who had hardly uttered a word since her +arrival a week before, talked and laughed quite merrily and girlishly, +thanking Cyrilla unreservedly for her "jolly letter." Old Mr. Grant +did not grumble once about the rain or the food or his rheumatism and +he told Carol that she might be a good letter writer in time if she +looked after her grammar more carefully--which, from Mr. Grant, was +high praise. All the others declared that they were delighted with +their letters--all except Miss Marshall. She said nothing but later +on, when Cyrilla was going upstairs, she met Miss Marshall in the +shadows of the second landing. + +"My dear," said Miss Marshall gently, "I want to thank you for your +letter, I don't think you can realize just what it has meant to me. I +was so--so lonely and tired and discouraged. It heartened me right up. +I--I know you have thought me a cross and disagreeable person. I'm +afraid I have been, too. But--but--I shall try to be less so in +future. If I can't succeed all at once don't mind me because, under it +all, I shall always be your friend. And I mean to keep your letter and +read it over every time I feel myself getting bitter and hard again." +"Dear Miss Marshall, I'm so glad you liked it," said Cyrilla frankly. +"We're all your friends and would be glad to be chummy with you. Only +we thought perhaps we bothered you with our nonsense." + +"Come and see me sometimes," said Miss Marshall with a smile. "I'll +try to be 'chummy'--perhaps I'm not yet too old to learn the secret of +friendliness. Your letter has made me think that I have missed much in +shutting all young life out from mine as I have done. I want to reform +in this respect if I can." + +When Cyrilla reached the front room she found Mrs. Plunkett there. + +"I've just dropped in, Miss Blair," said that worthy woman, "to say +that I dunno as I mind your making candy once in a while if you want +to. Only do be careful not to set the place on fire. Please be +_particularly_ careful not to set it on fire." + +"We'll try," promised Cyrilla with dancing eyes. When the door closed +behind Mrs. Plunkett the three girls looked at each other. + +"Cyrilla, that idea of yours was a really truly inspiration," said +Carol solemnly. + +"I believe it was," said Cyrilla, thinking of Miss Marshall. + + + + +Dorinda's Desperate Deed + + +Dorinda had been home for a whole wonderful week and the little Pages +were beginning to feel acquainted with her. When a girl goes away when +she is ten and doesn't come back until she is fifteen, it is only to +be expected that her family should regard her as somewhat of a +stranger, especially when she is really a Page, and they are really +all Carters except for the name. Dorinda had been only ten when her +Aunt Mary--on the Carter side--had written to Mrs. Page, asking her to +let Dorinda come to her for the winter. + +Mrs. Page, albeit she was poor--nobody but herself knew how poor--and +a widow with five children besides Dorinda, hesitated at first. She +was afraid, with good reason, that the winter might stretch into other +seasons; but Mary had lost her own only little girl in the summer, and +Mrs. Page shuddered at the thought of what her loneliness must be. So, +to comfort her, Mrs. Page had let Dorinda go, stipulating that she +must come home in the spring. In the spring, when Dorinda's bed of +violets was growing purple under the lilac bush, Aunt Mary wrote +again. Dorinda was contented and happy, she said. Would not Emily let +her stay for the summer? Mrs. Page cried bitterly over that letter and +took sad counsel with herself. To let Dorinda stay with her aunt for +the summer really meant, she knew, to let her stay altogether. Mrs. +Page was finding it harder and harder to get along; there was so +little and the children needed so much; Dorinda would have a good home +with her Aunt Mary if she could only prevail on her rebellious mother +heart to give her up. In the end she agreed to let Dorinda stay for +the summer--and Dorinda had never been home since. + +But now Dorinda had come back to the little white house on the hill at +Willowdale, set back from the road in a smother of apple trees and +vines. Aunt Mary had died very suddenly and her only son, Dorinda's +cousin, had gone to Japan. There was nothing for Dorinda to do save +to come home, to enter again into her old unfilled place in her +mother's heart, and win a new place in the hearts of the brothers and +sisters who barely remembered her at all. Leicester had been nine and +Jean seven when Dorinda went away; now they were respectively fourteen +and twelve. + +At first they were a little shy with this big, practically brand-new +sister, but this soon wore off. Nobody could be shy long with Dorinda; +nobody could help liking her. She was so brisk and jolly and +sympathetic--a real Page, so everybody said--while the brothers and +sisters were Carter to their marrow; Carters with fair hair and blue +eyes, and small, fine, wistful features; but Dorinda had merry black +eyes, plump, dusky-red cheeks, and a long braid of glossy dark hair, +which was perpetually being twitched from one shoulder to another as +Dorinda whisked about the house on domestic duties intent. + +In a week Dorinda felt herself one of the family again, with all the +cares and responsibilities thereof resting on her strong young +shoulders. Dorinda and her mother talked matters out fully one +afternoon over their sewing, in the sunny south room where the winds +got lost among the vines halfway through the open window. Mrs. Page +sighed and said she really did not know what to do. Dorinda did not +sigh; she did not know just what to do either, but there must be +something that could be done--there is always something that can be +done, if one can only find it. Dorinda sewed hard and pursed up her +red lips determinedly. + +"Don't you worry, Mother Page," she said briskly. "We'll be like that +glorious old Roman who found a way or made it. I like overcoming +difficulties. I've lots of old Admiral Page's fighting blood in me, +you know. The first step is to tabulate just exactly what difficulties +among our many difficulties must be ravelled out first--the capital +difficulties, as it were. Most important of all comes--" + +"Leicester," said Mrs. Page. + +Dorinda winked her eyes as she always did when she was doubtful. + +"Well, I knew he was one of them, but I wasn't going to put him the +very first. However, we will. Leicester's case stands thus. He is a +pretty smart boy--if he wasn't my brother, I'd say he was a very smart +boy. He has gone as far in his studies as Willowdale School can take +him, has qualified for entrance into the Blue Hill Academy, wants to +go there this fall and begin the beginnings of a college course. Well, +of course, Mother Page, we can't send Leicester to Blue Hill any more +than we can send him to the moon." + +"No," mourned Mrs. Page, "and the poor boy feels so badly over it. His +heart is set on going to college and being a doctor like his father. +He believes he could work his way through, if he could only get a +start. But there isn't any chance. And I can't afford to keep him at +school any longer. He is going into Mr. Churchill's store at Willow +Centre in the fall. Mr. Churchill has very kindly offered him a place. +Leicester hates the thought of it--I know he does, although he never +says so." + +"Next to Leicester's college course we want--" + +"Music lessons for Jean." + +Dorinda winked again. + +"Are music lessons for Jean really a difficulty?" she said. "That is, +one spelled with a capital?" + +"Oh, yes, Dorinda dear. At least, I'm worried over it. Jean loves +music so, and she has never had anything, poor child, not even as much +school as she ought to have had. I've had to keep her home so much to +help me with the work. She has been such a good, patient little girl +too, and her heart is set on music lessons." + +"Well, she must have them then--after we get Leicester's year at the +academy for him. That's two. The third is a new--" + +"The roof _must_ be shingled this fall," said Mrs. Page anxiously. +"It really must, Dorinda. It is no better than a sieve. We are nearly +drowned every time it rains. But I don't know where the money to do it +is going to come from." + +"Shingles for the roof, three," said Dorinda, as if she were carefully +jotting down something in a mental memorandum. "And fourth--now, +Mother Page, I _will_ have my say this time--fourthly, biggest capital +of all, a Nice, New Dress and a Warm Fur Coat for Mother Page this +winter. Yes, yes, you must have them, dearest. It's absolutely +necessary. We can wait a year or so for college courses and music +lessons to grow; we can set basins under the leaks and borrow some +more if we haven't enough. But a new dress and coat for you we must, +shall, and will have, however it is to be brought about." + +"I wouldn't mind if I never got another new stitch, if I could only +manage the other things," said Mrs. Page stoutly. "If your Uncle +Eugene would only help us a little, until Leicester got through! He +really ought to. But of course he never will." + +"Have you ever asked him?" said Dorinda. + +"Oh, my dear, no; of course not," said Mrs. Page in a horrified tone, +as if Dorinda had asked if she had ever stolen a neighbour's spoons. + +"I don't see why you shouldn't," said Dorinda seriously. + +"Oh, Dorinda, Uncle Eugene hates us all. He is terribly bitter against +us. He would never, never listen to any request for help, even if I +could bring myself to make it." + +"Mother, what was the trouble between us and Uncle Eugene? I have +never known the rights of it. I was too small to understand when I was +home before. All I remember is that Uncle Eugene never came to see us +or spoke to us when he met us anywhere, and we were all afraid of him +somehow. I used to think of him as an ogre who would come creeping up +the back stairs after dark and carry me off bodily if I wasn't good. +What made him our enemy? And how did he come to get all of +Grandfather Page's property when Father got nothing?" + +"Well, you know, Dorinda, that your Grandfather Page was married +twice. Eugene was his first wife's son, and your father the second +wife's. Eugene was a great deal older than your father--he was +twenty-five when your father was born. He was always an odd man, even +in his youth, and he had been much displeased at his father's second +marriage. But he was very fond of your father--whose mother, as you +know, died at his birth--and they were good friends and comrades until +just before your father went to college. They then quarrelled; the +cause of the quarrel was insignificant; with anyone else than Eugene a +reconciliation would soon have been effected. But Eugene never was +friendly with your father from that time. I think he was jealous of +old Grandfather's affection; thought the old man loved your father +best. And then, as I have said, he was very eccentric and stubborn. +Well, your father went away to college and graduated, and then--we +were married. Grandfather Page was very angry with him for marrying +me. He wanted him to marry somebody else. He told him he would +disinherit him if he married me. I did not know this until we were +married. But Grandfather Page kept his word. He sent for a lawyer and +had a new will made, leaving everything to Eugene. I think, nay, I am +sure, that he would have relented in time, but he died the very next +week; they found him dead in his bed one morning, so Eugene got +everything; and that is all there is of the story, Dorinda." + +"And Uncle Eugene has been our enemy ever since?" + +"Yes, ever since. So you see, Dorinda dear, that I cannot ask any +favours of Uncle Eugene." + +"Yes, I see," said Dorinda understandingly. To herself she added, "But +I don't see why _I_ shouldn't." + +Dorinda thought hard and long for the next few days about the capital +difficulties. She could think of only one thing to do and, despite old +Admiral Page's fighting blood, she shrank from doing it. But one +night she found Leicester with his head down on his books and--no, it +couldn't be tears in his eyes, because Leicester laughed scornfully at +the insinuation. + +"I wouldn't cry over it, Dorinda; I hope I'm more of a man than +_that_. But I do really feel rather cut up because I've no chance of +getting to college. And I hate the thought of going into a store. But +I know I must for Mother's sake, and I mean to pitch in and like it in +spite of myself when the time comes. Only--only--" + +And then Leicester got up and whistled and went to the window and +stood with his back to Dorinda. + +"That settles it," said Dorinda out loud, as she brushed her hair +before the glass that night. "I'll do it." + +"Do what?" asked Jean from the bed. + +"A desperate deed," said Dorinda solemnly, and that was all she would +say. + +Next day Mrs. Page and Leicester went to town on business. In the +afternoon Dorinda put on her best dress and hat and started out. +Admiral Page's fighting blood was glowing in her cheeks as she walked +briskly up the hill road, but her heart beat in an odd fashion. + +"I wonder if I am a little scared, 'way down deep," said Dorinda. "I +believe I am. But I'm going to do it for all that, and the scareder I +get the more I'll do it." + +Oaklawn, where Uncle Eugene lived, was two miles away. It was a fine +old place in beautiful grounds. But Dorinda did not quail before its +splendours; nor did her heart fail her, even after she had rung the +bell and had been shown by a maid into a very handsome parlour, but it +still continued to beat in that queer fashion halfway up her throat. + +Presently Uncle Eugene came in, a tall, black-eyed old man, with a +fine head of silver hair that should have framed a ruddy, benevolent +face, instead of Uncle Eugene's hard-lipped, bushy-browed +countenance. + +Dorinda stood up, dusky and crimson, with brave, glowing eyes. Uncle +Eugene looked at her sharply. + +"Who are you?" he said bluntly. + +"I am your niece, Dorinda Page," said Dorinda steadily. + +"And what does my niece, Dorinda Page, want with me?" demanded Uncle +Eugene, motioning to her to sit down and sitting down himself. But +Dorinda remained standing. It is easier to fight on your feet. + +"I want you to do four things, Uncle Eugene," she said, as calmly as +if she were making the most natural and ordinary request in the world. +"I want you to lend us the money to send Leicester to Blue Hill +Academy; he will pay it back to you when he gets through college. I +want you to lend Jean the money for music lessons; she will pay you +back when she gets far enough along to give lessons herself. And I +want you to lend me the money to shingle our house and get Mother a +new dress and fur coat for the winter. I'll pay you back sometime for +that, because I am going to set up as a dressmaker pretty soon." + +"Anything more?" said Uncle Eugene, when Dorinda stopped. + +"Nothing more just now, I think," said Dorinda reflectively. + +"Why don't you ask for something for yourself?" said Uncle Eugene. + +"I don't want anything for myself," said Dorinda promptly. "Or--yes, I +do, too. I want your friendship, Uncle Eugene." + +"Be kind enough to sit down," said Uncle Eugene. + +Dorinda sat. + +"You are a Page," said Uncle Eugene. "I saw that as soon as I came in. +I will send Leicester to college and I shall not ask or expect to be +paid back. Jean shall have her music lessons, and a piano to practise +them on as well. The house shall be shingled, and the money for the +new dress and coat shall be forthcoming. You and I will be friends." + +"Thank you," gasped Dorinda, wondering if, after all, it wasn't a +dream. + +"I would have gladly assisted your mother before," said Uncle Eugene, +"if she had asked me. I had determined that she must ask me first. I +knew that half the money should have been your father's by rights. I +was prepared to hand it over to him or his family, if I were asked for +it. But I wished to humble his pride, and the Carter pride, to the +point of asking for it. Not a very amiable temper, you will say? I +admit it. I am not amiable and I never have been amiable. You must be +prepared to find me very unamiable. I see that you are waiting for a +chance to say something polite and pleasant on that score, but you may +save yourself the trouble. I shall hope and expect to have you visit +me often. If your mother and your brothers and sisters see fit to come +with you, I shall welcome them also. I think that this is all it is +necessary to say just now. Will you stay to tea with me this evening?" + +Dorinda stayed to tea, since she knew that Jean was at home to attend +to matters there. She and Uncle Eugene got on famously. When she left, +Uncle Eugene, grim and hard-lipped as ever, saw her to the door. + +"Good evening, Niece Dorinda. You are a Page and I am proud of you. +Tell your mother that many things in this life are lost through not +asking for them. I don't think you are in need of the information for +yourself." + + + + +Her Own People + + +The Taunton School had closed for the summer holidays. Constance +Foster and Miss Channing went down the long, elm-shaded street +together, as they generally did, because they happened to board on the +same block downtown. + +Constance was the youngest teacher on the staff, and had charge of the +Primary Department. She had taught in Taunton school a year, and at +its close she was as much of a stranger in the little corps of +teachers as she had been at the beginning. The others thought her +stiff and unapproachable; she was unpopular in a negative way with all +except Miss Channing, who made it a profession to like everybody, the +more so if other people disliked them. Miss Channing was the oldest +teacher on the staff, and taught the fifth grade. She was short and +stout and jolly; nothing, not even the iciest reserve, ever daunted +Miss Channing. + +"Isn't it good to think of two whole blessed months of freedom?" she +said jubilantly. "Two months to dream, to be lazy, to go where one +pleases, no exercises to correct, no reports to make, no pupils to +keep in order. To be sure, I love them every one, but I'll love them +all the more for a bit of a rest from them. Isn't it good?" + +A little satirical smile crossed Constance Foster's dark, discontented +face, looking just then all the more discontented in contrast to Miss +Channing's rosy, beaming countenance. + +"It's very good, if you have anywhere to go, or anybody who cares +where you go," she said bitterly. "For my own part, I'm sorry school +is closed. I'd rather go on teaching all summer." + +"Heresy!" said Miss Channing. "Rank heresy! What are your vacation +plans?" + +"I haven't any," said Constance wearily. "I've put off thinking about +vacation as long as I possibly could. You'll call that heresy, too, +Miss Channing." + +"It's worse than heresy," said Miss Channing briskly. "It's a crying +necessity for blue pills, that's what it is. Your whole mental and +moral and physical and spiritual system must be out of kilter, my +child. No vacation plans! You _must_ have vacation plans. You must be +going _somewhere_." + +"Oh, I suppose I'll hunt up a boarding place somewhere in the country, +and go there and mope until September." + +"Have you no friends, Constance?" + +"No--no, I haven't anybody in the world. That is why I hate vacation, +that is why I've hated to hear you and the others discussing your +vacation plans. You all have somebody to go to. It has just filled me +up with hatred of my life." + +Miss Channing swallowed her honest horror at such a state of feeling. + +"Constance, tell me about yourself. I've often wanted to ask you, but +I was always a little afraid to. You seem so reserved and--and, as if +you didn't want to be asked about yourself." + +"I know it. I know I'm stiff and hateful, and that nobody likes me, +and that it is all my own fault. No, never mind trying to smooth it +over, Miss Channing. It's the truth, and it hurts me, but I can't help +it. I'm getting more bitter and pessimistic and unwholesome every day +of my life. Sometimes it seems as if I hated all the world because I'm +so lonely in it. I'm nobody. My mother died when I was born--and +Father--oh, I don't know. One can't say anything against one's father, +Miss Channing. But I had a hard childhood--or rather, I didn't have +any childhood at all. We were always moving about. We didn't seem to +have any friends at all. My mother might have had relatives +somewhere, but I never heard of any. I don't even know where her home +was. Father never would talk of her. He died two years ago, and since +then I've been absolutely alone." + +"Oh, you poor girl," said Miss Channing softly. + +"I want friends," went on Constance, seeming to take a pleasure in +open confession now that her tongue was loosed. "I've always just +longed for somebody belonging to me to love. I don't love anybody, +Miss Channing, and when a girl is in that state, she is all wrong. She +gets hard and bitter and resentful--I have, anyway. I struggled +against it at first, but it has been too much for me. It poisons +everything. There is nobody to care anything about me, whether I live +or die." + +"Oh, yes, there is One," said Miss Channing gently. "God cares, +Constance." + +Constance gave a disagreeable little laugh. + +"That sounds like Miss Williams--she is so religious. God doesn't mean +anything to me, Miss Channing. I've just the same resentful feeling +toward him that I have for all the world, if he exists at all. There, +I've shocked you in good earnest now. You should have left me alone, +Miss Channing." + +"God means nothing to you because you've never had him translated to +you through human love, Constance," said Miss Channing seriously. "No, +you haven't shocked me--at least, not in the way you mean. I'm only +terribly sorry." + +"Oh, never mind me," said Constance, freezing up into her reserve +again as if she regretted her confidences. "I'll get along all right. +This is one of my off days, when everything looks black." + +Miss Channing walked on in silence. She must help Constance, but +Constance was not easily helped. When school reopened, she might be +able to do something worthwhile for the girl, but just now the only +thing to do was to put her in the way of a pleasant vacation. + +"You spoke of boarding," she said, when Constance paused at the door +of her boarding-house. "Have you any particular place in view? No? +Well, I know a place which I am sure you would like. I was there two +summers ago. It is a country place about a hundred miles from here. +Pine Valley is its name. It's restful and homey, and the people are so +nice. If you like, I'll give you the address of the family I boarded +with." + +"Thank you," said Constance indifferently. "I might as well go there +as anywhere else." + +"Yes, but listen to me, dear. Don't take your morbidness with you. +Open your heart to the summer, and let its sunshine in, and when you +come back in the fall, come prepared to let us all be your friends. +We'd like to be, and while friendship doesn't take the place of the +love of one's own people, still it is a good and beautiful thing. +Besides, there are other unhappy people in the world--try to help them +when you meet them, and you'll forget about yourself. Good-by for now, +and I hope you'll have a pleasant vacation in spite of yourself." + +Constance went to Pine Valley, but she took her evil spirit with her. +Not even the beauty of the valley, with its great balmy pines, and the +cheerful friendliness of its people could exorcise it. + +Nevertheless, she liked the place and found a wholesome pleasure in +the long tramps she took along the piney roads. + +"I saw such a pretty spot in my ramble this afternoon," she told her +landlady one evening. "It is about three miles from here at the end of +the valley. Such a picturesque, low-eaved little house, all covered +over with honeysuckle. It was set between a big orchard and an +old-fashioned flower garden with great pines at the back." + +"Heartsease Farm," said Mrs. Hewitt promptly. "Bless you, there's only +one place around here of that description. Mr. and Mrs. Bruce, Uncle +Charles and Aunt Flora, as we all call them, live there. They are the +dearest old couple alive. You ought to go and see them, they'd be +delighted. Aunt Flora just loves company. They're real lonesome by +times." + +"Haven't they any children?" asked Constance indifferently. Her +interest was in the place, not in the people. + +"No. They had a niece once, though. They brought her up and they just +worshipped her. She ran away with a worthless fellow--I forget his +name, if I ever knew it. He was handsome and smooth-tongued, but he +was a scamp. She died soon after and it just broke their hearts. They +don't even know where she was buried, and they never heard anything +more about her husband. I've heard that Aunt Flora's hair turned +snow-white in a month. I'll take you up to see her some day when I +find time." + +Mrs. Hewitt did not find time, but thereafter Constance ordered her +rambles that she might frequently pass Heartsease Farm. The quaint old +spot had a strange attraction for her. She found herself learning to +love it, and so unused was this unfortunate girl to loving anything +that she laughed at herself for her foolishness. + +One evening a fortnight later Constance, with her arms full of ferns +and wood-lilies, came out of the pine woods above Heartsease Farm just +as heavy raindrops began to fall. She had prolonged her ramble +unseasonably, and it was now nearly night, and very certainly a rainy +night at that. She was three miles from home and without even an extra +wrap. + +She hurried down the lane, but by the time she reached the main road, +the few drops had become a downpour. She must seek shelter somewhere, +and Heartsease Farm was the nearest. She pushed open the gate and ran +up the slope of the yard between the hedges of sweetbriar. She was +spared the trouble of knocking, for as she came to a breathless halt +on the big red sandstone doorstep, the door was flung open, and the +white-haired, happy-faced little woman standing on the threshold had +seized her hand and drawn her in bodily before she could speak a word. + +"I saw you coming from upstairs," said Aunt Flora gleefully, "and I +just ran down as fast as I could. Dear, dear, you are a little wet. +But we'll soon dry you. Come right in--I've a bit of a fire in the +grate, for the evening is chilly. They laughed at me for loving a fire +so, but there's nothing like its snap and sparkle. You're rained in +for the night, and I'm as glad as I can be. I know who you are--you +are Miss Foster. I'm Aunt Flora, and this is Uncle Charles." + +Constance let herself be put into a cushiony chair and fussed over +with an unaccustomed sense of pleasure. The rain was coming down in +torrents, and she certainly was domiciled at Heartsease Farm for the +night. Somehow, she felt glad of it. Mrs. Hewitt was right in calling +Aunt Flora sweet, and Uncle Charles was a big, jolly, ruddy-faced old +man with a hearty manner. He shook Constance's hand until it ached, +threw more pine knots in the fire and told her he wished it would rain +every night if it rained down a nice little girl like her. + +She found herself strangely attracted to the old couple. The name of +their farm was in perfect keeping with their atmosphere. Constance's +frozen soul expanded in it. She chatted merrily and girlishly, feeling +as if she had known them all her life. + +When bedtime came, Aunt Flora took her upstairs to a little gable +room. + +"My spare room is all in disorder just now, dearie, we have been +painting its floor. So I'm going to put you here in Jeannie's room. +Someway you remind me of her, and you are just about the age she was +when she left us. If it wasn't for that, I don't think I could put you +in her room, not even if every other floor in the house were being +painted. It is so sacred to me. I keep it just as she left it, not a +thing is changed. Good night dearie, and I hope you'll have pleasant +dreams." + +When Constance found herself alone in the room, she looked about her +with curiosity. It was a very dainty, old-fashioned little room. The +floor was covered with braided mats; the two square, small-paned +windows were draped with snowy muslin. In one corner was a little +white bed with white curtains and daintily ruffled pillows, and in the +other a dressing table with a gilt-framed mirror and the various +knick-knacks of a girlish toilet. There was a little blue rocker and +an ottoman with a work-basket on it. In the work-basket was a bit of +unfinished, yellowed lace with a needle sticking in it. A small +bookcase under the sloping ceiling was filled with books. + +Constance picked up one and opened it at the yellowing title-page. She +gave a little cry of surprise. The name written across the page in a +fine, dainty script was "Jean Constance Irving," her mother's name! + +For a moment Constance stood motionless. Then she turned impulsively +and hurried downstairs again. Mr. and Mrs. Bruce were still in the +sitting room talking to each other in the firelight. + +"Oh," cried Constance excitedly. "I must know, I must ask you. This is +my mother's name, Jean Constance Irving, can it be possible she was +your little Jeannie?" + + * * * * * + +A fortnight later Miss Channing received a letter from Constance. + +"I am so happy," she wrote. "Oh, Miss Channing, I have found 'mine own +people,' and Heartsease Farm is to be my own, own dear home for +always. + +"It was such a strange coincidence, no, Aunt Flora says it was +Providence, and I believe it was, too. I came here one rainy night, +and Aunty put me in my mother's room, think of it! My own dear +mother's room, and I found her name in a book. And now the mystery is +all cleared up, and we are so happy. + +"Everything is dear and beautiful, and almost the dearest and most +beautiful thing is that I am getting acquainted with my mother, the +mother I never knew before. She no longer seems dead to me. I feel +that she lives and loves me, and I am learning to know her better +every day. I have her room and her books and all her little girlish +possessions. When I read her books, with their passages underlined by +her hand, I feel as if she were speaking to me. She was very good and +sweet, in spite of her one foolish, bitter mistake, and I want to be +as much like her as I can. + +"I said that this was _almost_ the dearest and most beautiful thing. +The very dearest and most beautiful is this--God means something to me +now. He means so much! I remember that you said to me that he meant +nothing to me because I had no human love in my heart to translate the +divine. But I have now, and it has led me to Him. + +"I am not going back to Taunton. I have sent in my resignation. I am +going to stay home with Aunty and Uncle. It is so sweet to say _home_ +and know what it means. + +"Aunty says you must come and spend all your next vacation with us. +You see, I have lots of vacation plans now, even for a year ahead. +After all, there is no need of the blue pills! + +"I feel like a new creature, made over from the heart and soul out. I +look back with shame and contrition on the old Constance. I want you +to forget her and only remember your grateful friend, the _new_ +Constance." + + + + +Ida's New Year Cake + + +Mary Craig and Sara Reid and Josie Pye had all flocked into Ida +Mitchell's room at their boarding-house to condole with each other +because none of them was able to go home for New Year's. Mary and +Josie had been home for Christmas, so they didn't really feel so badly +off. But Ida and Sara hadn't even that consolation. + +Ida was a third-year student at the Clifton Academy; she had holidays, +and nowhere, so she mournfully affirmed, to spend them. At home three +brothers and a sister were down with the measles, and, as Ida had +never had them, she could not go there; and the news had come too late +for her to make any other arrangements. + +Mary and Josie were clerks in a Clifton bookstore, and Sara was +stenographer in a Clifton lawyer's office. And they were all jolly +and thoughtless and very fond of one another. + +"This will be the first New Year's I have ever spent away from home," +sighed Sara, nibbling chocolate fudge. "It does make me so blue to +think of it. And not even a holiday--I'll have to go to work just the +same. Now Ida here, she doesn't really need sympathy. She has +holidays--a whole fortnight--and nothing to do but enjoy them." + +"Holidays are dismal things when you've nowhere to holiday," said Ida +mournfully. "The time drags horribly. But never mind, girls, I've a +plummy bit of news for you. I'd a letter from Mother today and, bless +the dear woman, she is sending me a cake--a New Year's cake--a great +big, spicy, mellow, delicious fruit cake. It will be along tomorrow +and, girls, we'll celebrate when it comes. I've asked everybody in the +house up to my room for New Year's Eve, and we'll have a royal good +time." + +"How splendid!" said Mary. "There's nothing I like more than a slice +of real countrified home-made fruit cake, where they don't scrimp on +eggs or butter or raisins. You'll give me a good big piece, won't you, +Ida?" + +"As much as you can eat," promised Ida. "I can warrant Mother's fruit +cake. Yes, we'll have a jamboree. Miss Monroe has promised to come in +too. She says she has a weakness for fruit cake." + +"Oh!" breathed all the girls. Miss Monroe was their idol, whom they +had to be content to worship at a distance as a general thing. She was +a clever journalist, who worked on a paper, and was reputed to be +writing a book. The girls felt they were highly privileged to be +boarding in the same house, and counted that day lost on which they +did not receive a businesslike nod or an absent-minded smile from Miss +Monroe. If she ever had time to speak to one of them about the +weather, that fortunate one put on airs for a week. And now to think +that she had actually promised to drop into Ida's room on New Year's +Eve and eat fruit cake! + +"There goes that funny little namesake of yours, Ida," said Josie, who +was sitting by the window. "She seems to be staying in town over the +holidays too. Wonder why. Perhaps she doesn't belong anywhere. She +really is a most forlorn-appearing little mortal." + +There were two Ida Mitchells attending the Clifton Academy. The other +Ida was a plain, quiet, pale-faced little girl of fifteen who was in +the second year. Beyond that, none of the third-year Ida Mitchell's +set knew anything about her, or tried to find out. + +"She must be very poor," said Ida carelessly. "She dresses so +shabbily, and she always looks so pinched and subdued. She boards in a +little house out on Marlboro Road, and I pity her if she has to spend +her holidays there, for a more dismal place I never saw. I was there +once on the trail of a book I had lost. Going, girls? Well, don't +forget tomorrow night." + +Ida spent the next day decorating her room and watching for the +arrival of her cake. It hadn't come by tea-time, and she concluded to +go down to the express office and investigate. It would be dreadful if +that cake didn't turn up in time, with all the girls and Miss Monroe +coming in. Ida felt that she would be mortified to death. + +Inquiry at the express office discovered two things. A box had come in +for Miss Ida Mitchell, Clifton; and said box had been delivered to +Miss Ida Mitchell, Clifton. + +"One of our clerks said he knew you personally--boarded next door to +you--and he'd take it round himself," the manager informed her. + +"There must be some mistake," said Ida in perplexity. "I don't know +any of the clerks here. Oh--why--there's another Ida Mitchell in town! +Can it be possible my cake has gone to her?" + +The manager thought it very possible, and offered to send around and +see. But Ida said it was on her way home and she would call herself. + +At the dismal little house on Marlboro Road she was sent up three +flights of stairs to the other Ida Mitchell's small hall bedroom. The +other Ida Mitchell opened the door for her. Behind her, on the table, +was the cake--such a fine, big, brown cake, with raisins sticking out +all over it! + +"Why, how do you do, Miss Mitchell!" exclaimed the other Ida with shy +pleasure. "Come in. I didn't know you were in town. It's real good of +you to come and see me. And just see what I've had sent to me! Isn't +it a beauty? I was so surprised when it came--and, oh, so glad! I was +feeling so blue and lonesome--as if I hadn't a friend in the world. +I--I--yes, I was crying when that cake came. It has just made the +world over for me. Do sit down and I'll cut you a piece. I'm sure +you're as fond of fruit cake as I am." + +Ida sat down in a chair, feeling bewildered and awkward. This was a +nice predicament! How could she tell that other Ida that the cake +didn't belong to her? The poor thing was so delighted. And, oh, what a +bare, lonely little room! The big, luxurious cake seemed to emphasize +the bareness and loneliness. + +"Who--who sent it to you?" she asked lamely. + +"It must have been Mrs. Henderson, because there is nobody else who +would," answered the other Ida. "Two years ago I was going to school +in Trenton and I boarded with her. When I left her to come to Clifton +she told me she would send me a cake for Christmas. Well, I expected +that cake last year--and it didn't come. I can't tell you how +disappointed I was. You'll think me very childish. But I was so +lonely, with no home to go to like the other girls. But she sent it +this year, you see. It is so nice to think that somebody has +remembered me at New Year's. It isn't the cake itself--it's the +thought behind it. It has just made all the difference in the world. +There--just sample it, Miss Mitchell." + +The other Ida cut a generous slice from the cake and passed it to her +guest. Her eyes were shining and her cheeks were flushed. She was +really a very sweet-looking little thing--not a bit like her usual +pale, timid self. + +Ida ate the cake slowly. What was she to do? She couldn't tell the +other Ida the truth about the cake. But the girls she had asked in to +help eat it that very evening! And Miss Monroe! Oh, dear, it was too +bad. But it couldn't be helped. She wouldn't blot out that light on +the other Ida's face for anything! Of course, she would find out the +truth in time--probably after she had written to thank Mrs. Henderson +for the cake; but meanwhile she would have enjoyed the cake, and the +supposed kindness back of it would tide her over her New Year +loneliness. + +"It's delicious," said Ida heartily, swallowing her own disappointment +with the cake. "I'm--I'm glad I happened to drop in as I was passing." +Ida hoped that speech didn't come under the head of a fib. + +"So am I," said the other Ida brightly. "Oh, I've been so lonesome and +downhearted this week. I'm so alone, you see--there isn't anybody to +care. Father died three years ago, and I don't remember my mother at +all. There is nobody but myself, and it is dreadfully lonely at times. +When the Academy is open and I have my lessons to study, I don't mind +so much. But the holidays take all the courage out of me." + +"We should have fraternized more this week," smiled Ida, regretting +that she hadn't thought of it before. "I couldn't go home because of +the measles, and I've moped a lot. We might have spent the time +together and had a real nice, jolly holiday." + +The other Ida blushed with delight. + +"I'd love to be friends with you," she said slowly. "I've often +thought I'd like to know you. Isn't it odd that we have the same name? +It was so nice of you to come and see me. I--I'd love to have you come +often." + +"I will," said Ida heartily. + +"Perhaps you will stay the evening," suggested the other Ida. "I've +asked some of the girls who board here in to have some cake, I'm so +glad to be able to give them something--they've all been so good to +me. They are all clerks in stores and some of them are so tired and +lonely. It's so nice to have a pleasure to share with them. Won't you +stay?" + +"I'd like to," laughed Ida, "but I have some guests of my own invited +in for tonight. I must hurry home, for they will most surely be +waiting for me." + +She laughed again as she thought what else the guests would be waiting +for. But her face was sober enough as she walked home. + +"But I'm glad I left the cake with her," she said resolutely. "Poor +little thing! It means so much to her. It meant only 'a good feed,' as +Josie says, to me. I'm simply going to make it my business next term +to be good friends with the other Ida Mitchell. I'm afraid we +third-year girls are very self-centred and selfish. And I know what +I'll do! I'll write to Abby Morton in Trenton to send me Mrs. +Henderson's address, and I'll write her a letter and ask her not to +let Ida know she didn't send the cake." + +Ida went into a confectionery store and invested in what Josie Pye was +wont to call "ready-to-wear eatables"--fancy cakes, fruit, and +candies. When she reached her room she found it full of expectant +girls, with Miss Monroe enthroned in the midst of them--Miss Monroe +in a wonderful evening dress of black lace and yellow silk, with roses +in her hair and pearls on her neck--all donned in honour of Ida's +little celebration. I won't say that, just for a moment, Ida didn't +regret that she had given up her cake. + +"Good evening, Miss Mitchell," cried Mary Craig gaily. "Walk right in +and make yourself at home in your own room, do! We all met in the +hall, and knocked and knocked. Finally Miss Monroe came, so we made +bold to walk right in. Where is the only and original fruit cake, Ida? +My mouth has been watering all day." + +"The other Ida Mitchell is probably entertaining her friends at this +moment with my fruit cake," said Ida, with a little laugh. + +Then she told the whole story. + +"I'm so sorry to disappoint you," she concluded, "but I simply +couldn't tell that poor, lonely child that the cake wasn't intended +for her. I've brought all the goodies home with me that I could buy, +and we'll have to do the best we can without the fruit cake." + +Their "best" proved to be a very good thing. They had a jolly New +Year's Eve, and Miss Monroe sparkled and entertained most brilliantly. +They kept their celebration up until twelve to welcome the new year +in, and then they bade Ida good night. But Miss Monroe lingered for a +moment behind the others to say softly: + +"I want to tell you how good and sweet I think it was of you to give +up your cake to the other Ida. That little bit of unselfishness was a +good guerdon for your new year." + +And Ida, radiant-faced at this praise from her idol, answered +heartily: + +"I'm afraid I'm anything but unselfish, Miss Monroe. But I mean to try +to be more this coming year and think a little about the girls outside +of my own little set who may be lonely or discouraged. The other Ida +Mitchell isn't going to have to depend on that fruit cake alone for +comfort and encouragement for the next twelve months." + + + + +In the Old Valley + + +The man halted on the crest of the hill and looked sombrely down into +the long valley below. It was evening, and although the hills around +him were still in the light the valley was already filled with kindly, +placid shadows. A wind that blew across it from the misty blue sea +beyond was making wild music in the rugged firs above his head as he +stood in an angle of the weather-grey longer fence, knee-deep in +bracken. It had been by these firs he had halted twenty years ago, +turning for one last glance at the valley below, the home valley which +he had never seen since. But then the firs had been little more than +vigorous young saplings; they were tall, gnarled trees now, with +lichened trunks, and their lower boughs were dead. But high up their +tops were green and caught the saffron light of the west. He +remembered that when a boy he had thought there was nothing more +beautiful than the evening sunshine falling athwart the dark green fir +boughs on the hills. + +As he listened to the swish and murmur of the wind, the earth-old tune +with the power to carry the soul back to the dawn of time, the years +fell away from him and he forgot much, remembering more. He knew now +that there had always been a longing in his heart to hear the +wind-chant in the firs. He had called that longing by other names, but +he knew it now for what it was when, hearing, he was satisfied. + +He was a tall man with iron-grey hair and the face of a +conqueror--strong, pitiless, unswerving. Eagle eyes, quick to discern +and unfaltering to pursue; jaw square and intrepid; mouth formed to +keep secrets and cajole men to his will--a face that hid much and +revealed little. It told of power and intellect, but the soul of the +man was a hidden thing. Not in the arena where he had fought and +triumphed, giving fierce blow for blow, was it to be shown; but here, +looking down on the homeland, with the strength of the hills about +him, it rose dominantly and claimed its own. The old bond held. Yonder +below him was home--the old house that had sheltered him, the graves +of his kin, the wide fields where his boyhood dreams had been dreamed. + +Should he go down to it? This was the question he asked himself. He +had come back to it, heartsick of his idols of the marketplace. For +years they had satisfied him, the buying and selling and getting gain, +the pitting of strength and craft against strength and craft, the +tireless struggle, the exultation of victory. Then, suddenly, they had +failed their worshipper; they ceased to satisfy; the sacrifices he had +heaped on their altars availed him nothing in this new need and hunger +of his being. His gods mocked him and he wearied of their service. +Were there not better things than these, things he had once known and +loved and forgotten? Where were the ideals of his youth, the lofty +aspirations that had upborne him then? Where was the eagerness and +zest of new dawns, the earnestness of well-filled, purposeful hours of +labour, the satisfaction of a good day worthily lived, at eventide the +unbroken rest of long, starry nights? Where might he find them again? +Were they yet to be had for the seeking in the old valley? With the +thought came a great yearning for home. He had had many habitations, +but he realized now that he had never thought of any of these places +as home. That name had all unconsciously been kept sacred to the long, +green, seaward-looking glen where he had been born. + +So he had come back to it, drawn by a longing not to be resisted. But +at the last he felt afraid. There had been many changes, of that he +felt sure. Would it still be home? And if not, would not the loss be +most irreparable and bitter? Would it not be better to go away, having +looked at it from the hill and having heard the saga of the firs, +keeping his memory of it unblurred, than risk the probable disillusion +of a return to the places that had forgotten him and friends whom the +varying years must certainly have changed as he had changed himself? +No, he would not go down. It had been a foolish whim to come at +all--foolish, because the object of his quest was not to be found +there or elsewhere. He could not enter again into the heritage of +boyhood and the heart of youth. He could not find there the old dreams +and hopes that had made life sweet. He understood that he could not +bring back to the old valley what he had taken from it. He had lost +that intangible, all-real wealth of faith and idealism and zest; he +had bartered it away for the hard, yellow gold of the marketplace, and +he realized at last how much poorer he was than when he had left that +home valley. His was a name that stood for millions, but he was +beggared of hope and purpose. + +No, he would not go down. There was no one left there, unchanged and +unchanging, to welcome him. He would be a stranger there, even among +his kin. He would stay awhile on the hill, until the night came down +over it, and then he would go back to his own place. + +Down below him, on the crest of a little upland, he saw his old home, +a weather-grey house, almost hidden among white birch and apple trees, +with a thick fir grove to the north of it. He had been born in that +old house; his earliest memory was of standing on its threshold and +looking afar up to the long green hills. + +"What is over the hills?" he had asked of his mother. With a smile she +had made answer, + +"Many things, laddie. Wonderful things, beautiful things, +heart-breaking things." + +"Some day I shall go over the hills and find them all, Mother," he had +said stoutly. + +She had laughed and sighed and caught him to her heart. He had no +recollection of his father, who had died soon after his son's birth, +but how well he remembered his mother, his little, brown-eyed, +girlish-faced mother! + +He had lived on the homestead until he was twenty. He had tilled the +broad fields and gone in and out among the people, and their life had +been his life. But his heart was not in his work. He wanted to go +beyond the hills and seek what he knew must be there. The valley was +too narrow, too placid. He longed for conflict and accomplishment. He +felt power and desire and the lust of endeavour stirring in him. Oh, +to go over the hills to a world where men lived! Such had been the +goal of all his dreams. + +When his mother died he sold the farm to his cousin, Stephen Marshall. +He supposed it still belonged to him. Stephen had been a good sort of +a fellow, a bit slow and plodding, perhaps, bovinely content to dwell +within the hills, never hearkening or responding to the lure of the +beyond. Yet it might be he had chosen the better part, to dwell thus +on the land of his fathers, with a wife won in youth, and children to +grow up around him. The childless, wifeless man looking down from the +hill wondered if it might have been so with him had he been content to +stay in the valley. Perhaps so. There had been Joyce. + +He wondered where Joyce was now and whom she had married, for of +course she had married. Did she too live somewhere down there in the +valley, the matronly, contented mother of lads and lassies? He could +see her old home also, not so far from his own, just across a green +meadow by way of a footpath and stile and through the firs beyond it. +How often he had traversed that path in the old days, knowing that +Joyce would be waiting at the end of it among the firs--Joyce, the +playmate of childhood, the sweet confidante and companion of youth! +They had never been avowed lovers, but he had loved her then, as a boy +loves, although he had never said a word of love to her. Joyce alone +knew of his longings and his ambitions and his dreams; he had told +them all to her freely, sure of the understanding and sympathy no +other soul in the valley could give him. How true and strong and +womanly and gentle she had always been! + +When he left home he had meant to go back to her some day. They had +parted without pledge or kiss, yet he knew she loved him and that he +loved her. At first they corresponded, then the letters began to grow +fewer. It was his fault; he had gradually forgotten. The new, fierce, +burning interests that came into his life crowded the old ones out. +Boyhood's love was scorched up in that hot flame of ambition and +contest. He had not heard from or of Joyce for many years. Now, again, +he remembered as he looked down on the homeland fields. + +The old places had changed little, whatever he might fear of the +people who lived in them. There was the school he had attended, a +small, low-eaved, white-washed building set back from the main road +among green spruces. Beyond it, amid tall elms, was the old church +with its square tower hung with ivy. He felt glad to see it; he had +expected to see a new church, offensively spick-and-span and modern, +for this church had been old when he was a boy. He recalled the many +times he had walked to it on the peaceful Sunday afternoons, sometimes +with his mother, sometimes with Joyce. + +The sun set far out to sea and sucked down with it all the light out +of the winnowed dome of sky. The stars came out singly and crystal +clear over the far purple curves of the hills. Suddenly, glancing over +his shoulder, he saw through an arch of black fir boughs a young moon +swung low in a lake of palely tinted saffron sky. He smiled a little, +remembering that in boyhood it had been held a good omen to see the +new moon over the right shoulder. + +Down in the valley the lights began to twinkle out here and there like +earth-stars. He would wait until he saw the kitchen light from the +window of his old home. Then he would go. He waited until the whole +valley was zoned with a glittering girdle, but no light glimmered out +through his native trees. Why was it lacking, that light he had so +often hailed at dark, coming home from boyish rambles on the hills? He +felt anxious and dissatisfied, as if he could not go away until he had +seen it. + +When it was quite dark he descended the hill resolutely. He must know +why the homelight had failed him. When he found himself in the old +garden his heart grew sick and sore with disappointment and a bitter +homesickness. It needed but a glance, even in the dimness of the +summer night, to see that the old house was deserted and falling to +decay. The kitchen door swung open on rusty hinges; the windows were +broken and lifeless; weeds grew thickly over the yard and crowded +wantonly up to the very threshold through the chinks of the rotten +platform. + +Cuthbert Marshall sat down on the old red sandstone step of the door +and bowed his head in his hands. This was what he had come back +to--this ghost and wreck of his past! Oh, bitterness! + +From where he sat he saw the new house that Stephen had built beyond +the fir grove, with a cheerful light shining from its window. After a +long time he went over to it and knocked at the door. Stephen came to +it, a stout grizzled farmer, with a chubby boy on his shoulder. He was +not much changed; Cuthbert easily recognized him, but to Stephen +Marshall no recognition came of this man with whom he had played and +worked for years. Cuthbert was obliged to tell who he was. He was made +instantly and warmly welcome. Stephen was unfeignedly glad to see him, +and Stephen's comely wife, whom he remembered as a slim, fresh-cheeked +valley girl, extended a kind and graceful hospitality. The boys and +girls, too, soon made friends with him. Yet he felt himself the +stranger and the alien, whom the long, swift-passing years had shut +forever from his old place. + +He and Stephen talked late that night, and in the morning he yielded +to their entreaties to stay another day with them. He spent it +wandering about the farm and the old haunts of wood and stream. Yet he +could not find himself. This valley had his past in its keeping, but +it could not give it back to him; he had lost the master word that +might have compelled it. + +He asked Stephen fully about all his old friends and neighbours with +one exception. He could not ask him what had become of Joyce Cameron. +The question was on his lips a dozen times, but he shrank from +uttering it. He had a vague, secret dread that the answer, whatever it +might be, would hurt him. + +In the evening he yielded to a whim and went across to the Cameron +homestead, by the old footpath which was still kept open. He walked +slowly and dreamily, with his eyes on the far hills scarfed in the +splendour of sunset. So he had walked in the old days, but he had no +dreams now of what lay beyond the hills, and Joyce would not be +waiting among the firs. + +The stile he remembered was gone, replaced by a little rustic gate. As +he passed through it he lifted his eyes and there before him he saw +her, standing tall and gracious among the grey trees, with the light +from the west falling over her face. So she had stood, so she had +looked many an evening of the long-ago. She had not changed; he +realized that in the first amazed, incredulous glance. Perhaps there +were lines on her face, a thread or two of silver in the soft brown +hair, but those splendid steady blue eyes were the same, and the soul +of her looked out through them, true to itself, the staunch, brave, +sweet soul of the maiden ripened to womanhood. + +"Joyce!" he said, stupidly, unbelievingly. + +She smiled and put out her hand. "I am glad to see you, Cuthbert," she +said simply. "Stephen's Mary told me you had come. And I thought you +would be over to see us this evening." + +She had offered him only one hand but he took both and held her so, +looking hungrily down at her as a man looks at something he knows must +be his salvation if salvation exists for him. + +"Is it possible you are here still, Joyce?" he said slowly. "And you +have not changed at all." + +She coloured slightly and pulled away her hands, laughing. "Oh, indeed +I have. I have grown old. The twilight is so kind it hides that, but +it is true. Come into the house, Cuthbert. Father and Mother will be +glad to see you." + +"After a little," he said imploringly. "Let us stay here awhile first, +Joyce. I want to make sure that this is no dream. Last night I stood +on those hills yonder and looked down, but I meant to go away because +I thought there would be no one left to welcome me. If I had known you +were here! You have lived here in the old valley all these years?" + +"All these years," she said gently, "I suppose you think it must have +been a very meagre life?" + +"No. I am much wiser now than I was once, Joyce. I have learned wisdom +beyond the hills. One learns there--in time--but sometimes the lesson +is learned too late. Shall I tell you what I have learned, Joyce? The +gist of the lesson is that I left happiness behind me in the old +valley, when I went away from it, happiness and peace and the joy of +living. I did not miss these things for a long while; I did not even +know I had lost them. But I have discovered my loss." + +"Yet you have been a very successful man," she said wonderingly. + +"As the world calls success," he answered bitterly. "I have place and +wealth and power. But that is not success, Joyce. I am tired of these +things; they are the toys of grown-up children; they do not satisfy +the man's soul. I have come back to the old valley seeking for what +might satisfy, but I have little hope of finding it, unless--unless--" + +He was silent, remembering that he had forfeited all right to her help +in the quest. Yet he realized clearly that only she could help him, +only she could guide him back to the path he had missed. It seemed to +him that she held in her keeping all the good of his life, all the +beauty of his past, all the possibilities of his future. Hers was the +master word, but how should he dare ask her to utter it? + +They walked among the firs until the stars came out, and they talked +of many things. She had kept her freshness of soul and her ideals +untarnished. In the peace of the old valley she had lived a life, +narrow outwardly, wondrously deep and wide in thought and aspiration. +Her native hills bounded the vision of her eyes, but the outlook of +the soul was far and unhindered. In the quiet places and the green +ways she had found what he had failed to find--the secret of happiness +and content. He knew that if this woman had walked hand in hand with +him through the years, life, even in the glare and tumult of that +world beyond the hills, would never have lost its meaning for him. Oh, +fool and blind that he had been! While he had sought and toiled afar, +the best that God had meant for him had been here in the home of +youth. When darkness came down through the firs he told her all this, +haltingly, blunderingly, yearningly. + +"Joyce, is it too late? Can you forgive my mistake, my long blindness? +Can you care for me again--a little?" + +She turned her face upward to the sky between the swaying fir tops and +he saw the reflection of a star in her eyes. "I have never ceased to +care," she said in a low tone. "I never really wanted to cease. It +would have left life too empty. If my love means so much to you it is +yours, Cuthbert--it always has been yours." + +He drew her close into his arms, and as he felt her heart beating +against his he understood that he had found the way back to simple +happiness and true wisdom, the wisdom of loving and the happiness of +being loved. + + + + +Jane Lavinia + + +Jane Lavinia put her precious portfolio down on the table in her room, +carefully, as if its contents were fine gold, and proceeded to unpin +and take off her second-best hat. When she had gone over to the +Whittaker place that afternoon, she had wanted to wear her best hat, +but Aunt Rebecca had vetoed that uncompromisingly. + +"Next thing you'll be wanting to wear your best muslin to go for the +cows," said Aunt Rebecca sarcastically. "You go right back upstairs +and take off that chiffon hat. If I was fool enough to be coaxed into +buying it for you, I ain't going to have you spoil it by traipsing +hither and yon with it in the dust and sun. Your last summer's sailor +is plenty good enough to go to the Whittakers' in, Jane Lavinia." + +"But Mr. Stephens and his wife are from New York," pleaded Jane +Lavinia, "and she's so stylish." + +"Well, it's likely they're used to seeing chiffon hats," Aunt Rebecca +responded, more sarcastically than ever. "It isn't probable that yours +would make much of a sensation. Mr. Stephens didn't send for you to +show him your chiffon hat, did he? If he did, I don't see what you're +lugging that big portfolio along with you for. Go and put on your +sailor hat, Jane Lavinia." + +Jane Lavinia obeyed. She always obeyed Aunt Rebecca. But she took off +the chiffon hat and pinned on the sailor with bitterness of heart. She +had always hated that sailor. Anything ugly hurt Jane Lavinia with an +intensity that Aunt Rebecca could never understand; and the sailor hat +was ugly, with its stiff little black bows and impossible blue roses. +It jarred on Jane Lavinia's artistic instincts. Besides, it was very +unbecoming. + +I look horrid in it, Jane Lavinia had thought sorrowfully; and then +she had gone out and down the velvet-green springtime valley and over +the sunny birch hill beyond with a lagging step and a rebellious +heart. + +But Jane Lavinia came home walking as if on the clear air of the +crystal afternoon, her small, delicate face aglow and every fibre of +her body and spirit thrilling with excitement and delight. She forgot +to fling the sailor hat into its box with her usual energy of dislike. +Just then Jane Lavinia had a soul above hats. She looked at herself in +the glass and nodded with friendliness. + +"You'll do something yet," she said. "Mr. Stephens said you would. Oh, +I like you, Jane Lavinia, you dear thing! Sometimes I haven't liked +you because you're nothing to look at, and I didn't suppose you could +really do anything worthwhile. But I do like you now after what Mr. +Stephens said about your drawings." + +Jane Lavinia smiled radiantly into the little cracked glass. Just then +she was pretty, with the glow on her cheeks and the sparkle in her +eyes. Her uncertainly tinted hair and an all-too-certain little tilt +of her nose no longer troubled her. Such things did not matter; nobody +would mind them in a successful artist. And Mr. Stephens had said that +she had talent enough to win success. + +Jane Lavinia sat down by her window, which looked west into a grove of +firs. They grew thickly, close up to the house, and she could touch +their wide, fan-like branches with her hand. Jane Lavinia loved those +fir trees, with their whispers and sighs and beckonings, and she also +loved her little shadowy, low-ceilinged room, despite its plainness, +because it was gorgeous for her with visions and peopled with rainbow +fancies. + +The stained walls were covered with Jane Lavinia's pictures--most of +them pen-and-ink sketches, with a few flights into water colour. Aunt +Rebecca sniffed at them and deplored the driving of tacks into the +plaster. Aunt Rebecca thought Jane Lavinia's artistic labours a flat +waste of time, which would have been much better put into rugs and +crochet tidies and afghans. All the other girls in Chestercote made +rugs and tidies and afghans. Why must Jane Lavinia keep messing with +ink and crayons and water colours? + +Jane Lavinia only knew that she _must_--she could not help it. There +was something in her that demanded expression thus. + +When Mr. Stephens, who was a well-known artist and magazine +illustrator, came to Chestercote because his wife's father, Nathan +Whittaker, was ill, Jane Lavinia's heart had bounded with a shy hope. +She indulged in some harmless manoeuvring which, with the aid of +good-natured Mrs. Whittaker, was crowned with success. One day, when +Mr. Whittaker was getting better, Mr. Stephens had asked her to show +him some of her work. Jane Lavinia, wearing the despised sailor hat, +had gone over to the Whittaker place with some of her best sketches. +She came home again feeling as if all the world and herself were +transfigured. + +She looked out from the window of her little room with great dreamy +brown eyes, seeing through the fir boughs the golden western sky +beyond, serving as a canvas whereon her fancy painted glittering +visions of her future. She would go to New York--and study--and work, +oh, so hard--and go abroad--and work harder--and win success--and be +great and admired and famous--if only Aunt Rebecca--ah! if only Aunt +Rebecca! Jane Lavinia sighed. There was spring in the world and spring +in Jane Lavinia's heart; but a chill came with the thought of Aunt +Rebecca, who considered tidies and afghans nicer than her pictures. + +"But I'm going, anyway," said Jane Lavinia decidedly. "If Aunt Rebecca +won't give me the money, I'll find some other way. I'm not afraid of +any amount of work. After what Mr. Stephens said, I believe I could +work twenty hours out of the twenty-four. I'd be content to live on a +crust and sleep in a garret--yes, and wear sailor hats with stiff bows +and blue roses the year round." + +Jane Lavinia sighed in luxurious renunciation. Oh, it was good to be +alive--to be a girl of seventeen, with wonderful ambitions and all the +world before her! The years of the future sparkled and gleamed +alluringly. Jane Lavinia, with her head on the window sill, looked out +into the sunset splendour and dreamed. + +Athwart her dreams, rending in twain their frail, rose-tinted fabric, +came Aunt Rebecca's voice from the kitchen below, "Jane Lavinia! Jane +Lavinia! Ain't you going for the cows tonight?" + +Jane Lavinia started up guiltily; she had forgotten all about the +cows. She slipped off her muslin dress and hurried into her print; but +with all her haste it took time, and Aunt Rebecca was grimmer than +ever when Jane Lavinia ran downstairs. + +"It'll be dark before we get the cows milked. I s'pose you've been +day-dreaming again up there. I do wish, Jane Lavinia, that you had +more sense." + +Jane Lavinia made no response. At any other time she would have gone +out with a lump in her throat; but now, after what Mr. Stephens had +said, Aunt Rebecca's words had no power to hurt her. + +"After milking I'll ask her about it," she said to herself, as she +went blithely down the sloping yard, across the little mossy bridge +over the brook, and up the lane on the hill beyond, where the ferns +grew thickly and the grass was beset with tiny blue-eyes like purple +stars. The air was moist and sweet. At the top of the lane a wild plum +tree hung out its branches of feathery bloom against the crimson sky. +Jane Lavinia lingered, in spite of Aunt Rebecca's hurry, to look at +it. It satisfied her artistic instinct and made her glad to be alive +in the world where wild plums blossomed against springtime skies. The +pleasure of it went with her through the pasture and back to the +milking yard; and stayed with her while she helped Aunt Rebecca milk +the cows. + +When the milk was strained into the creamers down at the spring, and +the pails washed and set in a shining row on their bench, Jane Lavinia +tried to summon up her courage to speak to Aunt Rebecca. They were out +on the back verandah; the spring twilight was purpling down over the +woods and fields; down in the swamp the frogs were singing a silvery, +haunting chorus; a little baby moon was floating in the clear sky +above the white-blossoming orchard on the slope. + +Jane Lavinia tried to speak and couldn't. For a wonder, Aunt Rebecca +spared her the trouble. + +"Well, what did Mr. Stephens think of your pictures?" she asked +shortly. + +"Oh!" Everything that Jane Lavinia wanted to say came rushing at once +and together to her tongue's end. "Oh, Aunt Rebecca, he was delighted +with them! And he said I had remarkable talent, and he wants me to go +to New York and study in an art school there. He says Mrs. Stephens +finds it hard to get good help, and if I'd be willing to work for her +in the mornings, I could live with them and have my afternoons off. So +it won't cost much. And he said he would help me--and, oh, Aunt +Rebecca, can't I go?" + +Jane Lavinia's breath gave out with a gasp of suspense. + +Aunt Rebecca was silent for so long a space that Jane Lavinia had time +to pass through the phases of hope and fear and despair and +resignation before she said, more grimly than ever, "If your mind is +set on going, go you will, I suppose. It doesn't seem to me that I +have anything to say in the matter, Jane Lavinia." + +"But, oh, Aunt Rebecca," said Jane Lavinia tremulously. "I can't go +unless you'll help me. I'll have to pay for my lessons at the art +school, you know." + +"So that's it, is it? And do you expect me to give you the money to +pay for them, Jane Lavinia?" + +"Not give--exactly," stammered Jane Lavinia. "I'll pay it back some +time, Aunt Rebecca. Oh, indeed, I will--when I'm able to earn money by +my pictures!" + +"The security is hardly satisfactory," said Aunt Rebecca immovably. +"You know well enough I haven't much money, Jane Lavinia. I thought +when I was coaxed into giving you two quarters' lessons with Miss +Claxton that it was as much as you could expect me to do for you. I +didn't suppose the next thing would be that you'd be for betaking +yourself to New York and expecting me to pay your bills there." + +Aunt Rebecca turned and went into the house. Jane Lavinia, feeling +sore and bruised in spirit; fled to her own room and cried herself to +sleep. + +Her eyes were swollen the next morning, but she was not sulky. Jane +Lavinia never sulked. She did her morning's work faithfully, although +there was no spring in her step. That afternoon, when she was out in +the orchard trying to patch up her tattered dreams, Aunt Rebecca came +down the blossomy avenue, a tall, gaunt figure, with an uncompromising +face. + +"You'd better go down to the store and get ten yards of white cotton, +Jane Lavinia," she said. "If you're going to New York, you'll have to +get a supply of underclothing made." + +Jane Lavinia opened her eyes. + +"Oh, Aunt Rebecca, am I going?" + +"You can go if you want to. I'll give you all the money I can spare. +It ain't much, but perhaps it'll be enough for a start." + +"Oh, Aunt Rebecca, thank you!" exclaimed Jane Lavinia, crimson with +conflicting feelings. "But perhaps I oughtn't to take it--perhaps I +oughtn't to leave you alone--" + +If Aunt Rebecca had shown any regret at the thought of Jane Lavinia's +departure, Jane Lavinia would have foregone New York on the spot. But +Aunt Rebecca only said coldly, "I guess you needn't worry over that. I +can get along well enough." + +And with that it was settled. Jane Lavinia lived in a whirl of delight +for the next week. She felt few regrets at leaving Chestercote. Aunt +Rebecca would not miss her; Jane Lavinia thought that Aunt Rebecca +regarded her as a nuisance--a foolish girl who wasted her time making +pictures instead of doing something useful. Jane Lavinia had never +thought that Aunt Rebecca had any affection for her. She had been a +very little girl when her parents had died, and Aunt Rebecca had taken +her to bring up. Accordingly she had been "brought up," and she was +grateful to Aunt Rebecca, but there was no closer bond between them. +Jane Lavinia would have given love for love unstintedly, but she never +supposed that Aunt Rebecca loved her. + +On the morning of departure Jane Lavinia was up and ready early. Her +trunk had been taken over to Mr. Whittaker's the night before, and she +was to walk over in the morning and go with Mr. and Mrs. Stephens to +the station. She put on her chiffon hat to travel in, and Aunt Rebecca +did not say a word of protest. Jane Lavinia cried when she said +good-by, but Aunt Rebecca did not cry. She shook hands and said +stiffly, "Write when you get to New York. You needn't let Mrs. +Stephens work you to death either." + +Jane Lavinia went slowly over the bridge and up the lane. If only Aunt +Rebecca had been a little sorry! But the morning was perfect and the +air clear as crystal, and she was going to New York, and fame and +fortune were to be hers for the working. Jane Lavinia's spirits rose +and bubbled over in a little trill of song. Then she stopped in +dismay. She had forgotten her watch--her mother's little gold watch; +she had left it on her dressing table. + +Jane Lavinia hurried down the lane and back to the house. In the open +kitchen doorway she paused, standing on a mosaic of gold and shadow +where the sunshine fell through the morning-glory vines. Nobody was in +the kitchen, but Aunt Rebecca was in the little bedroom that opened +off it, crying bitterly and talking aloud between her sobs, "Oh, she's +gone and left me all alone--my girl has gone! Oh, what shall I do? And +she didn't care--she was glad to go--glad to get away. Well, it ain't +any wonder. I've always been too cranky with her. But I loved her so +much all the time, and I was so proud of her! I liked her +picture-making real well, even if I did complain of her wasting her +time. Oh, I don't know how I'm ever going to keep on living now she's +gone!" + +Jane Lavinia listened with a face from which all the sparkle and +excitement had gone. Yet amid all the wreck and ruin of her tumbling +castles in air, a glad little thrill made itself felt. Aunt Rebecca +was sorry--Aunt Rebecca did love her after all! + +Jane Lavinia turned and walked noiselessly away. As she went swiftly +up the wild plum lane, some tears brimmed up in her eyes, but there +was a smile on her lips and a song in her heart. After all, it was +nicer to be loved than to be rich and admired and famous. + +When she reached Mr. Whittaker's, everybody was out in the yard ready +to start. + +"Hurry up, Jane Lavinia," said Mr. Whittaker. "Blest if we hadn't +begun to think you weren't coming at all. Lively now." + +"I am not going," said Jane Lavinia calmly. + +"Not going?" they all exclaimed. + +"No. I'm very sorry, and very grateful to you, Mr. Stephens, but I +can't leave Aunt Rebecca. She'd miss me too much." + +"Well, you little goose!" said Mrs. Whittaker. + +Mrs. Stephens said nothing, but frowned coldly. Perhaps her thoughts +were less of the loss to the world of art than of the difficulty of +hunting up another housemaid. Mr. Stephens looked honestly regretful. + +"I'm sorry, very sorry, Miss Slade," he said. "You have exceptional +talent, and I think you ought to cultivate it." + +"I am going to cultivate Aunt Rebecca," said Jane Lavinia. + +Nobody knew just what she meant, but they all understood the firmness +of her tone. Her trunk was taken down out of the express wagon, and +Mr. and Mrs. Stephens drove away. Then Jane Lavinia went home. She +found Aunt Rebecca washing the breakfast dishes, with the big tears +rolling down her face. + +"Goodness me!" she cried, when Jane Lavinia walked in. "What's the +matter? You ain't gone and been too late!" + +"No, I've just changed my mind, Aunt Rebecca. They've gone without me. +I am not going to New York--I don't want to go. I'd rather stay at +home with you." + +For a moment Aunt Rebecca stared at her. Then she stepped forward and +flung her arms about the girl. + +"Oh, Jane Lavinia," she said with a sob, "I'm so glad! I couldn't see +how I was going to get along without you, but I thought you didn't +care. You can wear that chiffon hat everywhere you want to, and I'll +get you a pink organdy dress for Sundays." + + [Illustration: SHE EYED CHESTER SOURLY.] + + + + +Mackereling Out in the Gulf + + +The mackerel boats were all at anchor on the fishing grounds; the sea +was glassy calm--a pallid blue, save for a chance streak of deeper +azure where some stray sea breeze ruffled it. + +It was about the middle of the afternoon, and intensely warm and +breathless. The headlands and coves were blurred by a purple heat +haze. The long sweep of the sandshore was so glaringly brilliant that +the pained eye sought relief among the rough rocks, where shadows were +cast by the big red sandstone boulders. The little cluster of fishing +houses nearby were bleached to a silvery grey by long exposure to wind +and rain. Far off were several "Yankee" fishing schooners, their sails +dimly visible against the white horizon. + +Two boats were hauled upon the "skids" that ran from the rocks out +into the water. A couple of dories floated below them. Now and then a +white gull, flashing silver where its plumage caught the sun, soared +landward. + +A young man was standing by the skids, watching the fishing boats +through a spyglass. He was tall, with a straight, muscular figure clad +in a rough fishing suit. His face was deeply browned by the gulf +breezes and was attractive rather than handsome, while his eyes, as +blue and clear as the gulf waters, were peculiarly honest and frank. + +Two wiry, dark-faced French-Canadian boys were perched on one of the +boats, watching the fishing fleet with lazy interest in their +inky-black eyes, and wondering if the "Yanks" had seined many mackerel +that day. + +Presently three people came down the steep path from the fish-houses. +One of them, a girl, ran lightly forward and touched Benjamin Selby's +arm. He lowered his glass with a start and looked around. A flash of +undisguised delight transfigured his face. + +"Why, Mary Stella! I didn't expect you'd be down this hot day. You +haven't been much at the shore lately," he added reproachfully. + +"I really haven't had time, Benjamin," she answered carelessly, as she +took the glass from his hand and tried to focus it on the fishing +fleet. Benjamin steadied it for her; the flush of pleasure was still +glowing on his bronzed cheek, "Are the mackerel biting now?" + +"Not just now. Who is that stranger with your father, Mary Stella?" + +"That is a cousin of ours--a Mr. Braithwaite. Are you very busy, +Benjamin?" + +"Not busy at all--idle as you see me. Why?" + +"Will you take me out for a little row in the dory? I haven't been out +for so long." + +"Of course. Come--here's the dory--your namesake, you know. I had her +fresh painted last week. She's as clean as an eggshell." + +The girl stepped daintily off the rocks into the little cream-coloured +skiff, and Benjamin untied the rope and pushed off. + +"Where would you like to go, Mary Stella?" + +"Oh, just upshore a little way--not far. And don't go out into very +deep water, please, it makes me feel frightened and dizzy." + +Benjamin smiled and promised. He was rowing along with the easy grace +of one used to the oar. He had been born and brought up in sound of +the gulf's waves; its never-ceasing murmur had been his first lullaby. +He knew it and loved it in every mood, in every varying tint and +smile, in every change of wind and tide. There was no better skipper +alongshore than Benjamin Selby. + +Mary Stella waved her hand gaily to the two men on the rocks. Benjamin +looked back darkly. + +"Who is that young fellow?" he asked again. "Where does he belong?" + +"He is the son of Father's sister--his favourite sister, although he +has never seen her since she married an American years ago and went to +live in the States. She made Frank come down here this summer and hunt +us up. He is splendid, I think. He is a New York lawyer and very +clever." + +Benjamin made no response. He pulled in his oars and let the dory +float amid the ripples. The bottom of white sand, patterned over with +coloured pebbles, was clear and distinct through the dark-green water. +Mary Stella leaned over to watch the distorted reflection of her face +by the dory's side. + +"Have you had pretty good luck this week, Benjamin? Father couldn't go +out much--he has been so busy with his hay, and Leon is such a poor +fisherman." + +"We've had some of the best hauls of the summer this week. Some of the +Rustler boats caught six hundred to a line yesterday. We had four +hundred to the line in our boat." + +Mary Stella began absently to dabble her slender brown hand in the +water. A silence fell between them, with which Benjamin was well +content, since it gave him a chance to feast his eyes on the beautiful +face before him. + +He could not recall the time when he had not loved Mary Stella. It +seemed to him that she had always been a part of his inmost life. He +loved her with the whole strength and fidelity of a naturally intense +nature. He hoped that she loved him, and he had no rival that he +feared. In secret he exalted and deified her as something almost too +holy for him to aspire to. She was his ideal of all that was beautiful +and good; he was jealously careful over all his words and thoughts and +actions that not one might make him more unworthy of her. In all the +hardship and toil of his life his love was as his guardian angel, +turning his feet from every dim and crooked byway; he trod in no path +where he would not have the girl he loved to follow. The roughest +labour was glorified if it lifted him a step nearer the altar of his +worship. + +But today he felt faintly disturbed. In some strange, indefinable way +it seemed to him that Mary Stella was different from her usual self. +The impression was vague and evanescent--gone before he could decide +wherein the difference lay. He told himself that he was foolish, yet +the vexing, transient feeling continued to come and go. + +Presently Mary Stella said it was time to go back. Benjamin was in no +hurry, but he never disputed her lightest inclination. He turned the +dory about and rowed shoreward. + +Back on the rocks, Mosey Louis and Xavier, the French Canadians, were +looking through the spyglass by turns and making characteristic +comments on the fleet. Mr. Murray and Braithwaite were standing by the +skids, watching the dory. + +"Who is that young fellow?" asked the latter. "What a splendid +physique he has! It's a pleasure to watch him rowing." + +"That," said the older man, with a certain proprietary pride in his +tone, "is Benjamin Selby--the best mackerel fisherman on the island. +He's been high line all along the gulf shore for years. I don't know a +finer man every way you take him. Maybe you'll think I'm partial," he +continued with a smile. "You see, he and Mary Stella think a good deal +of each other. I expect to have Benjamin for a son-in-law some day if +all goes well." + +Braithwaite's expression changed slightly. He walked over to the dory +and helped Mary Stella out of it while Benjamin made the painter fast. +When the latter turned, Mary Stella was walking across the rocks with +her cousin. Benjamin's blue eyes darkened, and he strode moodily over +to the boats. + +"You weren't out this morning, Mr. Murray?" + +"No, that hay had to be took in. Reckon I missed it--pretty good +catch, they tell me. Are they getting any now?" + +"No. It's not likely the fish will begin to bite again for another +hour." + +"I see someone standing up in that off boat, don't I?" said Mr. +Murray, reaching for the spyglass. + +"No, that's only Rob Leslie's crew trying to fool us. They've tried it +before this afternoon. They think it would be a joke to coax us out +there to broil like themselves." + +"Frank," shouted Mr. Murray, "come here, I want you." + +Aside to Benjamin he said, "He's my nephew--a fine young chap. You'll +like him, I know." + +Braithwaite came over, and Mr. Murray put one hand on his shoulder and +one on Benjamin's. + +"Boys, I want you to know each other. Benjamin, this is Frank +Braithwaite. Frank, this is Benjamin Selby, the high line of the gulf +shore, as I told you." + +While Mr. Murray was speaking, the two men looked steadily at each +other. The few seconds seemed very long; when they had passed, +Benjamin knew that the other man was his rival. + +Braithwaite was the first to speak. He put out his hand with easy +cordiality. + +"I am glad to meet you, Mr. Selby," he said heartily, "although I am +afraid I should feel very green in the presence of such a veteran +fisherman as yourself." + +His frank courtesy compelled some return. Benjamin took the proffered +hand with restraint. + +"I'm sorry there's no mackerel going this afternoon," continued the +American. "I wanted to have a chance at them. I never saw mackerel +caught before. I suppose I'll be very awkward at first." + +"It's not a very hard thing to do," said Benjamin stiffly, speaking +for the first time since their meeting. "Most anybody could catch +mackerel for a while--it's the sticking to it that counts." + +He turned abruptly and went back to his boat. He could not force +himself to talk civilly to the stranger, with that newly born demon of +distrust gnawing at his heart. + +"I think I'll go out," he said. "It's freshening up. I shouldn't +wonder if the mackerel schooled soon." + +"I'll go, too, then," said Mr. Murray. "Hi, up there! Leon and Pete! +Hi, I say!" + +Two more French Canadians came running down from the Murray +fish-house, where they had been enjoying a siesta. They fished in the +Murray boat. A good deal of friendly rivalry as to catch went on +between the two boats, while Leon and Mosey Louis were bitter enemies +on their own personal account. + +"Think you'll try it, Frank?" shouted Mr. Murray. + +"Well, not this afternoon," was the answer. "It's rather hot. I'll see +what it is like tomorrow." + +The boats were quickly launched and glided out from the shadow of the +cliffs. Benjamin stood at his mast. Mary Stella came down to the +water's edge and waved her hand gaily. + +"Good luck to you and the best catch of the season," she called out. + +Benjamin waved his hat in response. His jealousy was forgotten for the +moment and he felt that he had been churlish to Braithwaite. + +"You'll wish you'd come," he shouted to him. "It's going to be a great +evening for fish." + +When the boats reached the fishing grounds, they came to and anchored, +their masts coming out in slender silhouette against the sky. A row of +dark figures was standing up in every boat; the gulfs shining expanse +was darkened by odd black streaks--the mackerel had begun to school. + +Frank Braithwaite went out fishing the next day and caught 30 +mackerel. He was boyishly proud of it. He visited the shore daily +after that and soon became very popular. He developed into quite an +expert fisherman; nor, when the boats came in, did he shirk work, but +manfully rolled up his trousers and helped carry water and "gib" +mackerel as if he enjoyed it. He never put on any "airs," and he +stoutly took Leon's part against the aggressive Mosey Louis. Even the +French Canadians, those merciless critics, admitted that the "Yankee" +was a good fellow. Benjamin Selby alone held stubbornly aloof. + +One evening the loaded boats came in at sunset. Benjamin sprang from +his as it bumped against the skids, and ran up the path. At the corner +of his fish-house he stopped and stood quite still, looking at +Braithwaite and Mary Stella, who were standing by the rough picket +fence of the pasture land. Braithwaite's back was to Benjamin; he held +the girl's hand in his and was talking earnestly. Mary Stella was +looking up at him, her delicate face thrown back a little. There was +a look in her eyes that Benjamin had never seen there before--but he +knew what it meant. + +His face grew pale and rigid; he clenched his hands and a whirlpool of +agony and bitterness surged up in his heart. All the great blossoms of +the hope that had shed beauty and fragrance over his rough life seemed +suddenly to shrivel up into black unsightliness. + +He turned and went swiftly and noiselessly down the road to his boat. +The murmur of the sea sounded very far off. Mosey Louis was busy +counting out the mackerel, Xavier was dipping up buckets of water and +pouring it over the silvery fish. The sun was setting in a bank of +purple cloud, and the long black headland to the west cut the golden +seas like a wedge of ebony. It was all real and yet unreal. Benjamin +went to work mechanically. + +Presently Mary Stella came down to her father's boat. Braithwaite +followed slowly, pausing a moment to exchange some banter with saucy +Mosey Louis. Benjamin bent lower over his table; now and then he +caught the dear tones of Mary Stella's voice or her laughter at some +sally of Pete or Leon. He knew when she went up the road with +Braithwaite; he caught the last glimpse of her light dress as she +passed out of sight on the cliffs above, but he worked steadily on and +gave no sign. + +It was late when they finished. The tired French Canadians went +quickly off to their beds in the fish-house loft. Benjamin stood by +the skids until all was quiet, then he walked down the cove to a rocky +point that jutted out into the water. He leaned against a huge boulder +and laid his head on his arm, looking up into the dark sky. The stars +shone calmly down on his misery; the throbbing sea stretched out +before him; its low, murmuring moan seemed to be the inarticulate +voice of his pain. + +The air was close and oppressive; fitful flashes of heat lightning +shimmered here and there over the heavy banks of cloud on the horizon; +little wavelets sobbed at the base of the rocks. + +When Benjamin lifted his head he saw Frank Braithwaite standing +between him and the luminous water. He took a step forward, and they +came face to face as Braithwaite turned with a start. + +Benjamin clenched his hands and fought down a hideous temptation to +thrust his rival off the rock. + +"I saw you today," he said in a low, intense tone. "What do you think +of yourself, coming down here to steal the girl I loved from me? +Weren't there enough girls where you came from to choose among? I hate +you. I'd kill you--" + +"Selby, stop! You don't know what you are saying. If I have wronged +you, I swear I did it unintentionally. I loved Stella from the +first--who could help it? But I thought she was virtually bound to +you, and I did not try to win her away. You don't know what it cost me +to remain passive. I know that you have always distrusted me, but +hitherto you have had no reason to. But today I found that she was +free--that she did not care for you! And I found--or thought I +found--that there was a chance for me. I took it. I forgot everything +else then." + +"So she loves you?" said Benjamin dully. + +"Yes," said Braithwaite softly. + +Benjamin turned on him with sudden passion. + +"I hate you--and I am the most miserable wretch alive, but if she is +happy, it is no matter about me. You've won easily what I've slaved +and toiled all my life for. You won't value it as I'd have done--but +if you make her happy, nothing else matters. I've only one favour to +ask of you. Don't let her come to the shore after this. I can't stand +it." + +August throbbed and burned itself out. Affairs along shore continued +as usual. Benjamin shut his sorrow up in himself and gave no outward +sign of suffering. As if to mock him, the season was one of phenomenal +prosperity; it was a "mackerel year" to be dated from. He worked hard +and unceasingly, sparing himself in no way. + +Braithwaite seldom came to the shore now. Mary Stella never. Mr. +Murray had tried to speak of the matter, but Benjamin would not let +him. + +"It's best that nothing be said," he told him with simple dignity. He +was so calm that Mr. Murray thought he did not care greatly, and was +glad of it. The older man regretted the turn of affairs. Braithwaite +would take his daughter far away from him, as his sister had been +taken, and he loved Benjamin as his own son. + +One afternoon Benjamin stood by his boat and looked anxiously at sea +and sky. The French Canadians were eager to go out, for the other +boats were catching. + +"I don't know about it," said Benjamin doubtfully. "I don't half like +the look of things. I believe we're in for a squall before long. It +was just such a day three years ago when that terrible squall came up +that Joe Otway got drowned in." + +The sky was dun and smoky, the glassy water was copper-hued, the air +was heavy and breathless. The sea purred upon the shore, lapping it +caressingly like some huge feline creature biding its time to seize +and crunch its victim. + +"I reckon I'll try it," said Benjamin after a final scrutiny. "If a +squall does come up, we'll have to run for the shore mighty quick, +that's all." + +They launched the boat speedily; as there was no wind, they had to +row. As they pulled out, Braithwaite and Leon came down the road and +began to launch the Murray boat. + +"If dem two gits caught in a squall dey'll hav a tam," grinned Mosey +Louis. "Dat Leon, he don't know de fust ting 'bout a boat, no more dan +a cat!" + +Benjamin came to anchor close in, but Braithwaite and Leon kept on +until they were further out than any other boat. + +"Reckon dey's after cod," suggested Xavier. + +The mackerel bit well, but Benjamin kept a close watch on the sky. +Suddenly he saw a dark streak advancing over the water from the +northwest. He wheeled around. + +"Boys, the squall's coming! Up with the anchor--quick!" + +"Dere's plenty tam," grumbled Mosey Louis, who hated to leave the +fish. "None of de oder boats is goin' in yit." + +The squall struck the boat as he spoke. She lurched and staggered. The +water was tossing choppily. There was a sudden commotion all through +the fleet and sails went rapidly up. Mosey Louis turned pale and +scrambled about without delay. Benjamin was halfway to the shore +before the sail went up in the Murray boat. + +"Don' know what dey're tinkin' of," growled Mosey Louis. "Dey'll be +drown fust ting!" + +Benjamin looked back anxiously. Every boat was making for the shore. +The gale was steadily increasing. He had his doubts about making a +landing himself, and Braithwaite would be twenty minutes later. + +"But it isn't my lookout," he muttered. + +Benjamin had landed and was hauling up his boat when Mr. Murray came +running down the road. + +"Frank?" he gasped. "Him and Leon went out, the foolish boys! They +neither of them know anything about a time like this." + +"I guess they'll be all right," said Benjamin reassuringly. "They were +late starting. They may find it rather hard to land." + +The other boats had all got in with more or less difficulty. The +Murray boat alone was out. Men came scurrying along the shore in +frightened groups of two and three. + +The boat came swiftly in before the wind. Mr. Murray was half beside +himself. + +"It'll be all right, sir," said one of the men. "If they can't land +here, they can beach her on the sandshore." + +"If they only knew enough to do that," wailed the old man. "But they +don't--they'll come right on to the rocks." + +"Why don't they lower their sail?" said another. "They will upset if +they don't." + +"They're lowering it now," said Benjamin. + +The boat was now about 300 yards from the shore. The sail did not go +all the way down--it seemed to be stuck. + +"Good God, what's wrong?" exclaimed Mr. Murray. + +As he spoke, the boat capsized. A yell of horror rose I from the +beach. Mr. Murray sprang toward Benjamin's boat, but one of the men +held him back. + +"You can't do it, sir. I don't know that anybody can." + +Braithwaite and Leon were clinging to the boat. Benjamin Selby, +standing in the background, his lips set, his hands clenched, was +fighting the hardest battle of his life. He knew that he alone, out of +all the men there, possessed the necessary skill and nerve to reach +the boat if she could be reached at all. There was a bare chance and a +great risk. This man whom he hated was drowning before his eyes. Let +him drown, then! Why should he risk--ay, and perchance lose--his life +for his enemy? No one could blame him for refusing--and if Braithwaite +were out of the way, Mary Stella might yet be his! + +The temptation and victory passed in a few brief seconds. He stepped +forward, cool and self-possessed. + +"I'm going out. I want one man with me. No one with child or wife. +Who'll go?" + +"I will," shouted Mosey Louis. "I haf some spat wid dat Leon, but I +not lak to see him drown for all dat!" + +Benjamin offered no objection. The French Canadian's arm was strong +and he possessed skill and experience. Mr. Murray caught Benjamin's +arm. + +"No, no, Benjamin--not you--I can't see both my boys drowned." + +Benjamin gently loosed the old man's hold. + +"It's for Mary Stella's sake," he said hoarsely. "If I don't come +back, tell her that." + +They launched the large dory with difficulty and pulled out into the +surf. Benjamin did not lose his nerve. His quick arm, his steady eye +did not fail. A dozen times the wild-eyed watchers thought the boat +was doomed, but as often she righted triumphantly. + +At last the drowning men were reached and somehow or other hauled on +board Benjamin's craft. It was easier to come back, for they beached +the boat on the sand. With a wild cheer the men on the shore rushed +into the surf and helped to carry the half-unconscious Braithwaite and +Leon ashore and up to the Murray fish-house. Benjamin went home before +anyone knew he had gone. Mosey Louis was left behind to reap the +honours; he sat in a circle of admiring lads and gave all the details +of the rescue. + +"Dat Leon, he not tink he know so much now!" he said. + +Braithwaite came to the shore next day somewhat pale and shaky. He +went straight to Benjamin and held out his hand. + +"Thank you," he said simply. + +Benjamin bent lower over his work. + +"You needn't thank me," he said gruffly. "I wanted to let you drown. +But I went out for Mary Stella's sake. Tell me one thing--I couldn't +bring myself to ask it of anyone else. When are you to be--married?" + +"The 12th of September." + +Benjamin did not wince. He turned away and looked out across the sea +for a few moments. The last agony of his great renunciation was upon +him. Then he turned and held out his hand. + +"For her sake," he said earnestly. + +Frank Braithwaite put his slender white hand into the fisherman's hard +brown palm. There were tears in both men's eyes. They parted in +silence. + +On the morning of the 12th of September Benjamin Selby went out to the +fishing grounds as usual. The catch was good, although the season was +almost over. In the afternoon the French Canadians went to sleep. +Benjamin intended to row down the shore for salt. He stood by his +dory, ready to start, but he seemed to be waiting for something. At +last it came: a faint train whistle blew, a puff of white smoke +floated across a distant gap in the sandhills. + +Mary Stella was gone at last--gone forever from his life. The honest +blue eyes looking out over the sea did not falter; bravely he faced +his desolate future. + +The white gulls soared over the water, little swishing ripples lapped +on the sand, and through all the gentle, dreamy noises of the shore +came the soft, unceasing murmur of the gulf. + + + + +Millicent's Double + + + [Illustration: "'NONSENSE,' SAID MILLICENT, POINTING TO THEIR + REFLECTED FACES"] + + +When Millicent Moore and Worth Gordon met each other on the first day +of the term in the entrance hall of the Kinglake High School, both +girls stopped short, startled. Millicent Moore had never seen Worth +Gordon before, but Worth Gordon's face she had seen every day of her +life, looking at her out of her own mirror! + +They were total strangers, but when two girls look enough alike to be +twins, it is not necessary to stand on ceremony. After the first blank +stare of amazement, both laughed outright. Millicent held out her +hand. + +"We ought to know each other right away," she said frankly. "My name +is Millicent Moore, and yours is--?" + +"Worth Gordon," responded Worth, taking the proffered hand with +dancing eyes. "You actually frightened me when you came around that +corner. For a moment I had an uncanny feeling that I was a disembodied +spirit looking at my own outward shape. I know now what it feels like +to have a twin." + +"Isn't it odd that we should look so much alike?" said Millicent. "Do +you suppose we can be any relation? I never heard of any relations +named Gordon." + +Worth shook her head. "I'm quite sure we're not," she said. "I haven't +any relatives except my father's stepsister with whom I've lived ever +since the death of my parents when I was a baby." + +"Well, you'll really have to count me as a relative after this," +laughed Millicent. "I'm sure a girl who looks as much like you as I do +must be at least as much relation as a stepaunt." + +From that moment they were firm friends, and their friendship was +still further cemented by the fact that Worth found it necessary to +change her boarding-house and became Millicent's roommate. Their odd +likeness was the wonder of the school and occasioned no end of +amusing mistakes, for all the students found it hard to distinguish +between them. Seen apart it was impossible to tell which was which +except by their clothes and style of hairdressing. Seen together there +were, of course, many minor differences which served to distinguish +them. Both girls were slight, with dark-brown hair, blue eyes and fair +complexions. But Millicent had more colour than Worth. Even in repose, +Millicent's face expressed mirth and fun; when Worth was not laughing +or talking, her face was rather serious. Worth's eyes were darker, and +her nose in profile slightly more aquiline. But still, the resemblance +between them was very striking. In disposition they were also very +similar. Both were merry, fun-loving girls, fond of larks and jokes. +Millicent was the more heedless, but both were impulsive and too apt +to do or say anything that came into their heads without counting the +cost. One late October evening Millicent came in, her cheeks crimson +after her walk in the keen autumn air, and tossed two letters on the +study table. "It's a perfect evening, Worth. We had the jolliest +tramp. You should have come with us instead of staying in moping over +your books." + +Worth smiled ruefully. "I simply had to prepare those problems for +tomorrow," she said. "You see, Millie dear, there is a big difference +between us in some things at least. I'm poor. I simply have to pass my +exams and get a teacher's licence. So I can't afford to take any +chances. You're just attending high school for the sake of education +alone, so you don't really have to grind as I do." + +"I'd like to do pretty well in the exams, though, for Dad's sake," +answered Millicent, throwing aside her wraps. "But I don't mean to +kill myself studying, just the same. Time enough for that when exams +draw nigh. They're comfortably far off yet. But I'm in a bit of a +predicament, Worth, and I don't know what to do. Here are two +invitations for Saturday afternoon and I simply _must_ accept them +both. Now, how can I do it? You're a marvel at mathematics--so work +out that problem for me. + +"See, here's a note from Mrs. Kirby inviting me to tea at Beechwood. +She called on me soon after the term opened and invited me to tea the +next week. But I had another engagement for that afternoon, so +couldn't go. Mr. Kirby is a business friend of Dad's, and they are +very nice people. The other invitation is to the annual autumn picnic +of the Alpha Gammas. Now, Worth Gordon, I simply _must_ go to that. I +wouldn't miss it for anything. But I don't want to offend Mrs. Kirby, +and I'm afraid I shall if I plead another engagement a second time. +Mother will be fearfully annoyed at me in that case. Dear me, I wish +there were two of me, one to go to the Alpha Gammas and one to +Beechwood--Worth Gordon!" + +"What's the matter?" + +"There _are_ two of me! What's the use of a double if not for a +quandary like this! Worth, you must go to tea at Beechwood Saturday +afternoon in my place. They'll think you are my very self. They'll +never know the difference. Go and keep my place warm for me, there's a +dear." + +"Impossible," cried Worth. "I'd never dare! They'd know there was +something wrong." + +"They wouldn't--they couldn't. None of the Kirbys have ever seen me +except Mrs. Kirby, and she only for a few minutes one evening at dusk. +They don't know I have a double and they can't possibly suspect. _Do_ +go, Worth. Why, it'll be a regular lark, the best little joke ever! +And you'll oblige me immensely besides. Worthie, _please_." + +Worth did not consent all at once; but the idea rather appealed to her +for its daring and excitement. It would be a lark--just at that time +Worth did not see it in any other light. Besides, she wanted to oblige +Millicent, who coaxed vehemently. Finally, Worth yielded and promised +Millicent that she would go to Beechwood in her place. + +"You darling!" said Millicent emphatically, flying to her table to +write acceptances of both invitations. + +Saturday afternoon Worth got ready to keep Millicent's engagement. +"Suppose I am found out and expelled from Beechwood in disgrace," she +suggested laughingly, as she arranged her lace bertha before the +glass. + +"Nonsense," said Millicent, pointing to their reflected faces. "The +Kirbys can never suspect. Why, if it weren't for the hair and the +dresses, I'd hardly know myself which of those reflections belonged to +which." + +"What if they begin asking me about the welfare of the various members +of your family?" + +"They won't ask any but the most superficial questions. We're not +intimate enough for anything else. I've coached you pretty thoroughly, +and I think you'll get on all right." + +Worth's courage carried her successfully through the ordeal of +arriving at Beechwood and meeting Mrs. Kirby. She was unsuspectingly +accepted as Millicent Moore, and found her impersonation of that young +lady not at all difficult. No dangerous subject of conversation was +introduced and nothing personal was said until Mr. Kirby came in. He +looked so scrutinizingly at Worth as he shook hands with her that the +latter felt her heart beating very fast. Did he suspect? + +"Upon my word, Miss Moore," he said genially, "you gave me quite a +start at first. You are very like what a half-sister of mine used to +be when a girl long ago. Of course the resemblance must be quite +accidental." + +"Of course," said Worth, without any very clear sense of what she was +saying. Her face was uncomfortably flushed and she was glad when tea +was announced. + +As nothing more of an embarrassing nature was said, Worth soon +recovered her self-possession and was able to enter into the +conversation. She liked the Kirbys; still, under her enjoyment, she +was conscious of a strange, disagreeable feeling that deepened as the +evening wore on. It was not fear--she was not at all afraid of +betraying herself now. It had even been easier than she had expected. +Then what was it? Suddenly Worth flushed again. She knew now--it was +shame. She was a guest in that house as an impostor! What she had done +seemed no longer a mere joke. What would her host and hostess say if +they knew? That they would never know made no difference. _She_ +herself could not forget it, and her realization of the baseness of +the deception grew stronger under Mrs. Kirby's cordial kindness. + +Worth never forgot that evening. She compelled herself to chat as +brightly as possible, but under it all was that miserable +consciousness of falsehood, deepening every instant. She was thankful +when the time came to leave. "You must come up often, Miss Moore," +said Mrs. Kirby kindly. "Look upon Beechwood as a second home while +you are in Kinglake. We have no daughter of our own, so we make a +hobby of cultivating other people's." + +When Millicent returned home from the Alpha Gamma outing, she found +Worth in their room, looking soberly at the mirror. Something in her +chum's expression alarmed her. "Worth, what is it? Did they suspect?" + +"No," said Worth slowly. "They never suspected. They think I am what I +pretended to be--Millicent Moore. But, but, I wish I'd never gone to +Beechwood, Millie. It wasn't right. It was mean and wrong. It was +acting a lie. I can't tell you how ashamed I felt when I realized +that." + +"Nonsense," said Millicent, looking rather sober, nevertheless. "No +harm was done. It's only a good joke, Worth." + +"Yes, harm _has_ been done. I've done harm to myself, for one thing. +I've lost my self-respect. I don't blame you, Millie. It's all my own +fault. I've done a dishonourable thing, dishonourable." + +Millicent sighed. "The Alpha Gamma picnic was horribly slow," she +said. "I didn't enjoy myself a bit. I wish I had gone to Beechwood. I +didn't think about it's being a practical falsehood before. I suppose +it was. And I've always prided myself on my strict truthfulness! It +wasn't your fault, Worth! It was mine. But it can't be undone now." + +"No, it can't be undone," said Worth slowly, "but it might be +confessed. We might tell Mrs. Kirby the truth and ask her to forgive +us." + +"I couldn't do such a thing," cried Millicent. "It isn't to be thought +of!" + +Nevertheless, Millicent did think of it several times that night and +all through the following Sunday. She couldn't help thinking of it. A +dishonourable trick! That thought stung Millicent. Monday evening +Millicent flung down the book from which she was vainly trying to +study. + +"Worthie, it's no use. You were right. There's nothing to do but go +and 'fess up to Mrs. Kirby. I can't respect Millicent Moore again +until I do. I'm going right up now." + +"I'll go with you," said Worth quietly. "I was equally to blame and I +must take my share of the humiliation." + +When the girls reached Beechwood, they were shown into the library +where the family were sitting. Mrs. Kirby came smilingly forward to +greet Millicent when her eyes fell upon Worth. "Why! _why_!" she said. +"I didn't know you had a twin sister, Miss Moore." + +"Neither I have," said Millicent, laughing nervously. "This is my +chum, Worth Gordon, but she is no relation whatever." + +At the mention of Worth's name, Mr. Kirby started slightly, but nobody +noticed it. Millicent went on in a trembling voice. "We've come up to +confess something, Mrs. Kirby. I'm sure you'll think it dreadful, but +we didn't mean any harm. We just didn't realize, until afterwards." + +Then Millicent, with burning cheeks, told the whole story and asked to +be forgiven. "I, too, must apologize," said Worth, when Millicent had +finished. "Can you pardon me, Mrs. Kirby?" + +Mrs. Kirby had listened in amazed silence, but now she laughed. +"Certainly," she said kindly. "I don't suppose it was altogether right +for you girls to play such a trick on anybody. But I can make +allowances for schoolgirl pranks. I was a school girl once myself, and +far from a model one. You have atoned for your mistake by coming so +frankly and confessing, and now we'll forget all about it. I think you +have learned your lesson. Both of you must just sit down and spend the +evening with us. Dear me, but you _are_ bewilderingly alike!" + +"I've something I want to say," interposed Mr. Kirby suddenly. "You +say your name is Worth Gordon," he added, turning to Worth. "May I ask +what your mother's name was?" + +"Worth Mowbray," answered Worth wonderingly. + +"I was sure of it," said Mr. Kirby triumphantly, "when I heard Miss +Moore mention your name. Your mother was my half-sister, and you are +my niece." + +Everybody exclaimed and for a few moments they all talked and +questioned together. Then Mr. Kirby explained fully. "I was born on a +farm up-country. My mother was a widow when she married my father, and +she had one daughter, Worth Mowbray, five years older than myself. +When I was three years old, my mother died. Worth went to live with +our mother's only living relative, an aunt. My father and I removed to +another section of the country. He, too, died soon after, and I was +brought up with an uncle's family. My sister came to see me once when +she was a girl of seventeen and, as I remember her, very like you are +now. I never saw her again and eventually lost trace of her. Many +years later I endeavoured to find out her whereabouts. Our aunt was +dead, and the people in the village where she had lived informed me +that my sister was also dead. She had married a man named Gordon and +had gone away, both she and her husband had died, and I was informed +that they left no children, so I made no further inquiries. There is +no doubt that you are her daughter. Well, well, this is a pleasant +surprise, to find a little niece in this fashion!" + +It was a pleasant surprise to Worth, too, who had thought herself all +alone in the world and had felt her loneliness keenly. They had a +wonderful evening, talking and questioning and explaining. Mr. Kirby +declared that Worth must come and live with them. "We have no +daughter," he said. "You must come to us in the place of one, Worth." + +Mrs. Kirby seconded this with a cordiality that won Worth's affection +at once. The girl felt almost bewildered by her happiness. + +"I feel as if I were in a dream," she said to Millicent as they walked +to their boarding-house. "It's really all too wonderful to grasp at +once. You don't know, Millie, how lonely I've felt often under all my +nonsense and fun. Aunt Delia was kind to me, but she was really no +relation, she had a large family of her own, and I have always felt +that she looked upon me as a rather inconvenient duty. But now I'm so +happy!" + +"I'm so glad for you, Worth," said Millicent warmly, "although your +gain will certainly be my loss, for I shall miss my roommate terribly +when she goes to live at Beechwood. Hasn't it all turned out +strangely? If you had never gone to Beechwood in my place, this would +never have happened." + +"Say rather that if we hadn't gone to confess our fault, it would +never have happened," said Worth gently. "I'm very, very glad that I +have found Uncle George and such a loving welcome to his home. But I'm +gladder still that I've got my self-respect back. I feel that I can +look Worth Gordon in the face again." + +"I've learned a wholesome lesson, too," admitted Millicent. + + + + +The Blue North Room + + +"This," said Sara, laying Aunt Josephina's letter down on the kitchen +table with such energy that in anybody but Sara it must have been said +she threw it down, "this is positively the last straw! I have endured +all the rest. I have given up my chance of a musical education, when +Aunt Nan offered it, that I might stay home and help Willard pay the +mortgage off--if it doesn't pay us off first--and I have, which was +much harder, accepted the fact that we can't possibly afford to send +Ray to the Valley Academy, even if I wore the same hat and coat for +four winters. I did not grumble when Uncle Joel came here to live +because he wanted to be 'near his dear nephew's children.' I felt it +my Christian duty to look pleasant when we had to give Cousin Caroline +a home to save her from the poorhouse. But my endurance and +philosophy, and worst of all, my furniture, has reached a limit. I +cannot have Aunt Josephina come here to spend the winter, because I +have no room to put her in." + +"Hello, Sally, what's the matter?" asked Ray, coming in with a book. +It would have been hard to catch Ray without a book; he generally took +one even to bed with him. Ray had a headful of brains, and Sara +thought it was a burning shame that there seemed to be no chance for +his going to college. "You look all rumpled up in your conscience, +beloved sis," the boy went on, chaffingly. + +"My conscience is all right," said Sara severely. "It's worse than +that. If you please, here's a letter from Aunt Josephina! She writes +that she is very lonesome. Her son has gone to South America, and +won't be back until spring, and she wants to come and spend the winter +with us." + +"Well, why not?" asked Ray serenely. Nothing ever bothered Ray. "The +more the merrier." + +"Ray Sheldon! Where are we to put her? We have no spare room, as you +well know." + +"Can't she room with Cousin Caroline?" + +"Cousin Caroline's room is too small for two. It's full to overflowing +with her belongings now, and Aunt Josephina will bring two trunks at +least. Try again, bright boy." + +"What's the matter with the blue north room?" + +"There is nothing the matter with it--oh, nothing at all! We could put +Aunt Josephina there, but where will she sleep? Where will she wash +her face? Will it not seem slightly inhospitable to invite her to sit +on a bare floor? Have you forgotten that there isn't a stick of +furniture in the blue north room and, worse still, that we haven't a +spare cent to buy any, not even the cheapest kind?" + +"I'll give it up," said Ray. "I might have a try at squaring the +circle if you asked me, but the solution of the Aunt Josephina problem +is beyond me." + +"The solution is simply that we must write to Aunt Josephina, politely +but firmly, that we can't have her come, owing to lack of +accommodation. You must write the letter, Ray. Make it as polite as +you can, but above all make it firm." + +"Oh, but Sally, dear," protested Ray, who didn't relish having to +write such a letter, "isn't this rather hasty, rather inhospitable? +Poor Aunt Josephina must really be rather lonely, and it's only +natural she should want to visit her relations." + +"We're _not_ her relations," cried Sara. "We're not a speck of +relation really. She's only the half-sister of Mother's half-brother. +That sounds nice and relationy, doesn't it? And she's fussy and +interfering, and she will fight with Cousin Caroline, everybody fights +with Cousin Caroline--" + +"Except Sara," interrupted Ray, but Sara went on with a rush, "And we +won't have a minute's peace all winter. Anyhow, where could we put her +even if we wanted her to come? No, we can't have her!" + +"Mother was always very fond of Aunt Josephina," said Ray +reflectively. Sara had her lips open, all ready to answer whatever Ray +might say, but she shut them suddenly and the boy went on. "Aunt +Josephina thought a lot of Mother, too. She used to say she knew +there was always a welcome for her at Maple Hollow. It does seem a +pity, Sally dear, for your mother's daughter to send word to Aunt +Josephina, per my mother's son, that there isn't room for her any +longer at Maple Hollow." + +"I shall leave it to Willard," said Sara abruptly. "If he says to let +her come, come she shall, even if Dorothy and I have to camp in the +barn." + +"I'm going to have a prowl around the garret," said Ray, apropos of +nothing. + +"And I shall get the tea ready," answered Sara briskly. "Dorothy will +be home from school very soon, and I hear Uncle Joel stirring. Willard +won't be back till dark, so there is no use waiting for him." + +At twilight Sara decided to walk up the lane and meet Willard. She +always liked to meet him thus when he had been away for a whole day. +Sara thought there was nobody in the world as good and dear as +Willard. + +It was a dull grey November twilight; the maples in the hollow were +all leafless, and the hawthorn hedge along the lane was sere and +frosted; a little snow had fallen in the afternoon, and lay in broad +patches on the brown fields. The world looked very dull and +dispirited, and Sara sighed. She could not help thinking of the dark +side of things just then. "Everything is wrong," said poor Sara +dolefully. "Willard has to work like a slave, and yet with all his +efforts he can barely pay the interest on the mortgage. And Ray ought +to go to college. But I don't see how we can ever manage. To be sure, +he won't be ready until next fall, but we won't have the money then +any more than now. It would take every bit of a hundred and fifty +dollars to fit him out with books and clothes, and pay for board and +tuition at the academy. If he could just have a year there he could +teach and earn his own way through college. But we might as well hope +for the moon as one hundred and fifty dollars." + +Sara sighed again. She was only eighteen, but she felt very old. +Willard was nineteen, and Willard had never had a chance to be young. +His father had died when he was twelve, and he had run the farm since +then, he and Sara together indeed, for Sara was a capital planner and +manager and worker. The little mother had died two years ago, and the +household cares had all fallen on Sara's shoulders since. Sometimes, +as now, they pressed very heavily, but a talk with Willard always +heartened her up. Willard had his blue spells too, but Sara thought it +a special Providence that their blue turns never came together. When +one got downhearted the other was always ready to do the cheering up. + +Sara was glad to hear Willard whistling when he drove into the lane; +it was a sign he was in good spirits. He pulled up, and Sara climbed +into the wagon. + +"Things go all right today, Sally?" he asked cheerfully. + +"There was a letter from Aunt Josephina," answered Sara, anxious to +get the worst over, "and she wants to come to Maple Hollow for the +winter. I thought at first we just couldn't have her, but I decided to +leave it to you." + +"Well, we've got a pretty good houseful already," said Willard +thoughtfully. "But I suppose if Aunt Josephina wants to come we'd +better have her. I always liked Aunt Josephina, and so did Mother, you +know." + +"I don't know where we can put her. We haven't any spare room, Will." + +"Ray and I can sleep in the kitchen loft. You and Dolly take our room, +and let Aunt Josephina take yours." + +"The kitchen loft isn't really fit to sleep in," said Sara +pessimistically. "It's awfully cold, and there're mice and rats--ugh! +You and Ray will get nibbled in spots. But it's the only thing to do +if we must have Aunt Josephina. I'll get Ray to write to her tomorrow. +I couldn't put enough cordiality into the letter if I wrote it +myself." + +Ray came in while Willard was at supper. There were cobwebs all over +him from his head to his heels. "I've solved the Aunt J. problem," he +announced cheerfully. "We will furnish the blue north room." + +"With what?" asked Sara disbelievingly. + +"I've been poking about in the garret and in the carriage house loft," +said Ray, "and I've found furniture galore. It's very old and +cobwebby--witness my appearance--and very much in want of scrubbing +and a few nails. But it will do." + +"I'd forgotten about those old things," said Sara slowly. "They've +never been used since I can remember, and long before. They were +discarded before Mother came here. But I thought they were all broken +and quite useless." + +"Not at all. I believe we can furbish them up sufficiently to make the +room habitable. It will be rather old-fashioned, but then it's +Hobson's choice. There are the pieces of an old bed out in the loft, +and they can be put together. There's an old corner cupboard out there +too, with leaded glass doors, two old solid wooden armchairs, and a +funny old chest of drawers with a writing desk in place of the top +drawer, all full of yellow old letters and trash. I found it under a +pile of old carpet. Then there's a washstand, and also a towel rack up +in the garret, and the funniest old table with three claw legs, and a +tippy top. One leg is broken off, but I hunted around and found it, +and I guess we can fix it on. And there are two more old chairs and a +queer little oval table with a cracked swing mirror on it." + +"I have it," exclaimed Sara, with a burst of inspiration, "let us fix +up a real old-fashioned room for Aunt Josephina. It won't do to put +anything modern with those old things. One would kill the other. I'll +put Mother's rag carpet down in it, and the four braided mats Grandma +Sheldon gave me, and the old brass candlestick and the Irish chain +coverlet. Oh, I believe it will be lots of fun." + +It was. For a week the Sheldons hammered and glued and washed and +consulted. The north room was already papered with a blue paper of an +old-fashioned stripe-and-diamond pattern. The rag carpet was put down, +and the braided rugs laid on it. The old bedstead was set up in one +corner and, having been well cleaned and polished with beeswax and +turpentine, was really a handsome piece of furniture. On the washstand +Sara placed a quaint old basin and ewer which had been Grandma +Sheldon's. Ray had fixed up the table as good as new; Sara had +polished the brass claws, and on the table she put the brass tray, two +candlesticks, and snuffers which had been long stowed away in the +kitchen loft. The dressing table and swing mirror, with its scroll +frame of tarnished gilt, was in the window corner, and opposite it was +the old chest of drawers. The cupboard was set up in a corner, and +beside it stood the spinning-wheel from the kitchen loft. The big +grandfather clock, which had always stood in the hall below was +carried up, and two platters of blue willow-ware were set up over the +mantel. Above them was hung the faded sampler that Grandma Sheldon had +worked ninety years ago when she was a little girl. + +"Do you know," said Sara, when they stood in the middle of the room +and surveyed the result, "I expected to have a good laugh over this, +but it doesn't look funny after all. The things all seem to suit each +other, some way, and they look good, don't they? I mean they look +_real_, clear through. I believe that table and those drawers are +solid mahogany. And look at the carving on those bedposts. Cleaning +them has made such a difference. I do hope Aunt Josephina won't mind +their being so old." + +Aunt Josephina didn't. She was very philosophical about it when Sara +explained that Cousin Caroline had the spare room, and the blue north +room was all they had left. "Oh, it will be all right," she said, +plainly determined to make the best of things. "Those old things are +thought a lot of now, anyhow. I can't say I fancy them much myself--I +like something a little brighter. But the rich folks have gone cracked +over them. I know a woman in Boston that's got her whole house +furnished with old truck, and as soon as she hears of any old +furniture anywhere she's not contented till she's got it. She says +it's her hobby, and she spends a heap on it. She'd be in raptures if +she saw this old room of yours, Sary." + +"Do you mean," said Sara slowly, "that there are people who would buy +old things like these?" + +"Yes, and pay more for them than would buy a real nice set with a +marble-topped burey. You may well say there's lots of fools in the +world, Sary." Sara was not saying or thinking any such thing. It was a +new idea to her that any value was attached to old furniture, for Sara +lived very much out of the world of fads and collectors. But she did +not forget what Aunt Josephina had said. + +The winter passed away. Aunt Josephina plainly enjoyed her visit, +whatever the Sheldons felt about it. In March her son returned, and +Aunt Josephina went home to him. Before she left, Sara asked her for +the address of the woman whose hobby was old furniture, and the very +afternoon after Aunt Josephina had gone Sara wrote and mailed a +letter. For a week she looked so mysterious that Willard and Ray could +not guess what she was plotting. At the end of that time Mrs. Stanton +came. + +Mrs. Stanton always declared afterwards that the mere sight of that +blue north room gave her raptures. Such a find! Such a discovery! A +bedstead with carved posts, a claw-footed table, real old willow-ware +plates with the birds' bills meeting! Here was luck, if you like! + +When Willard and Ray came home to tea Sara was sitting on the stairs +counting her wealth. + +"Sally, where did you discover all that long-lost treasure?" demanded +Ray. + +"Mrs. Stanton of Boston was here today," said Sara, enjoying the +moment of revelation hugely. "She makes a hobby of collecting old +furniture. I sold her every blessed thing in the blue north room +except Mother's carpet and Grandma's mats and sampler. She wanted +those too, but I couldn't part with them. She bought everything else +and," Sara lifted her hands, full of bills, dramatically, "here are +two hundred and fifty dollars to take you to the Valley Academy next +fall, Ray." + +"It wouldn't be fair to take it for that," said Ray, flushing. "You +and Will--" "Will and I say you must take it," said Sara. "Don't we, +Will? There is nothing we want so much as to give you a college start. +It is an enormous burden off my mind to think it is so nicely provided +for. Besides, most of those old things were yours by the right of +rediscovery, and you voted first of all to have Aunt Josephina come." + +"You must take it, of course, Ray," said Willard. "Nothing else would +give Sara and me so much pleasure. A blessing on Aunt Josephina." + +"Amen," said Sara and Ray. + + + + +The Christmas Surprise at Enderly Road + + +"Phil, I'm getting fearfully hungry. When are we going to strike +civilization?" + +The speaker was my chum, Frank Ward. We were home from our academy for +the Christmas holidays and had been amusing ourselves on this sunshiny +December afternoon by a tramp through the "back lands," as the barrens +that swept away south behind the village were called. They were grown +over with scrub maple and spruce, and were quite pathless save for +meandering sheep tracks that crossed and recrossed, but led apparently +nowhere. + +Frank and I did not know exactly where we were, but the back lands +were not so extensive but that we would come out somewhere if we kept +on. It was getting late and we wished to go home. + +"I have an idea that we ought to strike civilization somewhere up the +Enderly Road pretty soon," I answered. + +"Do you call _that_ civilization?" said Frank, with a laugh. + +No Blackburn Hill boy was ever known to miss an opportunity of +flinging a slur at Enderly Road, even if no Enderly Roader were by to +feel the sting. + +Enderly Road was a miserable little settlement straggling back from +Blackburn Hill. It was a forsaken looking place, and the people, as a +rule, were poor and shiftless. Between Blackburn Hill and Enderly Road +very little social intercourse existed and, as the Road people +resented what they called the pride of Blackburn Hill, there was a +good deal of bad feeling between the two districts. + +Presently Frank and I came out on the Enderly Road. We sat on the +fence a few minutes to rest and discuss our route home. "If we go by +the road it's three miles," said Frank. "Isn't there a short cut?" + +"There ought to be one by the wood-lane that comes out by Jacob +Hart's," I answered, "but I don't know where to strike it." + +"Here is someone coming now; we'll inquire," said Frank, looking up +the curve of the hard-frozen road. The "someone" was a little girl of +about ten years old, who was trotting along with a basketful of +school books on her arm. She was a pale, pinched little thing, and her +jacket and red hood seemed very old and thin. + +"Hello, missy," I said, as she came up, and then I stopped, for I saw +she had been crying. + +"What is the matter?" asked Frank, who was much more at ease with +children than I was, and had always a warm spot in his heart for their +small troubles. "Has your teacher kept you in for being naughty?" + +The mite dashed her little red knuckles across her eyes and answered +indignantly, "No, indeed. I stayed after school with Minnie Lawler to +sweep the floor." + +"And did you and Minnie quarrel, and is that why you are crying?" +asked Frank solemnly. + +"Minnie and I _never_ quarrel. I am crying because we can't have the +school decorated on Monday for the examination, after all. The Dickeys +have gone back on us ... after promising, too," and the tears began to +swell up in the blue eyes again. + +"Very bad behaviour on the part of the Dickeys," commented Frank. "But +can't you decorate the school without them?" + +"Why, of course not. They are the only big boys in the school. They +said they would cut the boughs, and bring a ladder tomorrow and help +us nail the wreaths up, and now they won't ... and everything is +spoiled ... and Miss Davis will be so disappointed." + +By dint of questioning Frank soon found out the whole story. The +semi-annual public examination was to be held on Monday afternoon, the +day before Christmas. Miss Davis had been drilling her little flock +for the occasion; and a program of recitations, speeches, and +dialogues had been prepared. Our small informant, whose name was +Maggie Bates, together with Minnie Lawler and several other little +girls, had conceived the idea that it would be a fine thing to +decorate the schoolroom with greens. For this it was necessary to ask +the help of the boys. Boys were scarce at Enderly school, but the +Dickeys, three in number, had promised to see that the thing was done. + +"And now they won't," sobbed Maggie. "Matt Dickey is mad at Miss Davis +'cause she stood him on the floor today for not learning his lesson, +and he says he won't do a thing nor let any of the other boys help us. +Matt just makes all the boys do as he says. I feel dreadful bad, and +so does Minnie." + +"Well, I wouldn't cry any more about it," said Frank consolingly. +"Crying won't do any good, you know. Can you tell us where to find the +wood-lane that cuts across to Blackburn Hill?" Maggie could, and gave +us minute directions. So, having thanked her, we left her to pursue +her disconsolate way and betook ourselves homeward. + +"I would like to spoil Matt Dickey's little game," said Frank. "He is +evidently trying to run things at Enderly Road school and revenge +himself on the teacher. Let us put a spoke in his wheel and do Maggie +a good turn as well." + +"Agreed. But how?" + +Frank had a plan ready to hand and, when we reached home, we took his +sisters, Carrie and Mabel, into our confidence; and the four of us +worked to such good purpose all the next day, which was Saturday, that +by night everything was in readiness. + +At dusk Frank and I set out for the Enderly Road, carrying a basket, a +small step-ladder, an unlit lantern, a hammer, and a box of tacks. It +was dark when we reached the Enderly Road schoolhouse. Fortunately, it +was quite out of sight of any inhabited spot, being surrounded by +woods. Hence, mysterious lights in it at strange hours would not be +likely to attract attention. + +The door was locked, but we easily got in by a window, lighted our +lantern, and went to work. The schoolroom was small, and the +old-fashioned furniture bore marks of hard usage; but everything was +very snug, and the carefully swept floor and dusted desks bore +testimony to the neatness of our small friend Maggie and her chum +Minnie. + +Our basket was full of mottoes made from letters cut out of cardboard +and covered with lissome sprays of fir. They were, moreover, adorned +with gorgeous pink and red tissue roses, which Carrie and Mabel had +contributed. We had considerable trouble in getting them tacked up +properly, but when we had succeeded, and had furthermore surmounted +doors, windows, and blackboard with wreaths of green, the little +Enderly Road schoolroom was quite transformed. + +"It looks nice," said Frank in a tone of satisfaction. "Hope Maggie +will like it." + +We swept up the litter we had made, and then scrambled out of the +window. + +"I'd like to see Matt Dickey's face when he comes Monday morning," I +laughed, as we struck into the back lands. + +"I'd like to see that midget of a Maggie's," said Frank. "See here, +Phil, let's attend the examination Monday afternoon. I'd like to see +our decorations in daylight." + +We decided to do so, and also thought of something else. Snow fell all +day Sunday, so that, on Monday morning, sleighs had to be brought out. +Frank and I drove down to the store and invested a considerable share +of our spare cash in a varied assortment of knick-knacks. After dinner +we drove through to the Enderly Road schoolhouse, tied our horse in a +quiet spot, and went in. Our arrival created quite a sensation for, as +a rule, Blackburn Hillites did not patronize Enderly Road functions. +Miss Davis, the pale, tired-looking little teacher, was evidently +pleased, and we were given seats of honour next to the minister on the +platform. + +Our decorations really looked very well, and were further enhanced by +two large red geraniums in full bloom which, it appeared, Maggie had +brought from home to adorn the teacher's desk. The side benches were +lined with Enderly Road parents, and all the pupils were in their best +attire. Our friend Maggie was there, of course, and she smiled and +nodded towards the wreaths when she caught our eyes. + +The examination was a decided success, and the program which followed +was very creditable indeed. Maggie and Minnie, in particular, covered +themselves with glory, both in class and on the platform. At its +close, while the minister was making his speech, Frank slipped out; +when the minister sat down the door opened and Santa Claus himself, +with big fur coat, ruddy mask, and long white beard, strode into the +room with a huge basket on his arm, amid a chorus of surprised "Ohs" +from old and young. + +Wonderful things came out of that basket. There was some little +present for every child there--tops, knives, and whistles for the +boys, dolls and ribbons for the girls, and a "prize" box of candy for +everybody, all of which Santa Claus presented with appropriate +remarks. It was an exciting time, and it would have been hard to +decide which were the most pleased, parents, pupils, or teacher. + +In the confusion Santa Claus discreetly disappeared, and school was +dismissed. Frank, having tucked his toggery away in the sleigh, was +waiting for us outside, and we were promptly pounced upon by Maggie +and Minnie, whose long braids were already adorned with the pink silk +ribbons which had been their gifts. + +"_You_ decorated the school," cried Maggie excitedly. "I know you did. +I told Minnie it was you the minute I saw it." + +"You're dreaming, child," said Frank. + +"Oh, no, I'm not," retorted Maggie shrewdly, "and wasn't Matt Dickey +mad this morning! Oh, it was such fun. I think you are two real nice +boys and so does Minnie--don't you Minnie?" + +Minnie nodded gravely. Evidently Maggie did the talking in their +partnership. + +"This has been a splendid examination," said Maggie, drawing a long +breath. "Real Christmassy, you know. We never had such a good time +before." + +"Well, it has paid, don't you think?" asked Frank, as we drove home. + +"Rather," I answered. + +It did "pay" in other ways than the mere pleasure of it. There was +always a better feeling between the Roaders and the Hillites +thereafter. The big brothers of the little girls, to whom our +Christmas surprise had been such a treat, thought it worthwhile to +bury the hatchet, and quarrels between the two villages became things +of the past. + + + + +The Dissipation of Miss Ponsonby + + +We hadn't been very long in Glenboro before we managed to get +acquainted with Miss Ponsonby. It did not come about in the ordinary +course of receiving and returning calls, for Miss Ponsonby never +called on anybody; neither did we meet her at any of the Glenboro +social functions, for Miss Ponsonby never went anywhere except to +church, and very seldom there. Her father wouldn't let her. No, it +simply happened because her window was right across the alleyway from +ours. The Ponsonby house was next to us, on the right, and between us +were only a fence, a hedge of box, and a sprawly acacia tree that +shaded Miss Ponsonby's window, where she always sat sewing--patchwork, +as I'm alive--when she wasn't working around the house. Patchwork +seemed to be Miss Ponsonby's sole and only dissipation of any kind. + +We guessed her age to be forty-five at least, but we found out +afterward that we were mistaken. She was only thirty-five. She was +tall and thin and pale, one of those drab-tinted persons who look as +if they had never felt a rosy emotion in their lives. She had any +amount of silky, fawn-coloured hair, always combed straight back from +her face, and pinned in a big, tight bun just above her neck--the last +style in the world for any woman with Miss Ponsonby's nose to adopt. +But then I doubt if Miss Ponsonby had any idea what her nose was +really like. I don't believe she ever looked at herself critically in +a mirror in her life. Her features were rather nice, and her +expression tamely sweet; her eyes were big, timid, china-blue orbs +that looked as if she had been badly scared when she was little and +had never got over it; she never wore anything but black, and, to +crown all, her first name was Alicia. + +Miss Ponsonby sat and sewed at her window for hours at a time, but she +never looked our way, partly, I suppose, from habit induced by +modesty, since the former occupants of our room had been two gay +young bachelors, whose names Jerry and I found out all over our +window-panes with a diamond. + +Jerry and I sat a great deal at ours, laughing and talking, but Miss +Ponsonby never lifted her head or eyes. Jerry couldn't stand it long; +she declared it got on her nerves; besides, she felt sorry to see a +fellow creature wasting so many precious moments of a fleeting +lifetime at patchwork. So one afternoon she hailed Miss Ponsonby with +a cheerful "hello," and Miss Ponsonby actually looked over and said +"good afternoon," as prim as an eighteen-hundred-and-forty fashion +plate. + +Then Jerry, whose name is Geraldine only in the family Bible, talked +to her about the weather. Jerry can talk interestingly about anything. +In five minutes she had performed a miracle--she had made Miss +Ponsonby laugh. In five minutes more she was leaning half out of the +window showing Miss Ponsonby a new, white, fluffy, frivolous, chiffony +waist of hers, and Miss Ponsonby was leaning halfway out of hers +looking at it eagerly. At the end of a quarter of an hour they were +exchanging confidences about their favourite books. Jerry was a +confirmed Kiplingomaniac, but Miss Ponsonby adored Laura Jean Libbey. +She said sorrowfully she supposed she ought not to read novels at all +since her father disapproved. We found out later on that Mr. +Ponsonby's way of expressing disapproval was to burn any he got hold +of, and storm at his daughter about them like the confirmed old crank +he was. Poor Miss Ponsonby had to keep her Laura Jeans locked up in +her trunk, and it wasn't often she got a new one. + +From that day dated our friendship with Miss Ponsonby, a curious +friendship, only carried on from window to window. We never saw Miss +Ponsonby anywhere else; we asked her to come over but she said her +father didn't allow her to visit anybody. Miss Ponsonby was one of +those meek women who are ruled by whomsoever happens to be nearest +them, and woe be unto them if that nearest happen to be a tyrant. Her +meekness fairly infuriated Jerry. + +But we liked Miss Ponsonby and we pitied her. She confided to us that +she was very lonely and that she wrote poetry. We never asked to see +the poetry, although I think she would have liked to show it. But, as +Jerry says, there are limits. + +We told Miss Ponsonby all about our dances and picnics and beaus and +pretty dresses; she was never tired of hearing of them; we smuggled +new library novels--Jerry got our cook to buy them--and boxes of +chocolates, from our window to hers; we sat there on moonlit nights +and communed with her while other girls down the street were +entertaining callers on their verandahs; we did everything we could +for her except to call her Alicia, although she begged us to do so. +But it never came easily to our tongues; we thought she must have been +born and christened Miss Ponsonby; "Alicia" was something her mother +could only have dreamed about her. + +We thought we knew all about Miss Ponsonby's past; but even pale, +drab, china-blue women can have their secrets and keep them. It was a +full half year before we discovered Miss Ponsonby's. + + * * * * * + +In October, Stephen Shaw came home from the west to visit his father +and mother after an absence of fifteen years. Jerry and I met him at a +party at his brother-in-law's. We knew he was a bachelor of forty-five +or so and had made heaps of money in the lumber business, so we +expected to find him short and round and bald, with bulgy blue eyes +and a double chin. On the contrary, he was a tall, handsome man with +clear-cut features, laughing black eyes like a boy's, and iron-grey +hair. That iron-grey hair nearly finished Jerry; she thinks there is +nothing so distinguished and she had the escape of her life from +falling in love with Stephen Shaw. + +He was as gay as the youngest, danced splendidly, went everywhere, and +took all the Glenboro girls about impartially. It was rumoured that he +had come east to look for a wife but he didn't seem to be in any +particular hurry to find her. + +One evening he called on Jerry; that is to say, he did ask for both of +us, but within ten minutes Jerry had him mewed up in the cosy corner +to the exclusion of all the rest of the world. I felt that I was a +huge crowd, so I obligingly decamped upstairs and sat down by my +window to "muse," as Miss Ponsonby would have said. + +It was a glorious moonlight night, with just a hint of October frost +in the air--enough to give sparkle and tang. After a few moments I +became aware that Miss Ponsonby was also "musing" at her window in the +shadow of the acacia tree. In that dim light she looked quite pretty. +It was suddenly borne in upon me for the first time that, when Miss +Ponsonby was young, she must have been very pretty, with that delicate +elusive fashion of beauty which fades so early if the life is not kept +in it by love and tenderness. It seemed odd, somehow, to think of Miss +Ponsonby as young and pretty. She seemed so essentially middle-aged +and faded. + +"Lovely night, Miss Ponsonby," I said brilliantly. + +"A very beautiful night, dear Elizabeth," answered Miss Ponsonby in +that tired little voice of hers that always seemed as drab-coloured as +the rest of her. + +"I'm mopy," I said frankly. "Jerry has concentrated herself on Stephen +Shaw for the evening and I'm left on the fringe of things." + +Miss Ponsonby didn't say anything for a few moments. When she spoke +some strange and curious note had come into her voice, as if a chord, +long unswept and silent, had been suddenly thrilled by a passing hand. + +"Did I understand you to say that Geraldine was--entertaining Stephen +Shaw?" + +"Yes. He's home from the west and he's delightful," I replied. "All +the Glenboro girls are quite crazy over him. Jerry and I are as bad as +the rest. He isn't at all young but he's very fascinating." + +"Stephen Shaw!" repeated Miss Ponsonby faintly. "So Stephen Shaw is +home again!" + +"Why, I suppose you would know him long ago," I said, remembering that +Stephen Shaw's youth must have been contemporaneous with Miss +Ponsonby's. + +"Yes, I used to know him," said Miss Ponsonby very slowly. + +She did not say anything more, which I thought a little odd, for she +was generally full of mild curiosity about all strangers and +sojourners in Glenboro. Presently she got up and went away from her +window. Deserted even by Miss Ponsonby, I went grumpily to bed. + +Then Mrs. George Hubbard gave a big dance. Jerry and I were pleasantly +excited. The Hubbards were the smartest of the Glenboro smart set and +their entertainments were always quite brilliant affairs for a small +country village like ours. This party was professedly given in honour +of Stephen Shaw, who was to leave for the west again in a week's time. + +On the evening of the party Jerry and I went to our room to dress. And +there, across at her window in the twilight, sat Miss Ponsonby, +crying. I had never seen Miss Ponsonby cry before. + +"What is the matter?" I called out softly and anxiously. + +"Oh, nothing," sobbed Miss Ponsonby, "only--only--I'm invited to the +party tonight--Susan Hubbard is my cousin, you know--and I would like +so much to go." + +"Then why don't you?" said Jerry briskly. + +"My father won't let me," said Miss Ponsonby, swallowing a sob as if +she were a little girl of ten years old. Jerry had to dodge behind the +curtain to hide a smile. + +"It's too bad," I said sympathetically, but wondering a little why +Miss Ponsonby seemed so worked up about it. I knew she had sometimes +been invited out before and had not been allowed to go, but she had +never cared apparently. + +"Well, what is to be done?" I whispered to Jerry. + +"Take Miss Ponsonby to the party with us, of course," said Jerry, +popping out from behind the curtain. + +I didn't ask her if she expected to fly through the air with Miss +Ponsonby, although short of that I couldn't see how the latter was to +be got out of the house without her father knowing. The old gentleman +had a den off the hall where he always sat in the evening and smoked +fiercely, after having locked all the doors to keep the servants in. +He was a delightful sort of person, that old Mr. Ponsonby. + +Jerry poked her head as far as she could out of the window. "Miss +Ponsonby, you are going to the dance," she said in a cautious +undertone, "so don't cry any more or your eyes will be dreadfully +red." + +"It is impossible," said Miss Ponsonby resignedly. + +"Nothing is impossible when I make up my mind," said Jerry firmly. +"You must get dressed, climb down that acacia tree, and join us in our +yard. It will be pitch dark in a few minutes and your father will +never know." + +I had a frantic vision of Miss Ponsonby scrambling down that acacia +tree like an eloping damsel. But Jerry was in dead earnest, and really +it was quite possible if Miss Ponsonby only thought so. I did not +believe she would think so, but I was mistaken. Her thorough course in +Libbey heroines and their marvellous escapades had quite prepared her +to contemplate such an adventure calmly--in the abstract at least. But +another obstacle presented itself. + +"It's impossible," she said again, after her first flash hope. "I +haven't a fit dress to wear--I've nothing at all but my black cashmere +and it is three years old." + +But the more hindrances in Jerry's way when she sets out to +accomplish something the more determined and enthusiastic she becomes. +I listened to her with amazement. + +"I have a dress I'll lend you," she said resolutely. "And I'll go over +and fix you up as soon as it's a little darker. Go now and bathe your +eyes and just trust to me." + +Miss Ponsonby's long habit of obedience to whatever she was told stood +her in good stead now. She obeyed Jerry without another word. Jerry +seized me by the waist and waltzed me around the room in an ecstasy. + +"Jerry Elliott, how are you going to carry this thing through?" I +demanded sternly. + +"Easily enough," responded Jerry. "You know that black lace dress of +mine--the one with the apricot slip. I've never worn it since I came +to Glenboro, so nobody will know it's mine, and I never mean to wear +it again for it's got too tight. It's a trifle old-fashioned, but that +won't matter for Glenboro, and it will fit Miss Ponsonby all right. +She's about my height and figure. I'm determined that poor soul shall +have a dissipation for once in her life since she hankers for it. Come +on now, Elizabeth. It will be a lark." + +I caught Jerry's enthusiasm, and while she hunted out the box +containing the black lace dress, I hastily gathered together some +other odds and ends I thought might be useful--a black aigrette, a +pair of black silk gloves, a spangled gauze fan, and a pair of +slippers. They wouldn't have stood daylight, but they looked all right +after night. As we left the room I caught up some pale pink roses on +my table. + +We pushed through a little gap in the privet hedge and found ourselves +under the acacia tree with Miss Ponsonby peering anxiously at us from +above. I wanted to shriek with laughter, the whole thing seemed so +funny and unreal. Jerry, although she hasn't climbed trees since she +was twelve, went up that acacia as nimbly as a pussy-cat, took the box +and things from me, passed them to Miss Ponsonby, and got in at the +window while I went back to my own room to dress, hoping old Mr. +Ponsonby wouldn't be running out to ring the fire alarm. + +In a very short time I heard Miss Ponsonby and Jerry at the opposite +window, and I rushed to mine to see the sight. But Miss Ponsonby, with +a red fascinator over her head and a big cape wrapped round her, +slipped out of the window and down that blessed acacia tree as neatly +and nimbly as if she had been accustomed to doing it for exercise +every day of her life. There were possibilities in Miss Ponsonby. In +two more minutes they were both safe in our room. + +Then Jerry threw off Miss Ponsonby's wraps and stepped back. I know I +stared until my eyes stuck out of my head. Was that Miss +Ponsonby--that! + +The black lace dress, with the pinkish sheen of its slip beneath, +suited her slim shape to perfection and clung around her in lovely, +filmy curves that made her look willowy and girlish. It was +high-necked, just cut away slightly at the throat, and had great, +loose, hanging frilly sleeves of lace. Jerry had shaken out her hair +and piled it high on her head in satiny twists and loops, with a +pompadour such as Miss Ponsonby could never have thought about. It +suited her tremendously and seemed to alter the whole character of her +face, giving verve and piquancy to her delicate little features. The +excitement had flushed her cheeks into positive pinkness and her eyes +were starry. The roses were pinned on her shoulder. Miss Ponsonby, as +she stood there, was a pretty woman, with fifteen apparent birthdays +the less. + +"Oh, Alicia, you look just lovely!" I gasped. The name slipped out +quite naturally. I never thought about it at all. + +"My dear Elizabeth," she said, "it's like a dream of lost youth." + +We got Jerry ready and then we started for the Hubbards', out by our +back door and through our neighbour-on-the-left's lane to avoid all +observation. Miss Ponsonby was breathless with terror. She was sure +every footstep she heard behind her was her father's in pursuit. She +almost fainted on the spot when a belated man came tearing along the +street. Jerry and I breathed a sigh of devout thanksgiving when we +found ourselves safely in the Hubbard parlour. + +We were early, but Stephen Shaw was there before us. He came up to us +at once, and just then Miss Ponsonby turned around. + +"Alicia!" he said. + +"How do you do, Stephen?" she said tremulously. + +And there he was looking down at her with an expression on his face +that none of the Glenboro girls he had been calling on had ever seen. +Jerry and I just simply melted away. We can see through grindstones +when there are holes in them! + +We went out and sat down on the stairs. + +"There's a mystery here," said Jerry, "but Miss Ponsonby shall explain +it to us before we let her climb up that acacia tree tonight. Now that +I come to think of it, the first night he called he asked me about +her. Wanted to know if her father were the same old blustering tyrant +he always was, and if we knew her at all. I'm afraid I made a little +mild fun of her, and he didn't say anything more. Well, I'm awfully +glad now that I didn't fall in love with him. I could have, but I +wouldn't." + +Miss Ponsonby's appearance at the Hubbards' party was the biggest +sensation Glenboro had had for years. And in her way, she was a +positive belle. She didn't dance, but all the middle-aged men, +widowers, wedded, and bachelors, who had known her in her girlhood +crowded around her, and she laughed and chatted as I hadn't even +imagined Miss Ponsonby could laugh and chat. Jerry and I revelled in +her triumph, for did we not feel that it was due to us? At last Miss +Ponsonby disappeared; shortly after Jerry and I blundered into the +library to fix some obstreperous hairpins, and there we found her and +Stephen Shaw in the cosy corner. + +There were no explanations on the road home, for Miss Ponsonby walked +behind us with Stephen Shaw in the pale, late-risen October moonshine. +But when we had sneaked through the neighbour-to-the-left's lane and +reached our side verandah we waited for her, and as soon as Stephen +Shaw had gone we laid violent hands on Miss Ponsonby and made her +'fess up there on the dark, chilly verandah, at one o'clock in the +morning. + +"Miss Ponsonby," said Jerry, "before we assist you in returning to +those ancestral halls of yours you've simply got to tell us what all +this means." + +Miss Ponsonby gave a little, shy, nervous laugh. + +"Stephen Shaw and I were engaged to be married long ago," she said +simply. "But Father disapproved. Stephen was poor then. And so--and +so--I sent him away. What else could I do?"--for Jerry had +snorted--"Father had to be obeyed. But it broke my heart. Stephen went +away--he was very angry--and I have never seen him since. When Susan +Hubbard invited me to the party I felt as if I must go--I must see +Stephen once more. I never thought for a minute that he remembered +me--or cared still...." + +"But he does?" said Jerry breathlessly. Jerry never scruples to ask +anything right out that she wants to know. + +"Yes," said Miss Ponsonby softly. "Isn't it wonderful? I could hardly +believe it--I am so changed. But he said tonight he had never thought +of any other woman. He--he came home to see me. But when I never went +anywhere, even when I must know he was home, he thought I didn't want +to see him. If I hadn't gone tonight--oh, I owe it all to you two dear +girls!" + +"When are you to be married?" demanded that terrible Jerry. + +"As soon as possible," said Miss Ponsonby. "Stephen was going away +next week, but he says he will wait until I can get ready." + +"Do you think your father will object this time?" I queried. + +"No, I don't think so. Stephen is a rich man now, you know. That +wouldn't make any difference with me--but Father is very--practical. +Stephen is going to see him tomorrow." + +"But what if he does object?" I persisted anxiously. + +"The acacia tree will still be there," said Miss Ponsonby firmly. + + + + +The Falsoms' Christmas Dinner + + +"Well, so it's all settled," said Stephen Falsom. + +"Yes," assented Alexina. "Yes, it is," she repeated, as if somebody +had questioned it. + +Then Alexina sighed. Whatever "it" was, the fact of its being settled +did not seem to bring Alexina any great peace of mind--nor Stephen +either, judging from his face, which wore a sort of "suffer and be +strong" expression just then. "When do you go?" said Alexina, after a +pause, during which she had frowned out of the window and across the +Tracy yard. Josephine Tracy and her brother Duncan were strolling +about the yard in the pleasant December sunshine, arm in arm, laughing +and talking. They appeared to be a nice, harmless pair of people, but +the sight of them did not seem to please Alexina. + +"Just as soon as we can sell the furniture and move away," said +Stephen moodily. "Heigh-ho! So this is what all our fine ambitions +have come to, Lexy, your music and my M.D. A place in a department +store for you, and one in a lumber mill for me." + +"I don't dare to complain," said Alexina slowly. "We ought to be so +thankful to get the positions. I _am_ thankful. And I don't mind so +very much about my music. But I do wish you could have gone to +college, Stephen." + +"Never mind me," said Stephen, brightening up determinedly. "I'm going +to go into the lumber business enthusiastically. You don't know what +unsuspected talents I may develop along that line. The worst of it is +that we can't be together. But I'll keep my eyes open, and perhaps +I'll find a place for you in Lessing." + +Alexina said nothing. Her separation from Stephen was the one point in +their fortunes she could not bear to discuss. There were times when +Alexina did not see how she was going to exist without Stephen. But +she never said so to him. She thought he had enough to worry him +without her making matters worse. "Well," said Stephen, getting up, +"I'll run down to the office. And see here, Lexy. Day after tomorrow +is Christmas. Are we going to celebrate it at all? If so I'd better +order the turkey." + +Alexina looked thoughtful. "I don't know, Stephen. We're short of +money, you know, and the fund is dwindling every day. Don't you think +it's a little extravagant to have a turkey for two people? And somehow +I don't feel a bit Christmassy. I think I'd rather spend it just like +any other day and try to forget that it _is_ Christmas. Everything +would be so different." + +"That's true, Lexy. And we must look after the bawbees closely, I'll +admit." When Stephen had gone out Alexina cried a little, not very +much, because she didn't want her eyes to be red against Stephen's +return. But she had to cry a little. As she had said, everything was +so different from what it had been a year ago. Their father had been +alive then and they had been very cosy and happy in the little house +at the end of the street. There had been no mother there since +Alexina's birth sixteen years ago. Alexina had kept house for her +father and Stephen since she was ten. Stephen was a clever boy and +intended to study medicine. Alexina had a good voice, and something +was to be done about training it. The Tracys lived next door to them. +Duncan Tracy was Stephen's particular chum, and Josephine Tracy was +Alexina's dearest friend. Alexina was never lonely when Josie was near +by to laugh and chat and plan with. + +Then, all at once, troubles came. In June the firm of which Mr. Falsom +was a member failed. There was some stigma attached to the failure, +too, although the blame did not rest upon Mr. Falsom, but with his +partner. Worry and anxiety aggravated the heart trouble from which he +had suffered for some time, and a month later he died. Alexina and +Stephen were left alone to face the knowledge that they were +penniless, and must look about for some way of supporting themselves. +At first they hoped to be able to get something to do in Thorndale, so +that they might keep their home. This proved impossible. After much +discouragement and disappointment Stephen had secured a position in +the lumber mill at Lessing, and Alexina was promised a place in a +departmental store in the city. + +To make matters worse, Duncan Tracy and Stephen had quarrelled in +October. It was only a boyish disagreement over some trifle, but +bitter words had passed. Duncan, who was a quick-tempered lad, had +twitted Stephen with his father's failure, and Stephen had resented it +hotly. Duncan was sorry for and ashamed of his words as soon as they +were uttered, but he would not humble himself to say so. Alexina had +taken Stephen's part and her manner to Josie assumed a tinge of +coldness. Josie quickly noticed and resented it, and the breach +between the two girls widened almost insensibly, until they barely +spoke when they met. Each blamed the other and cherished bitterness +in her heart. + +When Stephen came home from the post office he looked excited. + +"Were there any letters?" asked Alexina. + +"Well, rather! One from Uncle James!" + +"Uncle James," exclaimed Alexina, incredulously. + +"Yes, beloved sis. Oh, you needn't try to look as surprised as I did. +And I ordered the turkey after all. Uncle James has invited himself +here to dinner on Christmas Day. You'll have a chance to show your +culinary skill, for you know we've always been told that Uncle James +was a gourmand." + +Alexina read the letter in a maze. It was a brief epistle, stating +that the writer wished to make the acquaintance of his niece and +nephew, and would visit them on Christmas Day. That was all. But +Alexina instantly saw a future of rosy possibilities. For Uncle James, +who lived in the city and was really a great-uncle, had never taken +the slightest notice of their family since his quarrel with their +father twenty years ago; but this looked as if Uncle James were +disposed to hold out the olive branch. + +"Oh, Stephen, if he likes you, and if he offers to educate you!" +breathed Alexina. "Perhaps he will if he is favourably impressed. But +we'll have to be so careful, he is so whimsical and odd, at least +everybody has always said so. A little thing may turn the scale either +way. Anyway, we must have a good dinner for him. I'll have plum +pudding and mince pie." + +For the next thirty-six hours Alexina lived in a whirl. There was so +much to do. The little house was put in apple pie order from top to +bottom, and Stephen was set to stoning raisins and chopping meat and +beating eggs. Alexina was perfectly reckless; no matter how big a hole +it made in their finances Uncle James must have a proper Christmas +dinner. A favourable impression must be made. Stephen's whole +future--Alexina did not think about her own at all just then--might +depend on it. + +Christmas morning came, fine and bright and warm. It was more like a +morning in early spring than in December, for there was no snow or +frost, and the air was moist and balmy. Alexina was up at daybreak, +cleaning and decorating at a furious rate. By eleven o'clock +everything was finished or going forward briskly. The plum pudding was +bubbling in the pot, the turkey--Burton's plumpest--was sizzling in +the oven. The shelf in the pantry bore two mince pies upon which +Alexina was willing to stake her culinary reputation. And Stephen had +gone to the train to meet Uncle James. + +From her kitchen window Alexina could see brisk preparations going on +in the Tracy kitchen. She knew Josie and Duncan were all alone; their +parents had gone to spend Christmas with friends in Lessing. In spite +of her hurry and excitement Alexina found time to sigh. Last Christmas +Josie and Duncan had come over and eaten their dinner with them. But +now last Christmas seemed very far away. And Josie had behaved +horridly. Alexina was quite clear on that point. + +Then Stephen came with Uncle James. Uncle James was a rather pompous, +fussy old man with red cheeks and bushy eyebrows. "H'm! Smells nice in +here," was his salutation to Alexina. "I hope it will taste as good as +it smells. I'm hungry." + +Alexina soon left Uncle James and Stephen talking in the parlour and +betook herself anxiously to the kitchen. She set the table in the +little dining room, now and then pausing to listen with a delighted +nod to the murmur of voices and laughter in the parlour. She felt sure +that Stephen was making a favourable impression. She lifted the plum +pudding and put it on a plate on the kitchen table; then she took out +the turkey, beautifully done, and put it on a platter; finally, she +popped the two mince pies into the oven. Just at this moment Stephen +stuck his head in at the hall door. + +"Lexy, do you know where that letter of Governor Howland's to Father +is? Uncle James wants to see it." + +Alexina, not waiting to shut the oven door--for delay might impress +Uncle James unfavourably--rushed upstairs to get the letter. She was +ten minutes finding it. Then, remembering her pies, she flew back to +the kitchen. In the middle of the floor she stopped as if transfixed, +staring at the table. The turkey was gone. And the plum pudding was +gone! And the mince pies were gone! Nothing was left but the platters! +For a moment Alexina refused to believe her eyes. Then she saw a trail +of greasy drops on the floor to the open door, out over the doorstep, +and along the boards of the walk to the back fence. + +Alexina did not make a fuss. Even at that horrible moment she +remembered the importance of making a favourable impression. But she +could not quite keep the alarm and excitement out of her voice as she +called Stephen, and Stephen knew that something had gone wrong as he +came quickly through the hall. "Is the turkey burned, Lexy?" he cried. + +"Burned! No, it's ten times worse," gasped Alexina. "It's gone--gone, +Stephen. And the pudding and the mince pies, too. Oh, what shall we +do? Who can have taken them?" + +It may be stated right here and now that the Falsoms never really +_knew_ anything more about the disappearance of their Christmas dinner +than they did at that moment. But the only reasonable explanation of +the mystery was that a tramp had entered the kitchen and made off with +the good things. The Falsom house was right at the end of the street. +The narrow backyard opened on a lonely road. Across the road was a +stretch of pine woods. There was no house very near except the Tracy +one. + +Stephen reached this conclusion with a bound. He ran out to the yard +gate followed by the distracted Alexina. The only person visible was a +man some distance down the road. Stephen leaped over the gate and tore +down the road in pursuit of him. Alexina went back to the doorstep, +sat down upon it, and began to cry. She couldn't help it. Her hopes +were all in ruins around her. There was no dinner for Uncle James. + +Josephine Tracy saw her crying. Now, Josie honestly thought that she +had a grievance against Alexina. But an Alexina walking unconcernedly +by with a cool little nod and her head held high was a very different +person from an Alexina sitting on a back doorstep, on Christmas +morning, crying. For a moment Josie hesitated. Then she slowly went +out and across the yard to the fence. "What is the trouble?" she +asked. + +Alexina forgot that there was such a thing as dignity to be kept up; +or, if she remembered it, she was past caring for such a trifle. "Our +dinner is gone," she sobbed. "And there is nothing to give Uncle James +to eat except vegetables--and I do so want to make a favourable +impression!" + +This was not particularly lucid, but Josie, with a flying mental leap, +arrived at the conclusion that it was very important that Uncle James, +whoever he was, should have a dinner, and she knew where one was to be +had. But before she could speak Stephen returned, looking rueful. "No +use, Lexy. That man was only old Mr. Byers, and he had seen no signs +of a tramp. There is a trail of grease right across the road. The +tramp must have taken directly to the woods. We'll simply have to do +without our Christmas dinner." + +"By no means," said Josie quickly, with a little red spot on either +cheek. "Our dinner is all ready--turkey, pudding and all. Let us lend +it to you. Don't say a word to your uncle about the accident." + +Alexina flushed and hesitated. "It's very kind of you," she stammered, +"but I'm afraid--it would be too much--" + +"Not a bit of it," Josie interrupted warmly. "Didn't Duncan and I have +Christmas dinner at your house last year? Just come and help us carry +it over." + +"If you lend us your dinner you and Duncan must come and help us eat +it," said Alexina, resolutely. + +"I'll come of course," said Josie, "and I think that Duncan will too +if--if--" She looked at Stephen, the scarlet spots deepening. Stephen +coloured too. + +"Duncan must come," he said quietly. "I'll go and ask him." + +Two minutes later a peculiar procession marched out of the Tracy +kitchen door, across the two yards, and into the Falsom house. Josie +headed it, carrying a turkey on a platter. Alexina came next with a +plum pudding. Stephen and Duncan followed with a hot mince pie apiece. +And in a few more minutes Alexina gravely announced to Uncle James +that dinner was ready. + +The dinner was a pronounced success, marked by much suppressed +hilarity among the younger members of the party. Uncle James ate very +heartily and seemed to enjoy everything, especially the mince pie. + +"This is the best mince pie I have ever sampled," he told Alexina. "I +am glad to know that I have a niece who can make such a mince pie." +Alexina cast an agonized look at Josie, and was on the point of +explaining that she wasn't the maker of the pie. But Josie frowned her +into silence. + +"I felt so guilty to sit there and take the credit--_your_ credit," +she told Josie afterwards, as they washed up the dishes. + +"Nonsense," said Josie. "It wasn't as if you couldn't make mince pies. +Your mince pies are better than mine, if it comes to that. It might +have spoiled everything if you'd said a word. I must go home now. +Won't you and Stephen come over after your uncle goes, and spend the +evening with us? We'll have a candy pull." + +When Josie and Duncan had gone, Uncle James called his nephew and +niece into the parlour, and sat down before them with approving eyes. +"I want to have a little talk with you two. I'm sorry I've let so many +years go by without making your acquaintance, because you seem worth +getting acquainted with. Now, what are your plans for the future?" + +"I'm going into a lumber mill at Lessing and Alexina is going into the +T. Morson store," said Stephen quietly. + +"Tut, tut, no, you're not. And she's not. You're coming to live with +me, both of you. If you have a fancy for cutting and carving people +up, young man, you must be trained to cut and carve them +scientifically, anyhow. As for you, Alexina, Stephen tells me you can +sing. Well, there's a good Conservatory of Music in town. Wouldn't you +rather go there instead of behind a counter?" + +"Oh, Uncle James!" exclaimed Alexina with shining eyes. She jumped +up, put her arms about Uncle James' neck and kissed him. + +Uncle James said, "Tut, tut," again, but he liked it. + +When Stephen had seen his uncle off on the six o'clock train he +returned home and looked at the radiant Alexina. + +"Well, you made your favourable impression, all right, didn't you?" he +said gaily. "But we owe it to Josie Tracy. Isn't she a brick? I +suppose you're going over this evening?" + +"Yes, I am. I'm so tired that I feel as if I couldn't crawl across the +yard, but if I can't you'll have to carry me. Go I will. I can't begin +to tell you how glad I am about everything, but really the fact that +you and Duncan and Josie and I are good friends again seems the best +of all. I'm glad that tramp stole the dinner and I hope he enjoyed it. +I don't grudge him one single bite!" + + + + +The Fraser Scholarship + + +Elliot Campbell came down the main staircase of Marwood College and +found himself caught up with a whoop into a crowd of Sophs who were +struggling around the bulletin board. He was thumped on the back and +shaken hands with amid a hurricane of shouts and congratulations. + +"Good for you, Campbell! You've won the Fraser. See your little name +tacked up there at the top of the list, bracketed off all by itself +for the winner? 'Elliott H. Campbell, ninety-two per cent.' A class +yell for Campbell, boys!" + +While the yell was being given with a heartiness that might have +endangered the roof, Elliott, with flushed face and sparkling eyes, +pushed nearer to the important typewritten announcement on the +bulletin board. Yes, he had won the Fraser Scholarship. His name +headed the list of seven competitors. + +Roger Brooks, who was at his side, read over the list aloud: + +"'Elliott H. Campbell, ninety-two.' I said you'd do it, my boy. +'Edward Stone, ninety-one'--old Ned ran you close, didn't he? But of +course with that name he'd no show. 'Kay Milton, eighty-eight.' Who'd +have thought slow-going old Kay would have pulled up so well? 'Seddon +Brown, eighty-seven; Oliver Field, eighty-four; Arthur McIntyre, +eighty-two'--a very respectable little trio. And 'Carl McLean, +seventy.' Whew! what a drop! Just saved his distance. It was only his +name took him in, of course. He knew you weren't supposed to be strong +in mathematics." + +Before Elliott could say anything, a professor emerged from the +president's private room, bearing the report of a Freshman +examination, which he proceeded to post on the Freshman bulletin +board, and the rush of the students in that direction left Elliott +and Roger free of the crowd. They seized the opportunity to escape. + +Elliott drew a long breath as they crossed the campus in the fresh +April sunshine, where the buds were swelling on the fine old chestnuts +and elms that surrounded Marwood's red brick walls. + +"That has lifted a great weight off my mind," he said frankly. "A good +deal depended on my winning the Fraser. I couldn't have come back next +year if I hadn't got it. That four hundred will put me through the +rest of my course." + +"That's good," said Roger Brooks heartily. + +He liked Elliott Campbell, and so did all the Sophomores. Yet none of +them was at all intimate with him. He had no chums, as the other boys +had. He boarded alone, "dug" persistently, and took no part in the +social life of the college. Roger Brooks came nearest to being his +friend of any, yet even Roger knew very little about him. Elliott had +never before said so much about his personal affairs as in the speech +just recorded. + +"I'm poor--woefully poor," went on Elliott gaily. His success seemed +to have thawed his reserve for the time being. "I had just enough +money to bring me through the Fresh and Soph years by dint of careful +management. Now I'm stone broke, and the hope of the Fraser was all +that stood between me and the dismal certainty of having to teach next +year, dropping out of my class and coming back in two or three years' +time, a complete, rusty stranger again. Whew! I made faces over the +prospect." + +"No wonder," commented Roger. "The class would have been sorry if you +had had to drop out, Campbell. We want to keep all our stars with us +to make a shining coruscation at the finish. Besides, you know we all +like you for yourself. It would have been an everlasting shame if +that little cad of a McLean had won out. Nobody likes him." + +"Oh, I had no fear of him," answered Elliott. "I don't see what +induced him to go in, anyhow. He must have known he'd no chance. But I +was afraid of Stone--he's a born dabster at mathematics, you know, and +I only hold my own in them by hard digging." + +"Why, Stone couldn't have taken the Fraser over you in any case, if +you made over seventy," said Roger with a puzzled look. "You must have +known that. McLean was the only competitor you had to fear." + +"I don't understand you," said Elliott blankly. + +"You must know the conditions of the Fraser!" exclaimed Roger. + +"Certainly," responded Elliott. "'The Fraser scholarship, amounting to +four hundred dollars, will be offered annually in the Sophomore class. +The competitors will be expected to take a special examination in +mathematics, and the winner will be awarded two hundred dollars for +two years, payable in four annual instalments, the payment of any +instalment to be conditional on the winner's attending the required +classes for undergraduates and making satisfactory progress therein.' +Isn't that correct?" + +"So far as it goes, old man. You forget the most important part of +all. 'Preference is to be given to competitors of the name Fraser, +Campbell or McLean, provided that such competitor makes at least +seventy per cent in his examination.' You don't mean to tell me that +you didn't know that!" + +"Are you joking?" demanded Elliott with a pale face. + +"Not a joke. Why, man, it's in the calendar." + +"I didn't know it," said Elliott slowly. "I read the calendar +announcement only once, and I certainly didn't notice that +condition." + +"Well, that's curious. But how on earth did you escape hearing it +talked about? It's always discussed extensively among the boys, +especially when there are two competitors of the favoured names, which +doesn't often happen." + +"I'm not a very sociable fellow," said Elliott with a faint smile. +"You know they call me 'the hermit.' As it happened, I never talked +the matter over with anyone or heard it referred to. I--I wish I had +known this before." + +"Why, what difference does it make? It's all right, anyway. But it is +odd to think that if your name hadn't been Campbell, the Fraser would +have gone to McLean over the heads of Stone and all the rest. Their +only hope was that you would both fall below seventy. It's an absurd +condition, but there it is in old Professor Fraser's will. He was rich +and had no family. So he left a number of bequests to the college on +ordinary conditions. I suppose he thought he might humour his whim in +one. His widow is a dear old soul, and always makes a special pet of +the boy who wins the Fraser. Well, here's my street. So long, +Campbell." + +Elliott responded almost curtly and walked onward to his +boarding-house with a face from which all the light had gone. When he +reached his room he took down the Marwood calendar and whirled over +the leaves until he came to the announcement of bursaries and +scholarships. The Fraser announcement, as far as he had read it, ended +at the foot of the page. He turned the leaf and, sure enough, at the +top of the next page, in a paragraph by itself, was the condition: +"Preference shall be given to candidates of the name Fraser, Campbell +or McLean, provided that said competitor makes at least seventy per +cent in his examination." + +Elliott flung himself into a chair by his table and bowed his head on +his hands. He had no right to the Fraser Scholarship. His name was +not Campbell, although perhaps nobody in the world knew it save +himself, and he remembered it only by an effort of memory. + +He had been born in a rough mining camp in British Columbia, and when +he was a month old his father, John Hanselpakker, had been killed in a +mine explosion, leaving his wife and child quite penniless and almost +friendless. One of the miners, an honest, kindly Scotchman named +Alexander Campbell, had befriended Mrs. Hanselpakker and her little +son in many ways, and two years later she had married him. They +returned to their native province of Nova Scotia and settled in a +small country village. Here Elliott had grown up, bearing the name of +the man who was a kind and loving father to him, and whom he loved as +a father. His mother had died when he was ten years old and his +stepfather when he was fifteen. On his deathbed he asked Elliott to +retain his name. + +"I've cared for you and loved you since the time you were born, lad," +he said. "You seem like my own son, and I've a fancy to leave you my +name. It's all I can leave you, for I'm a poor man, but it's an honest +name, lad, and I've kept it free from stain. See that you do likewise, +and you'll have your mother's blessing and mine." + +Elliott fought a hard battle that spring evening. + +"Hold your tongue and keep the Fraser," whispered the tempter. +"Campbell _is_ your name. You've borne it all your life. And the +condition itself is a ridiculous one--no fairness about it. You made +the highest marks and you ought to be the winner. It isn't as if you +were wronging Stone or any of the others who worked hard and made good +marks. If you throw away what you've won by your own hard labour, the +Fraser goes to McLean, who made only seventy. Besides, you need the +money and he doesn't. His father is a rich man." + +"But I'll be a cheat and a cad if I keep it," Elliott muttered +miserably. "Campbell isn't my legal name, and I'd never again feel as +if I had even the right of love to it if I stained it by a dishonest +act. For it _would_ be stained, even though nobody but myself knew it. +Father said it was a clean name when he left it, and I cannot soil +it." + +The tempter was not silenced so easily as that. Elliott passed a +sleepless night of indecision. But next day he went to Marwood and +asked for a private interview with the president. As a result, an +official announcement was posted that afternoon on the bulletin board +to the effect that, owing to a misunderstanding, the Fraser +Scholarship had been wrongly awarded. Carl McLean was posted as +winner. + +The story soon got around the campus, and Elliott found himself rather +overwhelmed with sympathy, but he did not feel as if he were very much +in need of it after all. It was good to have done the right thing and +be able to look your conscience in the face. He was young and strong +and could work his own way through Marwood in time. + +"No condolences, please," he said to Roger Brooks with a smile. "I'm +sorry I lost the Fraser, of course, but I've my hands and brains left. +I'm going straight to my boarding-house to dig with double vim, for +I've got to take an examination next week for a provincial school +certificate. Next winter I'll be a flourishing pedagogue in some +up-country district." + +He was not, however. The next afternoon he received a summons to the +president's office. The president was there, and with him was a plump, +motherly-looking woman of about sixty. + +"Mrs. Fraser, this is Elliott Hanselpakker, or Campbell, as I +understand he prefers to be called. Elliott, I told your story to Mrs. +Fraser last evening, and she was greatly interested when she heard +your rather peculiar name. She will tell you why herself." + +"I had a young half-sister once," said Mrs. Fraser eagerly. "She +married a man named John Hanselpakker and went West, and somehow I +lost all trace of her. There was, I regret to say, a coolness between +us over her marriage. I disapproved of it because she married a very +poor man. When I heard your name, it struck me that you might be her +son, or at least know something about her. Her name was Mary Helen +Rodney, and I loved her very dearly in spite of our foolish quarrel." + +There was a tremour in Mrs. Fraser's voice and an answering one in +Elliott's as he replied: "Mary Helen Rodney was my dear mother's name, +and my father was John Hanselpakker." + +"Then you are my nephew," exclaimed Mrs. Fraser. "I am your Aunt +Alice. My boy, you don't know how much it means to a lonely old woman +to have found you. I'm the happiest person in the world!" + +She slipped her arm through Elliott's and turned to the sympathetic +president with shining eyes. + +"He is my boy forever, if he will be. Blessings on the Fraser +Scholarship!" + +"Blessings rather on the manly boy who wouldn't keep it under false +colours," said the president with a smile. "I think you are fortunate +in your nephew, Mrs. Fraser." + +So Elliott Hanselpakker Campbell came back to Marwood the next year +after all. + + + + +The Girl at the Gate + + +Something very strange happened the night old Mr. Lawrence died. I +have never been able to explain it and I have never spoken of it +except to one person and she said that I dreamed it. I did not dream +it ... I saw and heard, waking. + +We had not expected Mr. Lawrence to die then. He did not seem very ill +... not nearly so ill as he had been during his previous attack. When +we heard of his illness I went over to Woodlands to see him, for I had +always been a great favourite with him. The big house was quiet, the +servants going about their work as usual, without any appearance of +excitement. I was told that I could not see Mr. Lawrence for a little +while, as the doctor was with him. Mrs. Yeats, the housekeeper, said +the attack was not serious and asked me to wait in the blue parlour, +but I preferred to sit down on the steps of the big, arched front +door. It was an evening in June. Woodlands was very lovely; to my +right was the garden, and before me was a little valley abrim with the +sunset. In places under the big trees it was quite dark even then. + +There was something unusually still in the evening ... a stillness as +of waiting. It set me thinking of the last time Mr. Lawrence had been +ill ... nearly a year ago in August. One night during his +convalescence I had watched by him to relieve the nurse. He had been +sleepless and talkative, telling me many things about his life. +Finally he told me of Margaret. + +I knew a little about her ... that she had been his sweetheart and had +died very young. Mr. Lawrence had remained true to her memory ever +since, but I had never heard him speak of her before. + +"She was very beautiful," he said dreamily, "and she was only eighteen +when she died, Jeanette. She had wonderful pale-golden hair and +dark-brown eyes. I have a little ivory miniature of her. When I die it +is to be given to you, Jeanette. I have waited a long while for her. +You know she promised she would come." + +I did not understand his meaning and kept silence, thinking that he +might be wandering a little in his mind. + +"She promised she would come and she will keep her word," he went on. +"I was with her when she died. I held her in my arms. She said to me, +'Herbert, I promise that I will be true to you forever, through as +many years of lonely heaven as I must know before you come. And when +your time is at hand I will come to make your deathbed easy as you +have made mine. I will come, Herbert.' She solemnly promised, +Jeanette. We made a death-tryst of it. And I know she will come." + +He had fallen asleep then and after his recovery he had not alluded to +the matter again. I had forgotten it, but I recalled it now as I sat +on the steps among the geraniums that June evening. I liked to think +of Margaret ... the lovely girl who had died so long ago, taking her +lover's heart with her to the grave. She had been a sister of my +grandfather, and people told me that I resembled her slightly. Perhaps +that was why old Mr. Lawrence had always made such a pet of me. + +Presently the doctor came out and nodded to me cheerily. I asked him +how Mr. Lawrence was. + +"Better ... better," he said briskly. "He will be all right tomorrow. +The attack was very slight. Yes, of course you may go in. Don't stay +longer than half an hour." + +Mrs. Stewart, Mr. Lawrence's sister, was in the sickroom when I went +in. She took advantage of my presence to lie down on the sofa a little +while, for she had been up all the preceding night. Mr. Lawrence +turned his fine old silver head on the pillow and smiled a greeting. +He was a very handsome old man; neither age nor illness had marred his +finely modelled face or impaired the flash of his keen, steel-blue +eyes. He seemed quite well and talked naturally and easily of many +commonplace things. + +At the end of the doctor's half-hour I rose to go. Mrs. Stewart had +fallen asleep and he would not let me wake her, saying he needed +nothing and felt like sleeping himself. I promised to come up again on +the morrow and went out. + +It was dark in the hall, where no lamp had been lighted, but outside +on the lawn the moonlight was bright as day. It was the clearest, +whitest night I ever saw. I turned aside into the garden, meaning to +cross it, and take the short way over the west meadow home. There was +a long walk of rose bushes leading across the garden to a little gate +on the further side ... the way Mr. Lawrence had been wont to take +long ago when he went over the fields to woo Margaret. I went along +it, enjoying the night. The bushes were white with roses, and the +ground under my feet was all snowed over with their petals. The air +was still and breezeless; again I felt that sensation of waiting ... +of expectancy. As I came up to the little gate I saw a young girl +standing on the other side of it. She stood in the full moonlight and +I saw her distinctly. + +She was tall and slight and her head was bare. I saw that her hair was +a pale gold, shining somewhat strangely about her head as if catching +the moonbeams. Her face was very lovely and her eyes large and dark. +She was dressed in something white and softly shimmering, and in her +hand she held a white rose ... a very large and perfect one. Even at +the time I found myself wondering where she could have picked it. It +was not a Woodlands rose. All the Woodlands roses were smaller and +less double. + +She was a stranger to me, yet I felt that I had seen her or someone +very like her before. Possibly she was one of Mr. Lawrence's many +nieces who might have come up to Woodlands upon hearing of his +illness. + +As I opened the gate I felt an odd chill of positive fear. Then she +smiled as if I had spoken my thought. + +"Do not be frightened," she said. "There is no reason you should be +frightened. I have only come to keep a tryst." + +The words reminded me of something, but I could not recall what it +was. The strange fear that was on me deepened. I could not speak. + +She came through the gateway and stood for a moment at my side. + +"It is strange that you should have seen me," she said, "but now +behold how strong and beautiful a thing is faithful love--strong +enough to conquer death. We who have loved truly love always--and this +makes our heaven." + +She walked on after she had spoken, down the long rose path. I watched +her until she reached the house and went up the steps. In truth I +thought the girl was someone not quite in her right mind. When I +reached home I did not speak of the matter to anyone, not even to +inquire who the girl might possibly be. There seemed to be something +in that strange meeting that demanded my silence. + +The next morning word came that old Mr. Lawrence was dead. When I +hurried down to Woodlands I found all in confusion, but Mrs. Yeats +took me into the blue parlour and told me what little there was to +tell. + +"He must have died soon after you left him, Miss Jeanette," she +sobbed, "for Mrs. Stewart wakened at ten o'clock and he was gone. He +lay there, smiling, with such a strange look on his face as if he had +just seen something that made him wonderfully happy. I never saw such +a look on a dead face before." + +"Who is here besides Mrs. Stewart?" I asked. + +"Nobody," said Mrs. Yeats. "We have sent word to all his friends but +they have not had time to arrive here yet." + +"I met a young girl in the garden last night," I said slowly. "She +came into the house. I did not know her but I thought she must be a +relative of Mr. Lawrence's." + +Mrs. Yeats shook her head. + +"No. It must have been somebody from the village, although I didn't +know of anyone calling after you went away." + +I said nothing more to her about it. + +After the funeral Mrs. Stewart gave me Margaret's miniature. I had +never seen it or any picture of Margaret before. The face was very +lovely--also strangely like my own, although I am not beautiful. It +was the face of the young girl I had met at the gate! + + + + +The Light on the Big Dipper + + +"Don't let Nellie run out of doors, Mary Margaret, and be careful of +the fire, Mary Margaret. I expect we'll be back pretty soon after +dark, so don't be lonesome, Mary Margaret." + +Mary Margaret laughed and switched her long, thick braid of black hair +from one shoulder to the other. + +"No fear of my being lonesome, Mother Campbell. I'll be just as +careful as can be and there are so many things to be done that I'll be +as busy and happy as a bee all day long. Nellie and I will have just +the nicest kind of a time. I won't get lonesome, but if I should feel +just tempted to, I'll think, Father is on his way home. He will soon +be here.' And that would drive the lonesomeness away before it dared +to show its face. Don't you worry, Mother Campbell." + +Mother Campbell smiled. She knew she could trust Mary +Margaret--careful, steady, prudent little Mary Margaret. Little! Ah, +that was just the trouble. Careful and steady and prudent as Mary +Margaret might be, she was only twelve years old, after all, and there +would not be another soul besides her and Nellie on the Little Dipper +that whole day. Mrs. Campbell felt that she hardly dared to go away +under such circumstances. And yet she _must_ dare it. Oscar Bryan had +sailed over from the mainland the evening before with word that her +sister Nan--her only sister, who lived in Cartonville--was ill and +about to undergo a serious operation. She must go to see her, and +Uncle Martin was waiting with his boat to take her over to the +mainland to catch the morning train for Cartonville. + +If five-year-old Nellie had been quite well Mrs. Campbell would have +taken both her and Mary Margaret and locked up the house. But Nellie +had a very bad cold and was quite unfit to go sailing across the +harbour on a raw, chilly November day. So there was nothing to do but +leave Mary Margaret in charge, and Mary Margaret was quite pleased at +the prospect. + +"You know, Mother Campbell, I'm not afraid of anything except tramps. +And no tramps ever come to the Dippers. You see what an advantage it +is to live on an island! There, Uncle Martin is waving. Run along, +little mother." + +Mary Margaret watched the boat out of sight from the window and then +betook herself to the doing of her tasks, singing blithely all the +while. It was rather nice to be left in sole charge like this--it made +you feel so important and grown-up. She would do everything very +nicely and Mother would see when she came back what a good housekeeper +her daughter was. + +Mary Margaret and Nellie and Mrs. Campbell had been living on the +Little Dipper ever since the preceding April. Before that they had +always lived in their own cosy home at the Harbour Head. But in April +Captain Campbell had sailed in the _Two Sisters_ for a long voyage +and, before he went, Mrs. Campbell's brother, Martin Clowe, had come +to them with a proposition. He ran a lobster cannery on the Little +Dipper, and he wanted his sister to go and keep house for him while +her husband was away. After some discussion it was so arranged, and +Mrs. Campbell and her two girls moved to the Little Dipper. It was not +a lonesome place then, for the lobstermen and their families lived on +it, and boats were constantly sailing to and fro between it and the +mainland. Mary Margaret enjoyed her summer greatly; she bathed and +sailed and roamed over the rocks, and on fine days her Uncle George, +who kept the lighthouse on the Big Dipper, and lived there all alone, +often came over and took her across to the Big Dipper. Mary Margaret +thought the lighthouse was a wonderful place. Uncle George taught her +how to light the lamps and manage the light. + +When the lobster season dosed, the men took up codfishing and carried +this on till October, when they all moved back to the mainland. But +Uncle Martin was building a house for himself at Harbour Head and did +not wish to move until the ice formed over the bay because it would +then be so much easier to transport his goods and chattels; so the +Campbells stayed with him until the Captain should return. + +Mary Margaret found plenty to do that day and wasn't a bit lonesome. +But when evening came she didn't feel quite so cheerful. Nellie had +fallen asleep, and there wasn't another living creature except the cat +on the Little Dipper. Besides, it looked like a storm. The harbour was +glassy calm, but the sky was very black and dour in the +northeast--like snow, thought weather-wise Mary Margaret. She hoped +her mother would get home before it began, and she wished the +lighthouse star would gleam out on the Big Dipper. It would seem like +the bright eye of a steady old friend. Mary Margaret always watched +for it every night; just as soon as the sun went down the big +lighthouse star would flash goldenly out in the northeastern sky. + +"I'll sit down by the window and watch for it," said Mary Margaret to +herself. "Then, when it is lighted, I'll get up a nice warm supper for +Mother and Uncle Martin." + +Mary Margaret sat down by the kitchen window to watch. Minute after +minute passed, but no light flashed out on the Big Dipper. What was +the matter? Mary Margaret began to feel uneasy. It was too cloudy to +tell just when the sun had set, but she was sure it must be down, for +it was quite dark in the house. She lighted a lamp, got the almanac, +and hunted out the exact time of sunsetting. The sun had been down +fifteen minutes! + +And there was no light on the Big Dipper! + +Mary Margaret felt alarmed and anxious. What was wrong at the Big +Dipper? Was Uncle George away? Or had something happened to him? Mary +Margaret was sure he had never forgotten! + +Fifteen minutes longer did Mary Margaret watch restlessly at the +window. Then she concluded that something was desperately wrong +somewhere. It was half an hour after sunset and the Big Dipper light, +the most important one along the whole coast, was not lighted. What +would she do? What _could_ she do? + +The answer came swift and dear into Mary Margaret's steady, sensible +little mind. She must go to the Big Dipper and light the lamps! + +But could she? Difficulties came crowding thick and fast into her +thoughts. It was going to snow; the soft broad flakes were falling +already. Could she row the two miles to the Big Dipper in the darkness +and the snow? If she could, dare she leave Nellie all alone in the +house? Oh, she couldn't! Somebody at the Harbour Head would surely +notice that the Big Dipper light was unlighted and would go over to +investigate the cause. But suppose they shouldn't? If the snow came +thicker they might never notice the absence of the light. And suppose +there was a ship away out there, as there nearly always was, with the +dangerous rocks and shoals of the outer harbour to pass, with precious +lives on board and no guiding beacon on the Big Dipper. + +Mary Margaret hesitated no longer. She must go. + +Bravely, briskly and thoughtfully she made her preparations. First, +the fire was banked and the draughts dosed; then she wrote a little +note for her mother and laid it on the table. Finally she wakened +Nellie. + +"Nellie," said Mary Margaret, speaking very kindly and determinedly, +"there is no light on the Big Dipper and I've got to row over and see +about it. I'll be back as quickly as I can, and Mother and Uncle +Martin will soon be here. You won't be afraid to stay alone, will you, +dearie? You mustn't be afraid, because I have to go. And, Nellie, I'm +going to tie you in your chair; it's necessary, because I can't lock +the door, so you mustn't cry; nothing will hurt you, and I want you to +be a brave little girl and help sister all you can." + +Nellie, too sleepy and dazed to understand very clearly what Mary +Margaret was about, submitted to be wrapped up in quilts and bound +securely in her chair. Then Mary Margaret tied the chair fast to the +wall so that Nellie couldn't upset it. That's safe, she thought. +Nellie can't run out now or fall on the stove or set herself afire. + +Mary Margaret put on her jacket, hood and mittens, and took Uncle +Martin's lantern. As she went out and closed the door, a little wail +from Nellie sounded on her ear. For a moment she hesitated, then the +blackness of the Big Dipper confirmed her resolution. She must go. +Nellie was really quite safe and comfortable. It would not hurt her to +cry a little, and it might hurt somebody a great deal if the Big +Dipper light failed. Setting her lips firmly, Mary Margaret ran down +to the shore. + +Like all the Harbour girls, Mary Margaret could row a boat from the +time she was nine years old. Nevertheless, her heart almost failed her +as she got into the little dory and rowed out. The snow was getting +thick. Could she pull across those black two miles between the Dippers +before it got so much thicker that she would lose her way? Well, she +must risk it. She had set the light in the kitchen window; she must +keep it fair behind her and then she would land on the lighthouse +beach. With a murmured prayer for help and guidance she pulled +staunchly away. + +It was a long, hard row for the little twelve-year-old arms. +Fortunately there was no wind. But thicker and thicker came the snow; +finally the kitchen light was hidden in it. For a moment Mary +Margaret's heart sank in despair; the next it gave a joyful bound, +for, turning, she saw the dark tower of the lighthouse directly behind +her. By the aid of her lantern she rowed to the landing, sprang out +and made her boat fast. A minute later she was in the lighthouse +kitchen. + +The door leading to the tower stairs was open and at the foot of the +stairs lay Uncle George, limp and white. + +"Oh, Uncle George," gasped Mary Margaret, "what is the matter? What +has happened?" + +"Mary Margaret! Thank God! I was just praying to Him to send somebody +to 'tend the light. Who's with you?" + +"Nobody.... I got frightened because there was no light and I rowed +over. Mother and Uncle Martin are away." + +"You don't mean to say you rowed yourself over here alone in the dark +and snow! Well, you are the pluckiest little girl about this harbour! +It's a mercy I've showed you how to manage the light. Run up and start +it at once. Don't mind about me. I tumbled down those pesky stairs +like the awkward old fool I am and I've broke my leg and hurt my back +so bad I can't crawl an inch. I've been lying here for three mortal +hours and they've seemed like three years. Hurry with the light, Mary +Margaret." + +Mary Margaret hurried. Soon the Big Dipper light was once more +gleaming cheerfully athwart the stormy harbour. Then she ran back to +her uncle. There was not much she could do for him beyond covering him +warmly with quilts, placing a pillow under his head, and brewing him a +hot drink of tea. + +"I left a note for Mother telling her where I'd gone, Uncle George, so +I'm sure Uncle Martin will come right over as soon as they get home." + +"He'll have to hurry. It's blowing up now ... hear it ... and snowing +thick. If your mother and Martin haven't left the Harbour Head before +this, they won't leave it tonight. But, anyhow, the light is lit. I +don't mind my getting smashed up compared to that. I thought I'd go +crazy lying here picturing to myself a vessel out on the reefs." + +That night was a very long and anxious one. The storm grew rapidly +worse, and snow and wind howled around the lighthouse. Uncle George +soon grew feverish and delirious, and Mary Margaret, between her +anxiety for him and her dismal thoughts of poor Nellie tied in her +chair over at the Little Dipper, and the dark possibility of her +mother and Uncle Martin being out in the storm, felt almost +distracted. But the morning came at last, as mornings blessedly will, +be the nights never so long and anxious, and it dawned fine and clear +over a white world. Mary Margaret ran to the shore and gazed eagerly +across at the Little Dipper. No smoke was visible from Uncle Martin's +house! + +She could not leave Uncle George, who was raving wildly, and yet it +was necessary to obtain assistance somehow. Suddenly she remembered +the distress signal. She must hoist it. How fortunate that Uncle +George had once shown her how! + +Ten minutes later there was a commotion over at Harbour Head where the +signal was promptly observed, and very soon--although it seemed long +enough to Mary Margaret--a boat came sailing over to the Big Dipper. +When the men landed they were met by a very white-faced little girl +who gasped out a rather disjointed story of a light that hadn't been +lighted and an uncle with a broken leg and a sister tied in her chair, +and would they please see to Uncle George at once, for she must go +straight over to the other Dipper? + +One of the men rowed her over, but before they were halfway there +another boat went sailing across the harbour, and Mary Margaret saw a +woman and two men land from it and hurry up to the house. + +That is Mother and Uncle Martin, but who can the other man be? +wondered Mary Margaret. + +When she reached the cottage her mother and Uncle Martin were reading +her note, and Nellie, just untied from the chair where she had been +found fast asleep, was in the arms of a great, big, brown, bewhiskered +man. Mary Margaret just gave one look at the man. Then she flew across +the room with a cry of delight. + +"Father!" + +For ten minutes not one intelligible word was said, what with +laughing and crying and kissing. Mary Margaret was the first to +recover herself and say briskly, "Now, _do_ explain, somebody. Tell me +how it all happened." + +"Martin and I got back to Harbour Head too late last night to cross +over," said her mother. "It would have been madness to try to cross in +the storm, although I was nearly wild thinking of you two children. +It's well I didn't know the whole truth or I'd have been simply +frantic. We stayed at the Head all night, and first thing this morning +came your father." + +"We came in last night," said Captain Campbell, "and it was pitch +dark, not a light to be seen and beginning to snow. We didn't know +where we were and I was terribly worried, when all at once the Big +Dipper light I'd been looking for so vainly flashed out, and +everything was all right in a moment. But, Mary Margaret, if that +light hadn't appeared, we'd never have got in past the reefs. You've +saved your father's ship and all the lives in her, my brave little +girl." + +"Oh!" Mary Margaret drew a long breath and her eyes were starry with +tears of happiness. "Oh, I'm so thankful I went over. And I _had_ to +tie Nellie in her chair, Mother, there was no other way. Uncle George +broke his leg and is very sick this morning, and there's no breakfast +ready for anyone and the fire black out ... but that doesn't matter +when Father is safe ... and oh, I'm so tired!" + +And then Mary Margaret sat down just for a moment, intending to get +right up and help her mother light the fire, laid her head on her +father's shoulder, and fell sound asleep before she ever suspected +it. + + + + +The Prodigal Brother + + +Miss Hannah was cutting asters in her garden. It was a very small +garden, for nothing would grow beyond the shelter of the little, grey, +low-eaved house which alone kept the northeast winds from blighting +everything with salt spray; but small as it was, it was a miracle of +blossoms and a marvel of neatness. The trim brown paths were swept +clean of every leaf or fallen petal, each of the little square beds +had its border of big white quahog clamshells, and not even a +sweet-pea vine would have dared to straggle from its appointed course +under Miss Hannah's eye. + +Miss Hannah had always lived in the little grey house down by the +shore, so far away from all the other houses in Prospect and so shut +away from them by a circle of hills that it had a seeming isolation. +Not another house could Miss Hannah see from her own doorstone; she +often declared she could not have borne it if it had not been for the +lighthouse beacon at night flaming over the northwest hill behind the +house like a great unwinking, friendly star that never failed even on +the darkest night. Behind the house a little tongue of the St. +Lawrence gulf ran up between the headlands until the wavelets of its +tip almost lapped against Miss Hannah's kitchen doorstep. Beyond, to +the north, was the great crescent of the gulf, whose murmur had been +Miss Hannah's lullaby all her life. When people wondered to her how +she could endure living in such a lonely place, she retorted that the +loneliness was what she loved it for, and that the lighthouse star and +the far-away call of the gulf had always been company enough for her +and always would be ... until Ralph came back. When Ralph came home, +of course, he might like a livelier place and they might move to town +or up-country as he wished. + +"Of course," said Miss Hannah with a proud smile, "a rich man mightn't +fancy living away down here in a little grey house by the shore. He'll +be for building me a mansion, I expect, and I'd like it fine. But +until he comes I must be contented with things as they are." + +People always smiled to each other when Miss Hannah talked like this. +But they took care not to let her see the smile. + +Miss Hannah snipped her white and purple asters off ungrudgingly and +sang, as she snipped, an old-fashioned song she had learned long ago +in her youth. The day was one of October's rarest, and Miss Hannah +loved fine days. The air was clear as golden-hued crystal, and all the +slopes around her were mellow and hazy in the autumn sunshine. She +knew that beyond those sunny slopes were woods glorying in crimson and +gold, and she would have the delight of a walk through them later on +when she went to carry the asters to sick Millie Starr at the Bridge. +Flowers were all Miss Hannah had to give, for she was very poor, but +she gave them with a great wealth of friendliness and goodwill. + +Presently a wagon drove down her lane and pulled up outside of her +white garden paling. Jacob Delancey was in it, with a pretty young +niece of his who was a visitor from the city, and Miss Hannah, her +sheaf of asters in her arms, went over to the paling with a sparkle of +interest in her faded blue eyes. She had heard a great deal of the +beauty of this strange girl. Prospect people had been talking of +nothing else for a week, and Miss Hannah was filled with a harmless +curiosity concerning her. She always liked to look at pretty people, +she said; they did her as much good as her flowers. + +"Good afternoon, Miss Hannah," said Jacob Delancey. "Busy with your +flowers, as usual, I see." + +"Oh, yes," said Miss Hannah, managing to stare with unobtrusive +delight at the girl while she talked. "The frost will soon be coming +now, you know; so I want to live among them as much as I can while +they're here." + +"That's right," assented Jacob, who made a profession of cordial +agreement with everybody and would have said the same words in the +same tone had Miss Hannah announced a predilection for living in the +cellar. "Well, Miss Hannah, it's flowers I'm after myself just now. +We're having a bit of a party at our house tonight, for the young +folks, and my wife told me to call and ask you if you could let us +have a few for decoration." + +"Of course," said Miss Hannah, "you can have these. I meant them for +Millie, but I can cut the west bed for her." + +She opened the gate and carried the asters over to the buggy. Miss +Delancey took them with a smile that made Miss Hannah remember the +date forever. + +"Lovely day," commented Jacob genially. + +"Yes," said Miss Hannah dreamily. "It reminds me of the day Ralph went +away twenty years ago. It doesn't seem so long. Don't you think he'll +be coming back soon, Jacob?" + +"Oh, sure," said Jacob, who thought the very opposite. + +"I have a feeling that he's coming very soon," said Miss Hannah +brightly. "It will be a great day for me, won't it, Jacob? I've been +poor all my life, but when Ralph comes back everything will be so +different. He will be a rich man and he will give me everything I've +always wanted. He said he would. A fine house and a carriage and a +silk dress. Oh, and we will travel and see the world. You don't know +how I look forward to it all. I've got it all planned out, all I'm +going to do and have. And I believe he will be here very soon. A man +ought to be able to make a fortune in twenty years, don't you think, +Jacob?" + +"Oh, sure," said Jacob. But he said it a little uncomfortably. He did +not like the job of throwing cold water, but it seemed to him that he +ought not to encourage Miss Hannah's hopes. "Of course, you shouldn't +think too much about it, Miss Hannah. He mightn't ever come back, or +he might be poor." + +"How can you say such things, Jacob?" interrupted Miss Hannah +indignantly, with a little crimson spot flaming out in each of her +pale cheeks. "You know quite well he will come back. I'm as sure of it +as that I'm standing here. And he will be rich, too. People are always +trying to hint just as you've done to me, but I don't mind them. I +know." + +She turned and went back into her garden with her head held high. But +her sudden anger floated away in a whiff of sweet-pea perfume that +struck her in the face; she waved her hand in farewell to her callers +and watched the buggy down the lane with a smile. + +"Of course, Jacob doesn't know, and I shouldn't have snapped him up so +quick. It'll be my turn to crow when Ralph does come. My, but isn't +that girl pretty. I feel as if I'd been looking at some lovely +picture. It just makes a good day of this. Something pleasant happens +to me most every day and that girl is today's pleasant thing. I just +feel real happy and thankful that there are such beautiful creatures +in the world and that we can look at them." + +"Well, of all the queer delusions!" Jacob Delancey was ejaculating as +he and his niece drove down the lane. + +"What is it all about?" asked Miss Delancey curiously. + +"Well, it's this way, Dorothy. Long ago Miss Hannah had a brother who +ran away from home. It was before their father and mother died. Ralph +Walworth was as wild a young scamp as ever was in Prospect and a +spendthrift in the bargain. Nobody but Hannah had any use for him, and +she just worshipped him. I must admit he was real fond of her too, but +he and his father couldn't get on at all. So finally he ups and runs +away; it was generally supposed he went to the mining country. He left +a note for Hannah bidding her goodbye and telling her that he was +going to make his fortune and would come back to her a rich man. +There's never been a word heard tell of him since, and in my opinion +it's doubtful if he's still alive. But Miss Hannah, as you saw, is +sure and certain he'll come back yet with gold dropping out of his +pockets. She's as sane as anyone everyway else, but there is no doubt +she's a little cracked on that p'int. If he never turns up she'll go +on hoping quite happy to her death. But if he should turn up and be +poor, as is ten times likelier than anything else, I believe it'd most +kill Miss Hannah. She's terrible proud for all she's so sweet, and you +saw yourself how mad she got when I kind of hinted he mightn't be +rich. If he came back poor, after all her boasting about him, I don't +fancy he'd get much of a welcome from her. And she'd never hold up her +head again, that's certain. So it's to be hoped, say I, that Ralph +Walworth never will turn up, unless he comes in a carriage and four, +which is about as likely, in my opinion, as that he'll come in a +pumpkin drawn by mice." + +When October had passed and the grey November days came, the glory of +Miss Hannah's garden was over. She was very lonely without her +flowers. She missed them more this year than ever. On fine days she +paced up and down the walks and looked sadly at the drooping, +unsightly stalks and vines. She was there one afternoon when the +northeast wind was up and doing, whipping the gulf waters into +whitecaps and whistling up the inlet and around the grey eaves. Miss +Hannah was mournfully patting a frosted chrysanthemum under its golden +chin when she saw a man limping slowly down the lane. + +"Now, who can that be?" she murmured. "It isn't any Prospect man, for +there's nobody lame around here." + +She went to the garden gate to meet him. He came haltingly up the +slope and paused before her, gazing at her wistfully. He looked old +and bent and broken, and his clothes were poor and worn. Who was he? +Miss Hannah felt that she ought to know him, and her memory went +groping back amongst all her recollections. Yet she could think of +nobody but her father, who had died fifteen years before. + +"Don't ye know me, Hannah?" said the man wistfully. "Have I changed so +much as all that?" + +"Ralph!" + +It was between a cry and a laugh. Miss Hannah flew through the gate +and caught him in her arms. "Ralph, my own dear brother! Oh, I always +knew you'd come back. If you knew how I've looked forward to this +day!" She was both laughing and crying now. Her face shone with a soft +gladness. Ralph Walworth shook his head sadly. + +"It's a poor wreck of a man I am come back to you, Hannah," he said. +"I've never accomplished anything and my health's broken and I'm a +cripple as ye see. For a time I thought I'd never show my face back +here, such a failure as I be, but the longing to see you got too +strong. It's naught but a wreck I am, Hannah." + +"You're my own dear brother," cried Miss Hannah. "Do you think I care +how poor you are? And if your health is poor I'm the one to nurse you +up, who else than your only sister, I'd like to know! Come right in. +You're shivering in this wind. I'll mix you a good hot currant drink. +I knew them black currants didn't bear so plentiful for nothing last +summer. Oh, this is a good day and no mistake!" + +In twenty-four hours' time everybody in Prospect knew that Ralph +Walworth had come home, crippled and poor. Jacob Delancey shook his +head as he drove away from the station with Ralph's shabby little +trunk standing on end in his buggy. The station master had asked him +to take it down to Miss Hannah's, and Jacob did not fancy the errand. +He was afraid Miss Hannah would be in a bad way and he did not know +what to say to her. + +She was in her garden, covering her pansies with seaweed, when he +drove up, and she came to the garden gate to meet him, all smiles. + +"So you've brought Ralph's trunk, Mr. Delancey. Now, that was real +good of you. He was going over to the station to see about it himself, +but he had such a cold I persuaded him to wait till tomorrow. He's +lying down asleep now. He's just real tired. He brought this seaweed +up from the shore for me this morning and it played him out. He ain't +strong. But didn't I tell you he was coming back soon? You only +laughed at me, but I knew." + +"He isn't very rich, though," said Jacob jokingly. He was relieved to +find that Miss Hannah did not seem to be worrying over this. + +"That doesn't matter," cried Miss Hannah. "Why, he's my brother! Isn't +that enough? I'm rich if he isn't, rich in love and happiness. And +I'm better pleased in a way than if he had come back rich. He might +have wanted to take me away or build a fine house, and I'm too old to +be making changes. And then he wouldn't have needed me. I'd have been +of no use to him. As it is, it's just me he needs to look after him +and coddle him. Oh, it's fine to have somebody to do things for, +somebody that belongs to you. I was just dreading the loneliness of +the winter, and now it's going to be such a happy winter. I declare +last night Ralph and I sat up till morning talking over everything. +He's had a hard life of it. Bad luck and illness right along. And last +winter in the lumber woods he got his leg broke. But now he's come +home and we're never going to be parted again as long as we live. I +could sing for joy, Jacob." + +"Oh, sure," assented Jacob cordially. He felt a little dazed. Miss +Hannah's nimble change of base was hard for him to follow, and he had +an injured sense of having wasted a great deal of commiseration on her +when she didn't need it at all. "Only I kind of thought, we all +thought, you had such plans." + +"Well, they served their turn," interrupted Miss Hannah briskly. "They +amused me and kept me interested till something real would come in +their place. If I'd had to carry them out I dare say they'd have +bothered me a lot. Things are more comfortable as they are. I'm happy +as a bird, Jacob." + +"Oh, sure," said Jacob. He pondered the business deeply all the way +back home, but could make nothing of it. + +"But I ain't obliged to," he concluded sensibly. "Miss Hannah's +satisfied and happy and it's nobody else's concern. However, I call it +a curious thing." + + + + +The Redemption of John Churchill + + +John Churchill walked slowly, not as a man walks who is tired, or +content to saunter for the pleasure of it, but as one in no haste to +reach his destination through dread of it. The day was well on to late +afternoon in mid-spring, and the world was abloom. Before him and +behind him wound a road that ran like a red ribbon through fields of +lush clovery green. The orchards scattered along it were white and +fragrant, giving of their incense to a merry south-west wind; +fence-corner nooks were purple with patches of violets or golden-green +with the curly heads of young ferns. The roadside was sprinkled over +with the gold dust of dandelions and the pale stars of wild strawberry +blossoms. It seemed a day through which a man should walk lightly and +blithely, looking the world and his fellows frankly in the face, and +opening his heart to let the springtime in. + +But John Churchill walked laggingly, with bent head. When he met other +wayfarers or was passed by them, he did not lift his face, but only +glanced up under his eyebrows with a furtive look that was replaced by +a sort of shamed relief when they had passed on without recognizing +him. Some of them he knew for friends of the old time. Ten years had +not changed them as he had been changed. They had spent those ten +years in freedom and good repute, under God's blue sky, in His glad +air and sunshine. He, John Churchill, had spent them behind the walls +of a prison. + +His close-clipped hair was grey; his figure, encased in an ill-fitting +suit of coarse cloth, was stooped and shrunken; his face was deeply +lined; yet he was not an old man in years. He was only forty; he was +thirty when he had been convicted of embezzling the bank funds for +purposes of speculation and had been sent to prison, leaving behind a +wife and father who were broken-hearted and a sister whose pride had +suffered more than her heart. + +He had never seen them since, but he knew what had happened in his +absence. His wife had died two months later, leaving behind her a baby +boy; his father had died within the year. He had killed them; he, John +Churchill, who loved them, had killed them as surely as though his +hand had struck them down in cold blood. His sister had taken the +baby, his little son whom he had never seen, but for whom he had +prepared such a birthright of dishonour. She had never forgiven her +brother and she never wrote to him. He knew that she would have +brought the boy up either in ignorance of his father's crime or in +utter detestation of it. When he came back to the world after his +imprisonment, there was not a single friendly hand to clasp his and +help him struggle up again. The best his friends had been able to do +for him was to forget him. + +He was filled with bitterness and despair and a gnawing hatred of the +world of brightness around him. He had no place in it; he was an ugly +blot on it. He was a friendless, wifeless, homeless man who could not +so much as look his fellow men in the face, who must henceforth +consort with outcasts. In his extremity he hated God and man, burning +with futile resentment against both. + +Only one feeling of tenderness yet remained in his heart; it centred +around the thought of his little son. + +When he left the prison he had made up his mind what to do. He had a +little money which his father had left him, enough to take him west. +He would go there, under a new name. There would be novelty and +adventure to blot out the memories of the old years. He did not care +what became of him, since there was no one else to care. He knew in +his heart that his future career would probably lead him still further +and further downward, but that did not matter. If there had been +anybody to care, he might have thought it worthwhile to struggle back +to respectability and trample his shame under feet that should +henceforth walk only in the ways of honour and honesty. But there was +nobody to care. So he would go to his own place. + +But first he must see little Joey, who must be quite a big boy now, +nearly ten years old. He would go home and see him just once, even +although he dreaded meeting aversion in the child's eyes. Then, when +he had bade him good-bye, and, with him, good-bye to all that remained +to make for good in his desolated existence, he would go out of his +life forever. + +"I'll go straight to the devil then," he said sullenly. "That's where +I belong, a jail-bird at whom everybody except other jail-birds looks +askance. To think what I was once, and what I am now! It's enough to +drive a man mad! As for repenting, bah! Who'd believe that I really +repented, who'd give me a second chance on the faith of it? Not a +soul. Repentance won't blot out the past. It won't give me back my +wife whom I loved above everything on earth and whose heart I broke. +It won't restore me my unstained name and my right to a place among +honourable men. There's no chance for a man who has fallen as low as I +have. If Emily were living, I could struggle for her sake. But who'd +be fool enough to attempt such a fight with no motive and not one +chance of success in a hundred. Not I. I'm down and I'll stay down. +There's no climbing up again." + +He celebrated his first day of freedom by getting drunk, although he +had never before been an intemperate man. Then, when the effects of +the debauch wore off, he took the train for Alliston; he would go home +and see little Joey once. + +Nobody at the station where he alighted recognized him or paid any +attention to him. He was as a dead man who had come back to life to +find himself effaced from recollection and his place knowing him no +more. It was three miles from the station to where his sister lived, +and he resolved to walk the distance. Now that the critical moment +drew near, he shrank from it and wished to put it off as long as he +could. + +When he reached his sister's home he halted on the road and surveyed +the place over its snug respectability of iron fence. His courage +failed him at the thought of walking over that trim lawn and knocking +at that closed front door. He would slip around by the back way; +perhaps, who knew, he might come upon Joey without running the +gauntlet of his sister's cold, offended eyes. If he might only find +the boy and talk to him for a little while without betraying his +identity, meet his son's clear gaze without the danger of finding +scorn or fear in it--his heart beat high at the thought. + +He walked furtively up the back way between high, screening hedges of +spruce. When he came to the gate of the yard, he paused. He heard +voices just beyond the thick hedge, children's voices, and he crept as +near as he could to the sound and peered through the hedge, with a +choking sensation in his throat and a smart in his eyes. Was that +Joey, could that be his little son? Yes, it was; he would have known +him anywhere by his likeness to Emily. Their boy had her curly brown +hair, her sensitive mouth, above all, her clear-gazing, truthful grey +eyes, eyes in which there was never a shadow of falsehood or +faltering. + +Joey Churchill was sitting on a stone bench in his aunt's kitchen +yard, holding one of his black-stockinged knees between his small, +brown hands. Jimmy Morris was standing opposite to him, his back +braced against the trunk of a big, pink-blossomed apple tree, his +hands in his pockets, and a scowl on his freckled face. Jimmy lived +next door to Joey and as a rule they were very good friends, but this +afternoon they had quarrelled over the right and proper way to +construct an Indian ambush in the fir grove behind the pig-house. The +argument was long and warm and finally culminated in personalities. +Just as John Churchill dropped on one knee behind the hedge, the +better to see Joey's face, Jimmy Morris said scornfully: + +"I don't care what you say. Nobody believes you. Your father is in the +penitentiary." + +The taunt struck home as it always did. It was not the first time that +Joey had been twitted with his father by his boyish companions. But +never before by Jimmy! It always hurt him, and he had never before +made any response to it. His face would flush crimson, his lips would +quiver, and his big grey eyes darken miserably with the shadow that +was on his life; he would turn away in silence. But that Jimmy, his +best beloved chum, should say such a thing to him; oh, it hurt +terribly. + +There is nothing so merciless as a small boy. Jimmy saw his advantage +and vindictively pursued it. + +"Your father stole money, that's what he did! You know he did. I'm +pretty glad _my_ father isn't a thief. _Your_ father is. And when he +gets out of prison, he'll go on stealing again. My father says he +will. Nobody'll have anything to do with him, my father says. His own +sister won't have anything to do with him. So there, Joey Churchill!" + +"There _will_ somebody have something to do with him!" cried Joey +hotly. He slid off the bench and faced Jimmy proudly and confidently. +The unseen watcher on the other side of the hedge saw his face grow +white and intense and set-lipped, as if it had been the face of a +man. The grey eyes were alight with a steady, fearless glow. + +"_I'll_ have something to do with him. He is my father and I love him. +I don't care what he did, I love him just as well as if he was the +best man in the world. I love him better than if he was as good as +your father, because he needs it more. I've always loved him ever +since I found out about him. I'd write to him and tell him so, if Aunt +Beatrice would tell me where to send the letter. Aunt Beatrice won't +ever talk about him or let me talk about him, but I _think_ about him +all the time. And he's going to be a good man yet, yes, he is, just as +good as your father, Jimmy Morris. I'm going to _make_ him good. I +made up my mind years ago what I would do and I'm going to do it, so +there, Jimmy." + +"I don't see what you can do," muttered Jimmy, already ashamed of what +he had said and wishing he had let Joey's father alone. + +"I'll tell you what I can do!" Joey was confronting all the world now, +with his head thrown back and his face flushed with his earnestness. +"I can love him and stand by him, and I will. When he gets out of--of +prison, he'll come to see me, I know he will. And I'm just going to +hug him and kiss him and say, 'Never mind, Father. I know you're sorry +for what you've done, and you're never going to do it any more. You're +going to be a good man and I'm going to stand by you.' Yes, sir, +that's just what I'm going to say to him. I'm all the children he has +and there's nobody else to love him, because I know Aunt Beatrice +doesn't. And I'm going with him wherever he goes." + +"You can't," said Jimmy in a scared tone. "Your Aunt Beatrice won't +let you." + +"Yes, she will. She'll have to. I belong to my father. And I think +he'll be coming pretty soon some way. I'm pretty sure the time must be +'most up. I wish he would come. I want to see him as much as can be, +'cause I know he'll need me. And I'll be proud of him yet, Jimmy +Morris, yes, I'll be just as proud as you are of your father. When I +get bigger, nobody will call my father names, I can tell you. I'll +fight them if they do, yes, sir, I will. My father and I are going to +stand by each other like bricks. Aunt Beatrice has lots of children of +her own and I don't believe she'll be a bit sorry when I go away. +She's ashamed of my father 'cause he did a bad thing. But I'm not, no, +sir. I'm going to love him so much that I'll make up to him for +everything else. And you can just go home, Jimmy Morris, so there!" + +Jimmy Morris went home, and when he had gone, Joey flung himself face +downward in the grass and fallen apple blossoms and lay very still. + +On the other side of the spruce hedge knelt John Churchill with bowed +head. The tears were running freely down his face, but there was a +new, tender light in his eyes. The bitterness and despair had fallen +out of his heart, leaving a great peace and a dawning hope in their +place. Bless that loyal little soul! There was something to live for +after all--there was a motive to make the struggle worthwhile. He must +justify his son's faith in him; he must strive to make himself worthy +of this sweet, pure, unselfish love that was offered to him, as a +divine draught is offered to the parched lips of a man perishing from +thirst. Aye, and, God helping him, he would. He would redeem the +past. He would go west, but under his own name. His little son should +go with him; he would work hard; he would pay back the money he had +embezzled, as much of it as he could, if it took the rest of his life +to do so. For his boy's sake he must cleanse his name from the +dishonour he had brought on it. Oh, thank God, there was somebody to +care, somebody to love him, somebody to believe him when he said +humbly, "I repent." Under his breath he said, looking heavenward: + +"God be merciful to me, a sinner." + +Then he stood up erectly, went through the gate and over the grass to +the motionless little figure with its face buried in its arms. + +"Joey boy," he said huskily. "Joey boy." + +Joey sprang to his feet with tears still glistening in his eyes. He +saw before him a bent, grey-headed man looking at him lovingly and +wistfully. Joey knew who it was--the father he had never seen. With a +glad cry of welcome he sprang into the outstretched arms of the man +whom his love had already won back to God. + + + + +The Schoolmaster's Letters + + +At sunset the schoolmaster went up to his room to write a letter to +her. He always wrote to her at the same time--when the red wave of the +sunset, flaming over the sea, surged in at the little curtainless +window and flowed over the pages he wrote on. The light was rose-red +and imperial and spiritual, like his love for her, and seemed almost +to dye the words of the letters in its own splendid hues--the letters +to her which she never was to see, whose words her eyes never were to +read, and whose love and golden fancy and rainbow dreams never were to +be so much as known by her. And it was because she never was to see +them that he dared to write them, straight out of his full heart, +taking the exquisite pleasure of telling her what he never could +permit himself to tell her face to face. Every evening he wrote thus +to her, and the hour so spent glorified the entire day. The rest of +the hours--all the other hours of the commonplace day--he was merely a +poor schoolmaster with a long struggle before him, one who might not +lift his eyes to gaze on a star. But at this hour he was her equal, +meeting her soul to soul, telling out as a man might all his great +love for her, and wearing the jewel of it on his brow. What wonder +indeed that the precious hour which made him a king, crowned with a +mighty and unselfish passion, was above all things sacred to him? And +doubly sacred when, as tonight, it followed upon an hour spent with +her? Its mingled delight and pain were almost more than he could bear. + +He went through the kitchen and the hall and up the narrow staircase +with a glory in his eyes that thus were held from seeing his sordid +surroundings. Link Houseman, sprawled out on the platform before the +kitchen door, saw him pass with that rapt face, and chuckled. Link was +ill enough to look at any time, with his sharp, freckled features and +foxy eyes. When he chuckled his face was that of an unholy imp. + +But the schoolmaster took no heed of him. Neither did he heed the girl +whom he met in the hall. Her handsome, sullen face flushed crimson +under the sting of his utter disregard, and her black eyes followed +him up the stairs with a look that was not good to see. + +"Sis," whispered Link piercingly, "come out here! I've got a joke to +tell you, something about the master and his girl. You ain't to let on +to him you know, though. I found it out last night when he was off to +the shore. That old key of Uncle Jim's was just the thing. He's a +softy, and no mistake." + + * * * * * + +Upstairs in his little room, the schoolmaster was writing his letter. +The room was as bare and graceless as all the other rooms of the +farmhouse where he had boarded during his term of teaching; but it +looked out on the sea, and was hung with such priceless tapestry of +his iris dreams and visions that it was to him an apartment in a royal +palace. From it he gazed afar on bays that were like great cups of +sapphire brimming over with ruby wine for gods to drain, on headlands +that were like amethyst, on wide sweeps of sea that were blue and far +and mysterious; and ever the moan and call of the ocean's heart came +up to his heart as of one great, hopeless love and longing crying out +to another love and longing, as great and hopeless. And here, in the +rose-radiance of the sunset, with the sea-music in the dim air, he +wrote his letter to her. + + My Lady: How beautiful it is to think that there is nothing to + prevent my loving you! There is much--everything--to prevent + me from telling you that I love you. But nothing has any right + to come between my heart and its own; it is permitted to love + you forever and ever and serve and reverence you in secret and + silence. For so much, dear, I thank life, even though the + price of the permission must always be the secret and the + silence. + + I have just come from you, my lady. Your voice is still in my + ears; your eyes are still looking into mine, gravely yet half + smilingly, sweetly yet half provokingly. Oh, how dear and + human and girlish and queenly you are--half saint and half + very womanly woman! And how I love you with all there is of me + to love--heart and soul and brain, every fibre of body and + spirit thrilling to the wonder and marvel and miracle of it! + You do not know it, my sweet, and you must never know it. You + would not even wish to know it, for I am nothing to you but + one of many friends, coming into your life briefly and passing + out of it, of no more account to you than a sunshiny hour, a + bird's song, a bursting bud in your garden. But the hour and + the bird and the flower gave you a little delight in their + turn, and when you remembered them once before forgetting, + that was their reward and blessing. That is all I ask, dear + lady, and I ask that only in my own heart. I am content to + love you and be forgotten. It is sweeter to love you and be + forgotten than it would be to love any other woman and live in + her lifelong remembrance: so humble has love made me, sweet, + so great is my sense of my own unworthiness. + + Yet love must find expression in some fashion, dear, else it + is only pain, and hence these letters to you which you will + never read. I put all my heart into them; they are the best + and highest of me, the buds of a love that can never bloom + openly in the sunshine of your life. I weave a chaplet of + them, dear, and crown you with it. They will never fade, for + such love is eternal. + + It is a whole summer since I first met you. I had been waiting + for you all my life before and did not know it. But I knew it + when you came and brought with you a sense of completion and + fulfilment. This has been the precious year of my life, the + turning-point to which all things past tended and all things + future must look back. Oh, my dear, I thank you for this year! + It has been your royal gift to me, and I shall be rich and + great forever because of it. Nothing can ever take it from me, + nothing can mar it. It were well to have lived a lifetime of + loneliness for such a boon--the price would not be too high. I + would not give my one perfect summer for a generation of other + men's happiness. + + There are those in the world who would laugh at me, who would + pity me, Una. They would say that the love I have poured out + in secret at your feet has been wasted, that I am a poor weak + fool to squander all my treasure of affection on a woman who + does not care for me and who is as far above me as that great + white star that is shining over the sea. Oh, my dear, they do + not know, they cannot understand. The love I have given you + has not left me poorer. It has enriched my life unspeakably; + it has opened my eyes and given me the gift of clear vision + for those things that matter; it has been a lamp held before + my stumbling feet whereby I have avoided snares and pitfalls + of baser passions and unworthy dreams. For all this I thank + you, dear, and for all this surely the utmost that I can give + of love and reverence and service is not too much. + + I could not have helped loving you. But if I could have helped + it, knowing with just what measure of pain and joy it would + brim my cup, I would have chosen to love you, Una. There are + those who strive to forget a hopeless love. To me, the + greatest misfortune that life could bring would be that I + should forget you. I want to remember you always and love you + and long for you. That would be unspeakably better than any + happiness that could come to me through forgetting. + + Dear lady, good night. The sun has set; there is now but one + fiery dimple on the horizon, as if a golden finger had dented + it--now it is gone; the mists are coming up over the sea. + + A kiss on each of your white hands, dear. Tonight I am too + humble to lift my thoughts to your lips. + +The schoolmaster folded up his letter and held it against his cheek +for a little space while he gazed out on the silver-shining sea with +his dark eyes full of dreams. Then he took from his shabby trunk a +little inlaid box and unlocked it with a twisted silver key. It was +full of letters--his letters to Una. The first had been written months +ago, in the early promise of a northern spring. They linked together +the golden weeks of the summer. Now, in the purple autumn, the box was +full, and the schoolmaster's term was nearly ended. + +He took out the letters reverently and looked over them, now and then +murmuring below his breath some passages scattered through the written +pages. He had laid bare his heart in those letters, writing out what +he never could have told her, even if his love had been known and +returned, for dead and gone generations of stern and repressed +forefathers laid their unyielding fingers of reserve on his lips, and +the shyness of dreamy, book-bred youth stemmed the language of eye and +tone. + + I will love you forever and ever. And even though you know it + not, surely such love will hover around you all your life. + Like an invisible benediction, not understood but dimly felt, + guarding you from ill and keeping far from you all things and + thoughts of harm and evil! + + * * * * * + + Sometimes I let myself dream. And in those dreams you love me, + and we go out to meet life together. I have dreamed that you + kissed me--dreamed it so reverently that the dream did your + womanhood no wrong. I have dreamed that you put your hands in + mine and said, "I love you." Oh, the rapture of it! + + * * * * * + + We may give all we will if we do not ask for a return. There + should be no barter in love. If, by reason of the greatness of + my love for you, I were to ask your love in return, I should + be a base creature. It is only because I am content to love + and serve for the sake of loving and serving that I have the + right to love you. + + * * * * * + + I have a memory of a blush of yours--a rose of the years that + will bloom forever in my garden of remembrance. Tonight you + blushed when I came upon you suddenly among the flowers. You + were startled--perhaps I had broken too rudely on some girlish + musing; and straightway your round, pale curve of cheek and + your white arch of brow were made rosy as with the dawn of + beautiful sunrise. I shall see you forever as you looked at + that time. In my mad moments I shall dream, knowing all the + while that it is only a dream, that you blushed with delight + at my coming. I shall be able to picture forevermore how you + would look at one you loved. + + * * * * * + + Tonight the moon was low in the west. It hung over the sea + like a shallop of ruddy gold moored to a star in the harbour + of the night. I lingered long and watched it, for I knew that + you, too, were watching it from your window that looks on the + sea. You told me once that you always watched the moon set. It + has been a bond between us ever since. + + * * * * * + + This morning I rose at dawn and walked on the shore to think + of you, because it seemed the most fitting time. It was before + sunrise, and the world was virgin. All the east was a shimmer + of silver and the morning star floated in it like a dissolving + pearl. The sea was a great miracle. I walked up and down by it + and said your name over and over again. The hour was sacred to + you. It was as pure and unspoiled as your own soul. Una, who + will bring into your life the sunrise splendour and colour of + love? + + * * * * * + + Do you know how beautiful you are, Una? Let me tell you, dear. + You are tall, yet you have to lift your eyes a little to meet + mine. Such dear eyes, Una! They are dark blue, and when you + smile they are like wet violets in sunshine. But when you are + pensive they are more lovely still--the spirit and enchantment + of the sea at twilight passes into them then. Your hair has + the gloss and brownness of ripe nuts, and your face is always + pale. Your lips have a trick of falling apart in a half-smile + when you listen. They told me before I knew you that you were + pretty. Pretty! The word is cheap and tawdry. You are + beautiful, with the beauty of a pearl or a star or a white + flower. + + * * * * * + + Do you remember our first meeting? It was one evening last + spring. You were in your garden. The snow had not all gone, + but your hands were full of pale, early flowers. You wore a + white shawl over your shoulders and head. Your face was turned + upward a little, listening to a robin's call in the leafless + trees above you. I thought God had never made anything so + lovely and love-deserving. I loved you from that moment, Una. + + * * * * * + + This is your birthday. The world has been glad of you for + twenty years. It is fitting that there have been bird songs + and sunshine and blossom today, a great light and fragrance + over land and sea. This morning I went far afield to a long, + lonely valley lying to the west, girt round about with dim old + pines, where feet of men seldom tread, and there I searched + until I found some rare flowers meet to offer you. I sent them + to you with a little book, an old book. A new book, savouring + of the shop and marketplace, however beautiful it might be, + would not do for you. So I sent the book that was my mother's. + She read it and loved it--the faded rose-leaves she placed in + it are there still. At first, dear, I almost feared to send + it. Would you miss its meaning? Would you laugh a little at + the shabby volume with its pencil marks and its rose-leaves? + But I knew you would not; I knew you would understand. + + * * * * * + + Today I saw you with the child of your sister in your arms. I + felt as the old painters must have felt when they painted + their Madonnas. You bent over his shining golden head, and on + your face was the mother passion and tenderness that is God's + finishing touch to the beauty of womanhood. The next moment + you were laughing with him--two children playing together. But + I had looked upon you in that brief space. Oh, the pain and + joy of it! + + * * * * * + + It is so sweet, dear, to serve you a little, though it be only + in opening a door for you to pass through, or handing you a + book or a sheet of music! Love wishes to do so much for the + beloved! I can do so little for you, but that little is + sweet. + + * * * * * + + This evening I read to you the poem which you had asked me to + read. You sat before me with your brown head leaning on your + hands and your eyes cast down. I stole dear glances at you + between the lines. When I finished I put a red, red rose from + your garden between the pages and crushed the book close on + it. That poem will always be dear to me, stained with the + life-blood of a rose-like hour. + + * * * * * + + I do not know which is the sweeter, your laughter or your + sadness. When you laugh you make me glad, but when you are sad + I want to share in your sadness and soothe it. I think I am + nearer to you in your sorrowful moods. + + * * * * * + + Today I met you by accident at the turn of the lane. Nothing + told me that you were coming--not even the wind, that should + have known. I was sad, and then all at once I saw you, and + wondered how I could have been sad. You walked past me with a + smile, as if you had tossed me a rose. I stood and watched you + out of sight. That meeting was the purple gift the day gave + me. + + * * * * * + + Today I tried to write a poem to you, Una, but I could not + find words fine enough, as a lover could find no raiment + dainty enough for his bride. The old words other men have used + in singing to their loves seemed too worn and common for you. + I wanted only new words, crystal clear or coloured only by the + iris of the light, not words that have been steeped and + stained with all the hues of other men's thoughts. So I burned + the verses that were so unworthy of you. + + * * * * * + + Una, some day you will love. You will watch for him; you will + blush at his coming, be sad at his going. Oh, I cannot think + of it! + + * * * * * + + Today I saw you when you did not see me. I was walking on the + shore, and as I came around a rock you were sitting on the + other side. I drew back a little and looked at you. Your hands + were clasped over your knees; your hat had fallen back, and + the sea wind was ruffling your hair. Your face was lifted to + the sky, your lips were parted, your eyes were full of light. + You seemed to be listening to something that made you happy. I + crept gently away, that I might not mar your dream. Of what + were you thinking, Una? + + * * * * * + + I must leave you soon. Sometimes I think I cannot bear it. Oh, + Una, how selfish it is of me to wish that you might love me! + Yet I do wish it, although I have nothing to offer you but a + great love and all my willing work of hand and brain. If you + loved me, I fear I should be weak enough to do you the wrong + of wooing you. I want you so much, dear! + +The schoolmaster added the last letter to the others and locked the +box. When he unlocked it again, two days later, the letters were gone. + +He gazed at the empty box with dilated eyes. At first he could not +realize what had happened. The letters could not be gone! He must have +made a mistake, have put them in some other place! With trembling +fingers he ransacked his trunk. There was no trace of the letters. +With a groan he dropped his face in his hands and tried to think. + +His letters were gone--those precious letters, held almost too sacred +for his own eyes to read after they were written--had been stolen from +him! The inmost secrets of his soul had been betrayed. Who had done +this hideous thing? + +He rose and went downstairs. In the farmyard he found Link tormenting +his dog. Link was happy only when he was tormenting something. He +never had been afraid of anything in his life before, but now +absolute terror took possession of him at sight of the schoolmaster's +face. Physical strength and force had no power to frighten the sullen +lad, but all the irresistible might of a fine soul roused to frenzy +looked out in the young man's blazing eyes, dilated nostrils, and +tense white mouth. It cowed the boy, because it was something he could +not understand. He only realized that he was in the presence of a +force that was not to be trifled with. + +"Link, where are my letters?" said the schoolmaster. + +"I didn't take 'em, Master!" cried Link, crumpling up visibly in his +sheer terror. "I didn't. I never teched 'em! It was Sis. I told her +not to--I told her you'd be awful mad, but she wouldn't tend to me. It +was Sis took 'em. Ask her, if you don't believe me." + +The schoolmaster believed him. Nothing was too horrible to believe +just then. "What has she done with them?" he said hoarsely. + +"She--she sent 'em to Una Clifford," whimpered Link. "I told her not +to. She's mad at you, cause you went to see Una and wouldn't go with +her. She thought Una would be mad at you for writing 'em, cause the +Cliffords are so proud and think themselves above everybody else. So +she sent 'em. I--I told her not to." + +The schoolmaster said not another word. He turned his back on the +whining boy and went to his room. He felt sick with shame. The +indecency of the whole thing revolted him. It was as if his naked +heart had been torn from his breast and held up to the jeers of a +vulgar world by the merciless hand of a scorned and jealous woman. He +felt stunned as if by a physical blow. + +After a time his fierce anger and shame died into a calm desperation. +The deed was done beyond recall. It only remained for him to go to +Una, tell her the truth, and implore her pardon. Then he must go from +her sight and presence forever. + + * * * * * + +It was dusk when he went to her home. They told him that she was in +the garden, and he found her there, standing at the curve of the box +walk, among the last late-blooming flowers of the summer. + +Have you thought from his letters that she was a wonderful woman of +marvellous beauty? Not so. She was a sweet and slender slip of +girlhood, with girlhood's own charm and freshness. There were +thousands like her in the world--thank God for it!--but only one like +her in one man's eyes. + +He stood before her mute with shame, his boyish face white and +haggard. She had blushed crimson all over her dainty paleness at sight +of him, and laid her hand quickly on the breast of her white gown. Her +eyes were downcast and her breath came shortly. + +He thought her silence the silence of anger and scorn. He wished that +he might fling himself in the dust at her feet. + +"Una--Miss Clifford--forgive me!" he stammered miserably. "I--I did +not send them. I never meant that you should see them. A shameful +trick has been played upon me. Forgive me!" + +"For what am I to forgive you?" she asked gravely. She did not look +up, but her lips parted in the little half-smile he loved. The blush +was still on her face. + +"For my presumption," he whispered. "I--I could not help loving you, +Una. If you have read the letters you know all the rest." + +"I have read the letters, every word," she answered, pressing her hand +a little more closely to her breast. "Perhaps I should not have done +so, for I soon discovered that they were not meant for me to read. I +thought at first you had sent them, although the writing of the +address on the packet did not look like yours; but even when I knew +you did not I could not help reading them all. I do not know who sent +them, but I am very grateful to the sender." + +"Grateful?" he said wonderingly. + +"Yes. I have something to forgive you, but not--not your presumption. +It is your blindness, I think--and--and your cruel resolution to go +away and never tell me of your--your love for me. If it had not been +for the sending of these letters I might never have known. How can I +forgive you for that?" + +"Una!" he said. He had been very blind, but he was beginning to see. +He took a step nearer and took her hands. She threw up her head and +gazed, blushingly, steadfastly, into his eyes. From the folds of her +gown she drew forth the little packet of letters and kissed it. + +"Your dear letters!" she said bravely. "They have given me the right +to speak out. I will speak out! I love you, dear! I will be content to +wait through long years until you can claim me. I--I have been so +happy since your letters came!" + +He put his arms around her and drew her head close to his. Their lips +met. + + + + +The Story of Uncle Dick + + +I had two schools offered me that summer, one at Rocky Valley and one +at Bayside. At first I inclined to Rocky Valley; it possessed a +railway station and was nearer the centres of business and educational +activity. But eventually I chose Bayside, thinking that its country +quietude would be a good thing for a student who was making +school-teaching the stepping-stone to a college course. + +I had reason to be glad of my choice, for in Bayside I met Uncle Dick. +Ever since it has seemed to me that not to have known Uncle Dick would +have been to miss a great sweetness and inspiration from my life. He +was one of those rare souls whose friendship is at once a pleasure +and a benediction, showering light from their own crystal clearness +into all the dark corners in the souls of others until, for the time +being at least, they reflected his own simplicity and purity. Uncle +Dick could no more help bringing delight into the lives of his +associates than could the sunshine or the west wind or any other of +the best boons of nature. + +I had been in Bayside three weeks before I met him, although his farm +adjoined the one where I boarded and I passed at a little distance +from his house every day in my short cut across the fields to school. +I even passed his garden unsuspectingly for a week, never dreaming +that behind that rank of leafy, rustling poplars lay a veritable +"God's acre" of loveliness and fragrance. But one day as I went by, a +whiff of something sweeter than the odours of Araby brushed my face +and, following the wind that had blown it through the poplars, I went +up to the white paling and found there a trellis of honeysuckle, and +beyond it Uncle Dick's garden. Thereafter I daily passed close by the +fence that I might have the privilege of looking over it. + +It would be hard to define the charm of that garden. It did not +consist in order or system, for there was no trace of either, except, +perhaps, in that prim row of poplars growing about the whole domain +and shutting it away from all idle and curious eyes. For the rest, I +think the real charm must have been in its unexpectedness. At every +turn and in every nook you stumbled on some miracle of which you had +never dreamed. Or perhaps the charm was simply that the whole garden +was an expression of Uncle Dick's personality. + +In one corner a little green dory, filled with earth, overflowed in a +wave of gay annuals. In the centre of the garden an old birch-bark +canoe seemed sailing through a sea of blossoms, with a many-coloured +freight of geraniums. Paths twisted and turned among flowering shrubs, +and clumps of old-fashioned perennials were mingled with the latest +fads of the floral catalogues. The mid-garden was a pool of sunshine, +with finely sifted winds purring over it, but under the poplars there +were shadows and growing things that loved the shadows, crowding about +the old stone benches at each side. Somehow, my daily glimpse of Uncle +Dick's garden soon came to symbolize for me a meaning easier to +translate into life and soul than into words. It was a power for good +within me, making its influence felt in many ways. + +Finally I caught Uncle Dick in his garden. On my way home one evening +I found him on his knees among the rosebushes, and as soon as he saw +me he sprang up and came forward with outstretched hand. He was a tall +man of about fifty, with grizzled hair, but not a thread of silver yet +showed itself in the ripples of his long brown beard. Later I +discovered that his splendid beard was Uncle Dick's only vanity. So +fine and silky was it that it did not hide the candid, sensitive +curves of his mouth, around which a mellow smile, tinged with kindly, +quizzical humour, always lingered. His face was tanned even more +deeply than is usual among farmers, for he had an inveterate habit of +going about hatless in the most merciless sunshine; but the line of +forehead under his hair was white as milk, and his eyes were darkly +blue and as tender as a woman's. + +"How do you do, Master?" he said heartily. (The Bayside pedagogue was +invariably addressed as "Master" by young and old.) "I'm glad to see +you. Here I am, trying to save my rosebushes. There are green bugs on +'em, Master--green bugs, and they're worrying the life out of me." + +I smiled, for Uncle Dick looked very unlike a worrying man, even over +such a serious accident as green bugs. + +"Your roses don't seem to mind, Mr. Oliver," I said. "They are the +finest I have ever seen." + +The compliment to his roses, well-deserved as it was, did not at first +engage his attention. He pretended to frown at me. + +"Don't get into any bad habit of mistering me, Master," he said. +"You'd better begin by calling me Uncle Dick from the start and then +you won't have the trouble of changing. Because it would come to +that--it always does. But come in, come in! There's a gate round here. +I want to get acquainted with you. I have a taste for schoolmasters. I +didn't possess it when I was a boy" (a glint of fun appeared in his +blue eyes). "It's an acquired taste." + +I accepted his invitation and went, not only into his garden but, as +was proved later, into his confidence and affection. He linked his arm +with mine and piloted me about to show me his pets. + +"I potter about this garden considerable," he said. "It pleases the +women folks to have lots of posies." + +I laughed, for Uncle Dick was a bachelor and considered to be a +hopeless one. + +"Don't laugh, Master," he said, pressing my arm. "I've no woman folk +of my own about me now, 'tis true. But all the girls in the district +come to Uncle Dick when they want flowers for their little diversions. +Besides--perhaps--sometimes--" + +Uncle Dick broke off and stood in a brown study, looking at an old +stump aflame with nasturtiums for fully three minutes. Later on I was +to learn the significance of that pause and reverie. + +I spent the whole evening with Uncle Dick. After we had explored the +garden he took me into his house and into his "den." The house was a +small white one and wonderfully neat inside, considering the fact that +Uncle Dick was his own housekeeper. His "den" was a comfortable place, +its one window so shadowed by a huge poplar that the room had a +grotto-like effect of emerald gloom. I came to know it well, for, at +Uncle Dick's invitation, I did my studying there and browsed at will +among his classics. We soon became close friends. Uncle Dick had +always "chummed with the masters," as he said, but our friendship +went deeper. For my own part, I preferred his company to that of any +young man I knew. There was a perennial spring of youth in Uncle +Dick's soul that yet had all the fascinating flavour of ripe +experience. He was clever, kindly, humorous and, withal, so crystal +clear of mind and heart that an atmosphere partaking of childhood hung +around him. + +I knew Uncle Dick's outward history as the Bayside people knew it. It +was not a very eventful one. He had lost his father in boyhood; before +that there had been some idea of Dick's going to college. After his +father's death he seemed quietly to have put all such hopes away and +settled down to look after the farm and take care of his invalid +stepmother. This woman, as I learned from others, but never from Uncle +Dick, had been a peevish, fretful, exacting creature, and for nearly +thirty years Uncle Dick had been a very slave to her whims and +caprices. + +"Nobody knows what he had to put up with, for he never complained," +Mrs. Lindsay, my landlady, told me. "She was out of her mind once and +she was liable to go out of it again if she was crossed in anything. +He was that good and patient with her. She was dreadful fond of him +too, for all she did almost worry his life out. No doubt she was the +reason he never married. He couldn't leave her and he knew no woman +would go in there. Uncle Dick never courted anyone, unless it was Rose +Lawrence. She was a cousin of my man's. I've heard he had a kindness +for her; it was years ago, before I came to Bayside. But anyway, +nothing came of it. Her father's health failed and he had to go out to +California. Rose had to go with him, her mother being dead, and that +was the end of Uncle Dick's love affair." + +But that was not the end of it, as I discovered when Uncle Dick gave +me his confidence. One evening I went over and, piloted by the sound +of shrieks and laughter, found Uncle Dick careering about the garden, +pursued by half a dozen schoolgirls who were pelting him with +overblown roses. At sight of the master my pupils instantly became +prim and demure and, gathering up their flowery spoil, they beat a +hasty retreat down the lane. + +"Those little girls are very sweet," said Uncle Dick abruptly. "Little +blossoms of life! Have you ever wondered, Master, why I haven't some +of my own blooming about the old place instead of just looking over +the fence of other men's gardens, coveting their human roses?" + +"Yes, I have," I answered frankly. "It has been a puzzle to me why +you, Uncle Dick, who seem to me fitted above all men I have ever known +for love and husbandhood and fatherhood, should have elected to live +your life alone." + +"It has not been a matter of choice," said Uncle Dick gently. "We +can't always order our lives as we would, Master. I loved a woman once +and she loved me. And we love each other still. Do you think I could +bear life else? I've an interest in it that the Bayside folk know +nothing of. It has kept youth in my heart and joy in my soul through +long, lonely years. And it's not ended yet, Master--it's not ended +yet! Some day I hope to bring a wife here to my old house--my wife, my +rose of joy!" + +He was silent for a space, gazing at the stars. I too kept silence, +fearing to intrude into the holy places of his thought, although I was +tingling with interest in this unsuspected outflowering of romance in +Uncle Dick's life. + +After a time he said gently, + +"Shall I tell you about it, Master? I mean, do you care to know?" + +"Yes," I answered, "I do care to know. And I shall respect your +confidence, Uncle Dick." + +"I know that. I couldn't tell you, otherwise," he said. "I don't want +the Bayside folk to know--it would be a kind of desecration. They +would laugh and joke me about it, as they tease other people, and I +couldn't bear that. Nobody in Bayside knows or suspects, unless it's +old Joe Hammond at the post office. And he has kept my secret, or what +he knows of it, well. But somehow I feel that I'd like to tell you, +Master. + +"Twenty-five years ago I loved Rose Lawrence. The Lawrences lived +where you are boarding now. There was just the father, a sickly man, +and Rose, my "Rose of joy," as I called her, for I knew my Emerson +pretty well even then. She was sweet and fair, like a white rose with +just a hint of pink in its cup. We loved each other, but we couldn't +marry then. My mother was an invalid, and one time, before I had +learned to care for Rose, she, the mother, had asked me to promise +her that I'd never marry as long as she lived. She didn't think then +that she would live long, but she lived for twenty years, Master, and +she held me to my promise all the time. Yes, it was hard"--for I had +given an indignant exclamation--"but you see, Master, I had promised +and I had to keep my word. Rose said I was right in doing it. She said +she was willing to wait for me, but she didn't know, poor girl, how +long the waiting was to be. Then her father's health failed +completely, and the doctor ordered him to another climate. They went +to California. That was a hard parting, Master. But we promised each +other that we would be true, and we have been. I've never seen my Rose +of joy since then, but I've had a letter from her every week. When the +mother died, five years ago, I wanted to move to California and marry +Rose. But she wrote that her father was so poorly she couldn't marry +me yet. She has to wait on him every minute, and he's restless, and +they move here and there--a hard life for my poor girl. So I had to +take a new lease of patience, Master. One learns how to wait in twenty +years. But I shall have her some day, God willing. Our love will be +crowned yet. So I wait, Master, and try to keep my life and soul clean +and wholesome and young for her. + +"That's my story, Master, and we'll not say anything more about it +just now, for I dare say you don't exactly know what to say. But at +times I'll talk of her to you and that will be a rare pleasure to me; +I think that was why I wanted you to know about her." + +He did talk often to me of her, and I soon came to realize what this +far-away woman meant in his life. She was for him the centre of +everything. His love was strong, pure, and idyllic--the ideal love of +which the loftiest poets sing. It glorified his whole inner life with +a strange, unfailing radiance. I found that everything he did was done +with an eye single to what she would think of it when she came. +Especially did he put his love into his garden. + +"Every flower in it stands for a thought of her, Master," he said. "It +is a great joy to think that she will walk in this garden with me some +day. It will be complete then--my Rose of joy will be here to crown +it." + +That summer and winter passed away, and when spring came again, +lettering her footsteps with violets in the meadows and waking all the +sleeping loveliness of old homestead gardens, Uncle Dick's long +deferred happiness came with her. One evening when I was in our "den," +mid-deep in study of old things that seemed musty and unattractive +enough in contrast with the vivid, newborn, out-of-doors, Uncle Dick +came home from the post office with an open letter in his hand. His +big voice trembled as he said, + +"Master, she's coming home. Her father is dead and she has nobody in +the world now but me. In a month she will be here. Don't talk to me of +it yet--I want to taste the joy of it in silence for a while." + +He hastened away to his garden and walked there until darkness fell, +with his face uplifted to the sky, and the love rapture of countless +generations shining in his eyes. Later on, we sat on one of the old +stone benches and Uncle Dick tried to talk practically. + +Bayside people soon found out that Rose Lawrence was coming home to +marry Uncle Dick. Uncle Dick was much teased, and suffered under it; +it seemed, as he had said, desecration. But the real goodwill and +kindly feeling in the banter redeemed it. + +He went to the station to meet Rose Lawrence the day she came. When I +went home from school Mrs. Lindsay told me she was in the parlour and +took me in to be introduced. I was bitterly disappointed. Somehow, I +had expected to meet, not indeed a young girl palpitating with +youthful bloom, but a woman of ripe maturity, dowered with the beauty +of harmonious middle-age--the feminine counterpart of Uncle Dick. +Instead, I found in Rose Lawrence a small, faded woman of forty-five, +gowned in shabby black. She had evidently been very pretty once, but +bloom and grace were gone. Her face had a sweet and gentle expression, +but was tired and worn, and her fair hair was plentifully streaked +with grey. Alas, I thought compassionately, for Uncle Dick's dreams! +What a shock the change to her must have given him! Could this be the +woman on whom he had lavished such a life-wealth of love and +reverence? I tried to talk to her, but I found her shy and timid. She +seemed to me uninteresting and commonplace. And this was Uncle Dick's +Rose of joy! + +I was so sorry for Uncle Dick that I shrank from meeting him. +Nevertheless, I went over after tea, fearing that he might +misunderstand, nay, rather, understand, my absence. He was in the +garden, and he came down the path where the buds were just showing. +There was a smile on his face and the glory in his eyes was quite +undimmed. + +"Master, she's come. And she's not a bit changed. I feared she would +be, but she is just the same--my sweet little Rose of joy!" + +I looked at Uncle Dick in some amazement. He was thoroughly sincere, +there was no doubt of that, and I felt a great throb of relief. He had +found no disillusioning change. I saw Rose Lawrence merely with the +cold eyes of the stranger. He saw her through the transfiguring medium +of a love that made her truly his Rose of joy. And all was well. + +They were married the next morning and walked together over the clover +meadow to their home. In the evening I went over, as I had promised +Uncle Dick to do. They were in the garden, with a great saffron sky +over them and a glory of sunset behind the poplars. I paused unseen at +the gate. Uncle Dick was big and splendid in his fine new wedding +suit, and his faded little bride was hanging on his arm. Her face was +upturned to him; it was a glorified face, so transformed by the +tender radiance of love shining through it that I saw her then as +Uncle Dick must always see her, and no longer found it hard to +understand how she could be his Rose of joy. Happiness clothed them as +a garment; they were crowned king and queen in the bridal realm of the +springtime. + + + + +The Understanding of Sister Sara + + + June First. + +I began this journal last New Year's--wrote two entries in it and then +forgot all about it. I came across it today in a rummage--Sara insists +on my cleaning things out thoroughly every once in so long--and I'm +going to keep it up. I feel the need of a confidant of some kind, even +if it is only an inanimate journal. I have no other. And I cannot talk +my thoughts over with Sara--she is so unsympathetic. + +Sara is a dear good soul and I love her as much as she will let me. I +am also very grateful to her. She brought me up when our mother died. +No doubt she had a hard time of it, poor dear, for I never was easily +brought up, perversely preferring to come up in my own way. But Sara +did her duty unflinchingly and--well, it's not for me to say that the +result does her credit. But it really does, considering the material +she had to work with. I'm a bundle of faults as it is, but I tremble +to think what I would have been if there had been no Sara. + +Yes, I love Sara, and I'm grateful to her. But she doesn't understand +me in the least. Perhaps it is because she is so much older than I am, +but it doesn't seem to me that Sara could really ever have been young. +She laughs at things I consider the most sacred and calls me a +romantic girl, in a tone of humorous toleration. I am chilled and +thrown back on myself, and the dreams and confidences I am bubbling +over with have no outlet. Sara couldn't understand--she is so +practical. When I go to her with some beautiful thought I have found +in a book or poem she is quite likely to say, "Yes, yes, but I noticed +this morning that the braid was loose on your skirt, Beatrice. Better +go and sew it on before you forget again. 'A stitch in time saves +nine.'" + +When I come home from a concert or lecture, yearning to talk over the +divine music or the wonderful new ideas with her, she will say, "Yes, +yes, but are you sure you didn't get your feet damp? Better go and +change your stockings, my dear. 'An ounce of prevention is worth a +pound of cure.'" + +So I have given up trying to talk things over with Sara. This old +journal will be better. + +Last night Sara and I went to Mrs. Trent's musicale. I had to sing and +I had the loveliest new gown for the occasion. At first Sara thought +my old blue dress would do. She said we must economize this summer and +told me I was entirely too extravagant in the matter of clothes. I +cried about it after I went to bed. Sara looked at me very sharply the +next morning without saying anything. In the afternoon she went uptown +and bought some lovely pale yellow silk organdie. She made it up +herself--Sara is a genius at dressmaking--and it was the prettiest +gown at the musicale. Sara wore her old grey silk made over. Sara +doesn't care anything about dress, but then she is forty. + +Walter Shirley was at the Trents'. The Shirleys are a new family here; +they moved to Atwater two months ago. Walter is the oldest son and has +been at college in Marlboro all winter so that nobody here knew him +until he came home a fortnight ago. He is very handsome and +distinguished-looking and everybody says he is so clever. He plays the +violin just beautifully and has such a melting, sympathetic voice and +the loveliest deep, dark, inscrutable eyes. I asked Sara when we came +home if she didn't think he was splendid. + +"He'd be a nice boy if he wasn't rather conceited," said Sara. + +After that it was impossible to say anything more about Mr. Shirley. + +I am glad he is going to be in Atwater all summer. We have so few +really nice young men here; they go away just as soon as they grow up +and those who stay are just the muffs. I wonder if I shall see Mr. +Shirley soon again. + + + June Thirtieth. + +It does not seem possible that it is only a month since my last entry. +It seems more like a year--a delightful year. I can't believe that I +am the same Beatrice Mason who wrote then. And I am not, either. She +was just a simple little girl, knowing nothing but romantic dreams. I +feel that I am very much changed. Life seems so grand and high and +beautiful. I want to be a true noble woman. Only such a woman could be +worthy of--of--a fine, noble man. But when I tried to say something +like this to Sara she replied calmly: + +"My dear child, the average woman is quite good enough for the average +man. If she can cook his meals decently and keep his buttons sewed on +and doesn't nag him he will think that life is a pretty comfortable +affair. And that reminds me, I saw holes in your black lace stockings +yesterday. Better go and darn them at once. 'Procrastination is the +thief of time.'" + +Sara cannot understand. + +Blanche Lawrence was married yesterday to Ted Martin. I thought it the +most solemn and sacred thing I had ever listened to--the marriage +ceremony, I mean. I had never thought much about it before. I don't +see how Blanche could care anything for Ted--he is so stout and dumpy; +with shallow blue eyes and a little pale moustache. I must say I do +not like fair men. But there is no doubt that he and Blanche love each +other devotedly and that fact sufficed to make the service very +beautiful to me--those two people pledging each other to go through +life together, meeting its storm and sunshine hand in hand, thinking +joy the sweeter because they shared it, finding sorrow sacred because +it came to them both. + +When Sara and I walked home from the church Sara said, "Well, +considering the chances she has had, Blanche Lawrence hasn't done so +well after all." + +"Oh, Sara," I cried, "she has married the man she loves and who loves +her. What better is there to do? I thought it beautiful." + +"They should have waited another year at least," said Sara severely. +"Ted Martin has only been practising law for a year, and he had +nothing to begin with. He can't have made enough in one year in +Atwater to justify him in setting up housekeeping. I think a man ought +to be ashamed of himself to take a girl from a good home to an +uncertainty like that." + +"Not if she loved him and was willing to share the uncertainty," I +said softly. + +"Love won't pay the butcher's bill," said Sara with a sniff, "and +landlords have an unfeeling preference for money over affection. +Besides, Blanche is a mere child, far too young to be burdened with +the responsibilities of life." + +Blanche is twenty--two years older than I am. But Sara talks as if I +were a mere infant. + + + July Thirtieth. + +Oh, I am so happy! I wonder if there is another girl in the world as +happy as I am tonight. No, of course there cannot be, because there is +only one Walter! + +Walter and I are engaged. It happened last night when we were sitting +out in the moonlight under the silver maple on the lawn. I cannot +write down what he said--the words are too sacred and beautiful to be +kept anywhere but in my own heart forever and ever as long as I live. +And I don't remember just what I said. But we understood each other +perfectly at last. + +Of course Sara had to do her best to spoil things. Just as Walter had +taken my hand in his and bent forward with his splendid earnest eyes +just burning into mine, and my heart was beating so furiously, Sara +came to the front door and called out, "Beatrice! Beatrice! Have you +your rubbers on? And don't you think it is too damp out there for you +in that heavy dew? Better come into the house, both of you. Walter +has a cold now." + +"Oh, we'll be in soon, Sara," I said impatiently. But we didn't go in +for an hour, and when we did Sara was cross, and after Walter had gone +she told me I was a very silly girl to be so reckless of my health and +risk getting pneumonia loitering out in the dew with a sentimental +boy. + +I had had some vague thoughts of telling Sara all about my new +happiness, for it was so great I wanted to talk it over with somebody, +but I couldn't after that. Oh, I wish I had a mother! She could +understand. But Sara cannot. + +Walter and I have decided to keep our engagement a secret for a +month--just our own beautiful secret unshared by anyone. Then before +he goes back to college he is going to tell Sara and ask her consent. +I don't think Sara will refuse it exactly. She really likes Walter +very well. But I know she will be horrid and I just dread it. She will +say I am too young and that a boy like Walter has no business to get +engaged until he is through college and that we haven't known each +other long enough to know anything about each other and that we are +only a pair of romantic children. And after she has said all this and +given a disapproving consent she will begin to train me up in the way +a good housekeeper should go, and talk to me about table linen and the +best way to manage a range and how to tell if a chicken is really a +chicken or only an old hen. Oh, I know Sara! She will set the teeth of +my spirit on edge a dozen times a day and rub all the bloom off my +dear, only, little romance with her horrible practicalities. I know +one must learn about those things of course and I do want to make +Walter's home the best and dearest and most comfortable spot on earth +for him and be the very best little wife and housekeeper I can be when +the time comes. But I want to dream my dreams first and Sara will wake +me up so early to realities. + +This is why we determined to keep one month sacred to ourselves. +Walter will graduate next spring--he is to be a doctor--and then he +intends to settle down in Atwater and work up a practice. I am sure he +will succeed for everyone likes him so much. But we are to be married +as soon as he is through college because he has a little money of his +own--enough to set up housekeeping in a modest way with care and +economy. I know Sara will talk about risk and waiting and all that +just as she did in Ted Martin's case. But then Sara does not +understand. + +Oh, I am so happy! It almost frightens me--I don't see how anything so +wonderful can last. But it will last, for nothing can ever separate +Walter and me, and as long as we are together and love each other this +great happiness will be mine. Oh, I want to be so good and noble for +his sake. I want to make life "one grand sweet song." I have gone +about the house today feeling like a woman consecrated and set apart +from other women by Walter's love. Nothing could spoil it, not even +when Sara scolded me for letting the preserves burn in the kettle +because I forgot to stir them while I was planning out our life +together. Sara said she really did not know what would happen to me +some day if I was so careless and forgetful. But then, Sara does not +understand. + + + August Twentieth. + +It is all over. Life is ended for me and I do not know how I can face +the desolate future. Walter and I have quarrelled and our engagement +is broken. He is gone and my heart is breaking. + +I hardly know how it began. I'm sure I never meant to flirt with Jack +Ray. I never did flirt with him either, in spite of Walter's unmanly +accusations. But Walter has been jealous of Jack all summer, although +he knew perfectly well he needn't be, and two nights ago at the Morley +dance poor Jack seemed so dull and unhappy that I tried to cheer him +up a little and be kind to him. I danced with him three times and sat +out another dance just to talk with him in a real sisterly fashion. +But Walter was furious and last night when he came up he said horrid +things--things no girl of any spirit could endure, and things he could +never have said to me if he had really cared one bit for me. We had a +frightful quarrel and when I saw plainly that Walter no longer loved +me I told him that he was free and that I never wanted to see him +again and that I hated him. He glared at me and said that I should +have my wish--I never should see him again and he hoped he would never +again meet such a faithless, fickle girl. Then he went away and +slammed the front door. + +I cried all night, but today I went about the house singing. I would +not for the world let other people know how Walter has treated me. I +will hide my broken heart under a smiling face bravely. But, oh, I am +so miserable! Just as soon as I am old enough I mean to go away and be +a trained nurse. There is nothing else left in life for me. Sara does +not suspect that anything is wrong and I am so thankful she does not. +She would not understand. + + + September Sixth. + +Today I read this journal over and thought I would burn it, it is so +silly. But on second thought I concluded to keep it as a reminder of +how blind and selfish I was and how good Sara is. For I am happy again +and everything is all right, thanks to Sara. The very day after our +quarrel Walter left Atwater. He did not have to return to college for +three weeks, but he went to visit some friends down in Charlotteville +and I heard--Mollie Roach told me--Mollie Roach was always wild about +Walter herself--that he was not coming back again, but would go right +on to Marlboro from Charlotteville. I smiled squarely at Mollie as if +I didn't care a particle, but I can't describe how I felt. I knew then +that I had really been hoping that something would happen in three +weeks to make our quarrel up. In a small place like Atwater people in +the same set can't help meeting. But Walter had gone and I should +never see him again, and what was worse I knew he didn't care or he +wouldn't have gone. + +I bore it in silence for three weeks, but I will shudder to the end of +my life when I remember those three weeks. Night before last Sara came +up to my room where I was lying on my bed with my face in the pillow. +I wasn't crying--I couldn't cry. There was just a dreadful dull ache +in everything. Sara sat down on the rocker in front of the window and +the sunset light came in behind her and made a sort of nimbus round +her head, like a motherly saint's in a cathedral. + +"Beatrice," she said gently, "I want to know what the trouble is. You +can't hide it from me that something is wrong. I've noticed it for +some time. You don't eat anything and you cry all night--oh, yes, I +know you do. What is it, dear?" + +"Oh, Sara!" + +I just gave a little cry, slipped from the bed to the floor, laid my +head in her lap, and told her everything. It was such a relief, and +such a relief to feel those good motherly arms around me and to +realize that here was a love that would never fail me no matter what I +did or how foolish I was. Sara heard me out and then she said, without +a word of reproach or contempt, "It will all come out right yet, dear. +Write to Walter and tell him you are sorry." + +"Sara, I never could! He doesn't love me any longer--he said he hoped +he'd never see me again." + +"Didn't you say the same to him, child? He meant it as little as you +did. Don't let your foolish pride keep you miserable." + +"If Walter won't come back to me without my asking him he'll never +come, Sara," I said stubbornly. + +Sara didn't scold or coax any more. She patted my head and kissed me +and made me bathe my face and go to bed. Then she tucked me in just as +she used to do when I was a little girl. + +"Now, don't cry, dear," she said, "it will come right yet." + +Somehow, I began to hope it would when Sara thought so, and anyhow it +was such a comfort to have talked it all over with her. I slept better +than I had for a long time, and it was seven o'clock yesterday morning +when I woke to find that it was a dull grey day outside and that Sara +was standing by my bed with her hat and jacket on. + +"I'm going down to Junction Falls on the 7:30 train to see Mr. Conway +about coming to fix the back kitchen floor," she said, "and I have +some other business that may keep me for some time, so don't be +anxious if I'm not back till late. Give the bread a good kneading in +an hour's time and be careful not to bake it too much." + +That was a dismal day. It began to rain soon after Sara left and it +just poured. I never saw a soul all day except the milkman, and I was +really frantic by night. I never was so glad of anything as when I +heard Sara's step on the verandah. I flew to the front door to let her +in--and there was Walter all dripping wet--and his arms were about me +and I was crying on the shoulder of his mackintosh. + +I only guessed then what I knew later on. Sara had heard from Mrs. +Shirley that Walter was going to Marlboro that day without coming back +to Atwater. Sara knew that he must change trains at Junction Falls and +she went there to meet him. She didn't know what train he would come +on so she went to meet the earliest and had to wait till the last, +hanging around the dirty little station at the Falls all day while it +poured rain, and she hadn't a thing to eat except some fancy biscuits +she had bought on the train. But Walter came at last on the 7:50 train +and there was Sara to pounce on him. He told me afterwards that no +angel could have been so beautiful a vision to him as Sara was, +standing there on the wet platform with her tweed skirt held up and a +streaming umbrella over her head, telling him he must come back to +Atwater because Beatrice wanted him to. + +But just at the moment of his coming I didn't care how he had come or +who had brought him. I just realized that he was there and that was +enough. Sara came in behind him. Walter's wet arms were about me and I +was standing there with my thin-slippered feet in a little pool of +water that dripped from his umbrella. But Sara never said a word about +colds and dampness. She just smiled, went on into the sitting-room, +and shut the door. Sara understood. + + + + +The Unforgotten One + + +It was Christmas Eve, but there was no frost, or snow, or sparkle. It +was a green Christmas, and the night was mild and dim, with hazy +starlight. A little wind was laughing freakishly among the firs around +Ingleside and rustling among the sere grasses along the garden walks. +It was more like a night in early spring or late fall than in +December; but it was Christmas Eve, and there was a light in every +window of Ingleside, the glow breaking out through the whispering +darkness like a flame-red blossom swung against the background of the +evergreens; for the children were coming home for the Christmas +reunion, as they always came--Fritz and Margaret and Laddie and Nora, +and Robert's two boys in the place of Robert, who had died fourteen +years ago--and the old house must put forth its best of light and +good cheer to welcome them. + +Doctor Fritz and his brood were the last to arrive, driving up to the +hall door amid a chorus of welcoming barks from the old dogs and a +hail of merry calls from the group in the open doorway. + +"We're all here now," said the little mother, as she put her arms +about the neck of her stalwart firstborn and kissed his bearded face. +There were handshakings and greetings and laughter. Only Nanny, far +back in the shadows of the firelit hall, swallowed a resentful sob, +and wiped two bitter tears from her eyes with her little red hand. + +"We're not all here," she murmured under her breath. "Miss Avis isn't +here. Oh, how can they be so glad? How can they have forgotten?" + +But nobody heard or heeded Nanny--she was only the little orphan +"help" girl at Ingleside. They were all very good to her, and they +were all very fond of her, but at the times of family reunion Nanny +was unconsciously counted out. There was no bond of blood to unite her +to them, and she was left on the fringe of things. Nanny never +resented this--it was all a matter of course to her; but on this +Christmas Eve her heart was broken because she thought that nobody +remembered Miss Avis. + +After supper they all gathered around the open fireplace of the hall, +hung with its berries and evergreens in honour of the morrow. It was +their unwritten law to form a fireside circle on Christmas Eve and +tell each other what the year had brought them of good and ill, sorrow +and joy. The circle was smaller by one than it had been the year +before, but none spoke of that. There was a smile on every face and +happiness in every voice. + +The father and mother sat in the centre, grey-haired and placid, their +fine old faces written over with the history of gracious lives. Beside +the mother, Doctor Fritz sat like a boy, on the floor, with his +massive head, grey as his father's, on her lap, and one of his smooth, +muscular hands, that were as tender as a woman's at the operating +table, clasped in hers. Next to him sat sweet Nora, the +twenty-year-old "baby," who taught in a city school; the rosy +firelight gleamed lovingly over her girlish beauty of burnished brown +hair, dreamy blue eyes, and soft, virginal curves of cheek and throat. +Doctor Fritz's spare arm was about her, but Nora's own hands were +clasped over her knee, and on one of them sparkled a diamond that had +not been there at the last Christmas reunion. Laddie, who figured as +Archibald only in the family Bible, sat close to the inglenook--a +handsome young fellow with a daring brow and rollicking eyes. On the +other side sat Margaret, hand in hand with her father, a woman whose +gracious sweetness of nature enveloped her as a garment; and Robert's +two laughing boys filled up the circle, looking so much alike that it +was hard to say which was Cecil and which was Sid. + +Margaret's husband and Fritz's wife were playing games with the +children in the parlour, whence shrieks of merriment drifted out into +the hall. Nanny might have been with them had she chosen, but she +preferred to sit alone in the darkest corner of the hall and gaze with +jealous, unhappy eyes at the mirthful group about the fire, listening +to their story and jest and laughter with unavailing protest in her +heart. Oh, how could they have forgotten so soon? It was not yet a +full year since Miss Avis had gone. Last Christmas Eve she had sat +there, a sweet and saintly presence, in the inglenook, more, so it had +almost seemed, the centre of the home circle than the father and +mother; and now the December stars were shining over her grave, and +not one of that heedless group remembered her; not once was her name +spoken; even her old dog had forgotten her--he sat with his nose in +Margaret's lap, blinking with drowsy, aged contentment at the fire. + +"Oh, I can't bear it!" whispered Nanny, under cover of the hearty +laughter which greeted a story Doctor Fritz had been telling. She +slipped out into the kitchen, put on her hood and cloak, and took +from a box under the table a little wreath of holly. She had made it +out of the bits left over from the decorations. Miss Avis had loved +holly; Miss Avis had loved every green, growing thing. + +As Nanny opened the kitchen door something cold touched her hand, and +there stood the old dog, wagging his tail and looking up at her with +wistful eyes, mutely pleading to be taken, too. + +"So you do remember her, Gyppy," said Nanny, patting his head. "Come +along then. We'll go together." + +They slipped out into the night. It was quite dark, but it was not far +to the graveyard--just out through the evergreens and along a field +by-path and across the road. The old church was there, with its square +tower, and the white stones gleaming all around it. Nanny went +straight to a shadowy corner and knelt on the sere grasses while she +placed her holly wreath on Miss Avis's grave. The tears in her eyes +brimmed over. + +"Oh, Miss Avis! Miss Avis!" she sobbed. "I miss you so--I miss you so! +It can't ever seem like Christmas to me without you. You were always +so sweet and kind to me. There ain't a day passes but I think of you +and all the things you used to say to me, and I try to be good like +you'd want me to be. But I hate them for forgetting you--yes, I do! +I'll never forget you, darling Miss Avis! I'd rather be here alone +with you in the dark than back there with them." + +Nanny sat down by the grave. The old dog lay down by her side with his +forepaws on the turf and his eyes fixed on the tall white marble +shaft. It was too dark for Nanny to read the inscription but she knew +every word of it: "In loving remembrance of Avis Maywood, died January +20, 1902, aged 45." And underneath the lines of her own choosing: + + "Say not good night, but in some brighter clime + Bid me good morning." + +But they had forgotten her--oh, they had forgotten her already! + +When half an hour had passed, Nanny was startled by approaching +footsteps. Not wishing to be seen, she crept softly behind the +headstones into the shadow of the willow on the farther side, and the +old dog followed. Doctor Fritz, coming to the grave, thought himself +alone with the dead. He knelt down by the headstone and pressed his +face against it. + +"Avis," he said gently, "dear Avis, I have come to visit your grave +tonight because you seem nearer to me here than elsewhere. And I want +to talk to you, Avis, as I have always talked to you every +Christmastide since we were children together. I have missed you so +tonight, dear friend and sympathizer--no words can tell how I have +missed you--your welcoming handclasp and your sweet face in the +firelight shadows. I could not bear to speak your name, the aching +sense of loss was so bitter. Amid all the Christmas mirth and good +fellowship I felt the sorrow of your vacant chair. Avis, I wanted to +tell you what the year had brought to me. My theory has been proved; +it has made me a famous man. Last Christmas, Avis, I told you of it, +and you listened and understood and believed in it. Dear Avis, once +again I thank you for all you have been to me--all you are yet. I have +brought you your roses; they are as white and pure and fragrant as +your life." + +Other footsteps came so quickly on Doctor Fritz' retreating ones that +Nanny could not rise. It was Laddie this time--gay, careless, +thoughtless Laddie. + +"Roses? So Fritz has been here! I have brought you lilies, Avis. Oh, +Avis, I miss you so! You were so jolly and good--you understood a +fellow so well. I had to come here tonight to tell you how much I miss +you. It doesn't seem half home without you. Avis, I'm trying to be a +better chap--more the sort of man you'd have me be. I've given the old +set the go-by--I'm trying to live up to your standard. It would be +easier if you were here to help me. When I was a kid it was always +easier to be good for awhile after I'd talked things over with you. +I've got the best mother a fellow ever had, but you and I were such +chums, weren't we, Avis? I thought I'd just break down in there +tonight and put a damper on everything by crying like a baby. If +anybody had spoken about you, I should have. Hello!" + +Laddie wheeled around with a start, but it was only Robert's two boys, +who came shyly up to the grave, half hanging back to find anyone else +there. + +"Hello, boys," said Laddie huskily. "So you've come to see her grave +too?" + +"Yes," said Cecil solemnly. "We--we just had to. We couldn't go to bed +without coming. Oh, isn't it lonesome without Cousin Avis?" + +"She was always so good to us," said Sid. + +"She used to talk to us so nice," said Cecil chokily. "But she liked +fun, too." + +"Boys," said Laddie gravely, "never forget what Cousin Avis used to +say to you. Never forget that you have _got_ to grow up into men she'd +be proud of." + +They went away then, the boys and their boyish uncle; and when they +had gone Nora came, stealing timidly through the shadows, starting at +the rustle of the wind in the trees. + +"Oh, Avis," she whispered. "I want to see you so much! I want to tell +you all about it--about _him_. You would understand so well. He is the +best and dearest lover ever a girl had. You would think so too. Oh, +Avis, I miss you so much! There's a little shadow even on my happiness +because I can't talk it over with you in the old way. Oh, Avis, it was +dreadful to sit around the fire tonight and not see you. Perhaps you +were there in spirit. I love to think you were, but I wanted to see +you. You were always there to come home to before, Avis, dear." + +Sobbing, she went away; and then came Margaret, the grave, strong +Margaret. + +"Dear cousin, dear to me as a sister, it seemed to me that I must come +to you here tonight. I cannot tell you how much I miss your wise, +clear-sighted advice and judgment, your wholesome companionship. A +little son was born to me this past year, Avis. How glad you would +have been, for you knew, as none other did, the bitterness of my +childless heart. How we would have delighted to talk over my baby +together, and teach him wisely between us! Avis, Avis, your going made +a blank that can never be filled for me!" + +Margaret was still standing there when the old people came. + +"Father! Mother! Isn't it too late and chilly for you to be here?" + +"No, Margaret, no," said the mother. "I couldn't go to my bed without +coming to see Avis's grave. I brought her up from a baby--her dying +mother gave her to me. She was as much my own child as any of you. And +oh! I miss her so. You only miss her when you come home, but I miss +her all the time--every day!" + +"We all miss her, Mother," said the old father, tremulously. "She was +a good girl--Avis was a good girl. Good night, Avis!" + +"'Say not good night, but in some brighter clime bid her good +morning,'" quoted Margaret softly. "That was her own wish, you know. +Let us go back now. It is getting late." + +When they had gone Nanny crept out from the shadows. It had not +occurred to her that perhaps she should not have listened--she had +been too shy to make her presence known to those who came to Avis's +grave. But her heart was full of joy. + +"Oh, Miss Avis, I'm so glad, I'm so glad! They haven't forgotten you +after all, Miss Avis, dear, not one of them. I'm sorry I was so cross +at them; and I'm so glad they haven't forgotten you. I love them for +it." + +Then the old dog and Nanny went home together. + + + + +The Wooing of Bessy + + +When Lawrence Eastman began going to see Bessy Houghton the Lynnfield +people shrugged their shoulders and said he might have picked out +somebody a little younger and prettier--but then, of course, Bessy was +well off. A two-hundred-acre farm and a substantial bank account were +worth going in for. Trust an Eastman for knowing upon which side his +bread was buttered. + +Lawrence was only twenty, and looked even younger, owing to his +smooth, boyish face, curly hair, and half-girlish bloom. Bessy +Houghton was in reality no more than twenty-five, but Lynnfield people +had the impression that she was past thirty. She had always been older +than her years--a quiet, reserved girl who dressed plainly and never +went about with other young people. Her mother had died when Bessy was +very young, and she had always kept house for her father. The +responsibility made her grave and mature. When she was twenty her +father died and Bessy was his sole heir. She kept the farm and took +the reins of government in her own capable hands. She made a success +of it too, which was more than many a man in Lynnfield had done. + +Bessy had never had a lover. She had never seemed like other girls, +and passed for an old maid when her contemporaries were in the flush +of social success and bloom. + +Mrs. Eastman, Lawrence's mother, was a widow with two sons. George, +the older, was the mother's favourite, and the property had been +willed to him by his father. To Lawrence had been left the few +hundreds in the bank. He stayed at home and hired himself to George, +thereby adding slowly to his small hoard. He had his eye on a farm in +Lynnfield, but he was as yet a mere boy, and his plans for the future +were very vague until he fell in love with Bessy Houghton. + +In reality nobody was more surprised over this than Lawrence himself. +It had certainly been the last thing in his thoughts on the dark, +damp night when he had overtaken Bessy walking home alone from prayer +meeting and had offered to drive her the rest of the way. + +Bessy assented and got into his buggy. At first she was very silent, +and Lawrence, who was a bashful lad at the best of times, felt +tongue-tied and uncomfortable. But presently Bessy, pitying his +evident embarrassment, began to talk to him. She could talk well, and +Lawrence found himself entering easily into the spirit of her piquant +speeches. He had an odd feeling that he had never known Bessy Houghton +before; he had certainly never guessed that she could be such good +company. She was very different from the other girls he knew, but he +decided that he liked the difference. + +"Are you going to the party at Baileys' tomorrow night?" he asked, as +he helped her to alight at her door. + +"I don't know," she answered. "I'm invited--but I'm all alone--and +parties have never been very much in my line." + +There was a wistful note in her voice, and Lawrence detecting it, said +hurriedly, not giving himself time to get frightened: "Oh, you'd +better go to this one. And if you like, I'll call around and take +you." + +He wondered if she would think him very presumptuous. He thought her +voice sounded colder as she said: "I am afraid that it would be too +much trouble for you." + +"It wouldn't be any trouble at all," he stammered. "I'll be very +pleased to take you." + +In the end Bessy had consented to go, and the next evening Lawrence +called for her in the rose-red autumn dusk. + +Bessy was ready and waiting. She was dressed in what was for her +unusual elegance, and Lawrence wondered why people called Bessy +Houghton so plain. Her figure was strikingly symmetrical and softly +curved. Her abundant, dark-brown hair, instead of being parted plainly +and drawn back into a prim coil as usual, was dressed high on her +head, and a creamy rose nestled amid the becoming puffs and waves. +She wore black, as she usually did, but it was a lustrous black silk, +simply and fashionably made, with frost-like frills of lace at her +firm round throat and dainty wrists. Her cheeks were delicately +flushed, and her wood-brown eyes were sparkling under her long lashes. + +She offered him a half-opened bud for his coat and pinned it on for +him. As he looked down at her he noticed what a sweet mouth she +had--full and red, with a half child-like curve. + +The fact that Lawrence Eastman took Bessy Houghton to the Baileys' +party made quite a sensation at that festal scene. People nodded and +winked and wondered. "An old maid and her money," said Milly Fiske +spitefully. Milly, as was well known, had a liking for Lawrence +herself. + +Lawrence began to "go with" Bessy Houghton regularly after that. In +his single-mindedness he never feared that Bessy would misjudge his +motives or imagine him to be prompted by mercenary designs. He never +thought of her riches himself, and it never occurred to him that she +would suppose he did. + +He soon realized that he loved her, and he ventured to hope timidly +that she loved him in return. She was always rather reserved, but the +few favours that meant nothing from other girls meant a great deal +from Bessy. The evenings he spent with her in her pretty sitting-room, +their moonlight drives over long, satin-smooth stretches of snowy +roads, and their walks home from church and prayer meeting under the +winter stars, were all so many moments of supreme happiness to +Lawrence. + + * * * * * + +Matters had gone thus far before Mrs. Eastman got her eyes opened. At +Mrs. Tom Bailey's quilting party an officious gossip took care to +inform her that Lawrence was supposed to be crazy over Bessy Houghton, +who was, of course, encouraging him simply for the sake of having +someone to beau her round, and who would certainly throw him over in +the end since she knew perfectly well that it was her money he was +after. + +Mrs. Eastman was a proud woman and a determined one. She had always +disliked Bessy Houghton, and she went home from the quilting resolved +to put an instant stop to "all such nonsense" on her son's part. + +"Where is Lawrie?" she asked abruptly; as she entered the small +kitchen where George Eastman was lounging by the fire. + +"Out in the stable grooming up Lady Grey," responded her older son +sulkily. "I suppose he's gadding off to see Bessy Houghton again, the +young fool that he is! Why don't you put a stop to it?" + +"I am going to put a stop to it," said Mrs. Eastman grimly. "I'd have +done it before if I'd known. You should have told me of it if you +knew. I'm going out to see Lawrence right now." + +George Eastman muttered something inaudible as the door closed behind +her. He was a short, thickset man, not in the least like Lawrence, who +was ten years his junior. Two years previously he had made a furtive +attempt to pay court to Bessy Houghton for the sake of her wealth, and +her decided repulse of his advances was a remembrance that made him +grit his teeth yet. He had hated her bitterly ever since. + +Lawrence was brushing his pet mare's coat until it shone like satin, +and whistling "Annie Laurie" until the rafters rang. Bessy had sung it +for him the night before. He could see her plainly still as she had +looked then, in her gown of vivid red--a colour peculiarly becoming to +her--with her favourite laces at wrist and throat and a white rose in +her hair, which was dressed in the high, becoming knot she had always +worn since the night he had shyly told her he liked it so. + +She had played and sung many of the sweet old Scotch ballads for him, +and when she had gone to the door with him he had taken both her hands +in his and, emboldened by the look in her brown eyes, he had stooped +and kissed her. Then he had stepped back, filled with dismay at his +own audacity. But Bessy had said no word of rebuke, and only blushed +hotly crimson. She must care for him, he thought happily, or else she +would have been angry. + +When his mother came in at the stable door her face was hard and +uncompromising. + +"Lawrie," she said sharply, "where are you going again tonight? You +were out last night." + +"Well, Mother, I promise you I wasn't in any bad company. Come now, +don't quiz a fellow too close." + +"You are going to dangle after Bessy Houghton again. It's time you +were told what a fool you were making of yourself. She's old enough to +be your mother. The whole settlement is laughing at you." + +Lawrence looked as if his mother had struck him a blow in the face. A +dull, purplish flush crept over his brow. + +"This is some of George's work," he broke out fiercely. "He's been +setting you on me, has he? Yes, he's jealous--he wanted Bessy himself, +but she would not look at him. He thinks nobody knows it, but I do. +Bessy marry him? It's very likely!" + +"Lawrie Eastman, you are daft. George hasn't said anything to me. You +surely don't imagine Bessy Houghton would marry you. And if she would, +she is too old for you. Now, don't you hang around her any longer." + +"I will," said Lawrence flatly. "I don't care what anybody says. You +needn't worry over me. I can take care of myself." + +Mrs. Eastman looked blankly at her son. He had never defied or +disobeyed her in his life before. She had supposed her word would be +law. Rebellion was something she had not dreamed of. Her lips +tightened ominously and her eyes narrowed. + +"You're a bigger fool than I took you for," she said in a voice that +trembled with anger. "Bessy Houghton laughs at you everywhere. She +knows you're just after her money, and she makes fun--" + +"Prove it," interrupted Lawrence undauntedly, "I'm not going to put +any faith in Lynnfield gossip. Prove it if you can." + +"I can prove it. Maggie Hatfield told me what Bessy Houghton said to +her about you. She said you were a lovesick fool, and she only went +with you for a little amusement, and that if you thought you had +nothing to do but marry her and hang up your hat there you'd find +yourself vastly mistaken." + +Possibly in her calmer moments Mrs. Eastman might have shrunk from +such a deliberate falsehood, although it was said of her in Lynnfield +that she was not one to stick at a lie when the truth would not serve +her purpose. Moreover, she felt quite sure that Lawrence would never +ask Maggie Hatfield anything about it. + +Lawrence turned white to the lips, "Is that true, Mother?" he asked +huskily. + +"I've warned you," replied his mother, not choosing to repeat her +statement. "If you go after Bessy any more you can take the +consequences." + +She drew her shawl about her pale, malicious face and left him with a +parting glance of contempt. + +"I guess that'll settle him," she thought grimly. "Bessy Houghton +turned up her nose at George, but she shan't make a fool of Lawrence +too." + +Alone in the stable Lawrence stood staring out at the dull red ball of +the winter sun with unseeing eyes. He had implicit faith in his +mother, and the stab had gone straight to his heart. Bessy Houghton +listened in vain that night for his well-known footfall on the +verandah. + +The next night Lawrence went home with Milly Fiske from prayer +meeting, taking her out from a crowd of other girls under Bessy +Houghton's very eyes as she came down the steps of the little church. + +Bessy walked home alone. The light burned low in her sitting-room, and +in the mirror over the mantel she saw her own pale face, with its +tragic, pain-stricken eyes. Annie Hillis, her "help," was out. She was +alone in the big house with her misery and despair. + +She went dizzily upstairs to her own room and flung herself on the bed +in the chill moonlight. + +"It is all over," she said dully. All night she lay there, fighting +with her pain. In the wan, grey morning she looked at her mirrored +self with pitying scorn--at the pallid face, the lifeless features, +the dispirited eyes with their bluish circles. + +"What a fool I have been to imagine he could care for me!" she said +bitterly. "He has only been amusing himself with my folly. And to +think that I let him kiss me the other night!" + +She thought of that kiss with a pitiful shame. She hated herself for +the weakness that could not check her tears. Her lonely life had been +brightened by the companionship of her young lover. The youth and +girlhood of which fate had cheated her had come to her with love; the +future had looked rosy with promise; now it had darkened with dourness +and greyness. + +Maggie Hatfield came that day to sew. Bessy had intended to have a +dark-blue silk made up and an evening waist of pale pink cashmere. She +had expected to wear the latter at a party which was to come off a +fortnight later, and she had got it to please Lawrence, because he had +told her that pink was his favourite colour. She would have neither it +nor the silk made up now. She put them both away and instead brought +out an ugly pattern of snuff-brown stuff, bought years before and +never used. + +"But where is your lovely pink, Bessy?" asked the dressmaker. "Aren't +you going to have it for the party?" + +"No, I'm not going to have it made up at all," said Bessy listlessly. +"It's too gay for me. I was foolish to think it would ever suit me. +This brown will do for a spring suit. It doesn't make much difference +what I wear." + +Maggie Hatfield, who had not been at prayer meeting the night +beforehand knew nothing of what had occurred, looked at her curiously, +wondering what Lawrence Eastman could see in her to be as crazy about +her as some people said he was. Bessy was looking her oldest and +plainest just then, with her hair combed severely back from her pale, +dispirited face. + +"It must be her money he is after," thought the dressmaker. "She looks +over thirty, and she can't pretend to be pretty. I believe she thinks +a lot of him, though." + +For the most part, Lynnfield people believed that Bessy had thrown +Lawrence over. This opinion was borne out by his woebegone appearance. +He was thin and pale; his face had lost its youthful curves and looked +hard and mature. He was moody and taciturn and his speech and manner +were marked by a new cynicism. + + * * * * * + +In April a well-to-do storekeeper from an adjacent village began to +court Bessy Houghton. He was over fifty, and had never been a handsome +man in his best days, but Lynnfield oracles opined that Bessy would +take him. She couldn't expect to do any better, they said, and she was +looking terribly old and dowdy all at once. + +In June Maggie Hatfield went to the Eastmans' to sew. The first bit of +news she imparted to Mrs. Eastman was that Bessy Houghton had refused +Jabez Lea--at least, he didn't come to see her any more. + +Mrs. Eastman twitched her thread viciously. "Bessy Houghton was born +an old maid," she said sharply. "She thinks nobody is good enough for +her, that is what's the matter. Lawrence got some silly boy-notion +into his head last winter, but I soon put a stop to that." + +"I always had an idea that Bessy thought a good deal of Lawrence," +said Maggie. "She has never been the same since he left off going with +her. I was up there the morning after that prayer-meeting night people +talked so much of, and she looked positively dreadful, as if she +hadn't slept a wink the whole night." + +"Nonsense!" said Mrs. Eastman decisively. "She would never think of +taking a boy like him when she'd turned up her nose at better men. And +I didn't want her for a daughter-in-law anyhow. I can't bear her. So I +put my foot down in time. Lawrence sulked for a spell, of +course--boy-fashion--and he's been as fractious as a spoiled baby ever +since." + +"Well, I dare say you're right," assented the dressmaker. "But I must +say I had always imagined that Bessy had a great notion of Lawrence. +Of course, she's so quiet it is hard to tell. She never says a word +about herself." + +There was an unsuspected listener to this conversation. Lawrence had +come in from the field for a drink, and was standing in the open +kitchen doorway, within easy earshot of the women's shrill tones. + +He had never doubted his mother's word at any time in his life, but +now he knew beyond doubt that there had been crooked work somewhere. +He shrank from believing his mother untrue, yet where else could the +crookedness come in? + +When Mrs. Eastman had gone to the kitchen to prepare dinner, Maggie +Hatfield was startled by the appearance of Lawrence at the low open +window of the sitting-room. + +"Mercy me, how you scared me!" she exclaimed nervously. + +"Maggie," said Lawrence seriously, "I want to ask you a question. Did +Bessy Houghton ever say anything to you about me or did you ever say +that she did? Give me a straight answer." + +The dressmaker peered at him curiously. + +"No. Bessy never so much as mentioned your name to me," she said, "and +I never heard that she did to anyone else. Why?" + +"Thank you. That was all I wanted to know," said Lawrence, ignoring +her question, and disappearing as suddenly as he had come. + +That evening at moonrise he passed through the kitchen dressed in his +Sunday best. His mother met him at the door. + +"Where are you going?" she asked querulously. + +Lawrence looked her squarely in the face with accusing eyes, before +which her own quailed. + +"I'm going to see Bessy Houghton, Mother," he said sternly, "and to +ask her pardon for believing the lie that has kept us apart so long." + +Mrs. Eastman flushed crimson and opened her lips to speak. But +something in Lawrence's grave, white face silenced her. She turned +away without a word, knowing in her secret soul that her youngest-born +was lost to her forever. + +Lawrence found Bessy in the orchard under apple trees that were +pyramids of pearly bloom. She looked at him through the twilight with +reproach and aloofness in her eyes. But he put out his hands and +caught her reluctant ones in a masterful grasp. + +"Listen to me, Bessy. Don't condemn me before you've heard me. I've +been to blame for believing falsehoods about you, but I believe them +no longer, and I've come to ask you to forgive me." + +He told his story simply and straightforwardly. In strict justice he +could not keep his mother's name out of it, but he merely said she had +been mistaken. Perhaps Bessy understood none the less. She knew what +Mrs. Eastman's reputation in Lynnfield was. + +"You might have had a little more faith in me," she cried +reproachfully. + +"I know--I know. But I was beside myself with pain and wretchedness. +Oh, Bessy, won't you forgive me? I love you so! If you send me away +I'll go to the dogs. Forgive me, Bessy." + +And she, being a woman, did forgive him. + +"I've loved you from the first, Lawrence," she said, yielding to his +kiss. + + + + +Their Girl Josie + + +When Paul Morgan, a rising young lawyer with justifiable political +aspirations, married Elinor Ashton, leading woman at the Green Square +Theatre, his old schoolmates and neighbours back in Spring Valley held +up their hands in horror, and his father and mother up in the +weather-grey Morgan homestead were crushed in the depths of +humiliation. They had been too proud of Paul ... their only son and +such a clever fellow ... and this was their punishment! He had married +an actress! To Cyrus and Deborah Morgan, brought up and nourished all +their lives on the strictest and straightest of old-fashioned beliefs +both as regards this world and that which is to come, this was a +tragedy. + +They could not be brought to see it in any other light. As their +neighbours said, "Cy Morgan never hilt up his head again after Paul +married the play-acting woman." But perhaps it was less his +humiliation than his sorrow which bowed down his erect form and +sprinkled grey in his thick black hair that fifty years had hitherto +spared. For Paul, forgetting the sacrifices his mother and father had +made for him, had bitterly resented the letter of protest his father +had written concerning his marriage. He wrote one angry, unfilial +letter back and then came silence. Between grief and shame Cyrus and +Deborah Morgan grew old rapidly in the year that followed. + +At the end of that time Elinor Morgan, the mother of an hour, died; +three months later Paul Morgan was killed in a railroad collision. +After the funeral Cyrus Morgan brought home to his wife their son's +little daughter, Joscelyn Morgan. + +Her aunt, Annice Ashton, had wanted the baby. Cyrus Morgan had been +almost rude in his refusal. His son's daughter should never be brought +up by an actress; it was bad enough that her mother had been one and +had doubtless transmitted the taint to her child. But in Spring +Valley, if anywhere, it might be eradicated. + +At first neither Cyrus nor Deborah cared much for Joscelyn. They +resented her parentage, her strange, un-Morgan-like name, and the +pronounced resemblance she bore to the dark-haired, dark-eyed mother +they had never seen. All the Morgans had been fair. If Joscelyn had +had Paul's blue eyes and golden curls her grandfather and grandmother +would have loved her sooner. + +But the love came ... it had to. No living mortal could have resisted +Joscelyn. She was the most winsome and lovable little mite of babyhood +that ever toddled. Her big dark eyes overflowed with laughter before +she could speak, her puckered red mouth broke constantly into dimples +and cooing sounds. She had ways that no orthodox Spring Valley baby +ever thought of having. Every smile was a caress, every gurgle of +attempted speech a song. Her grandparents came to worship her and were +stricter than ever with her by reason of their love. Because she was +so dear to them she must be saved from her mother's blood. + +Joscelyn shot up through a roly-poly childhood into slim, bewitching +girlhood in a chill repressive atmosphere. Cyrus and Deborah were +nothing if not thorough. The name of Joscelyn's mother was never +mentioned to her; she was never called anything but Josie, which +sounded more "Christian-like" than Joscelyn; and all the flowering out +of her alien beauty was repressed as far as might be in the plainest +and dullest of dresses and the primmest arrangement possible to +riotous ripe-brown curls. + +The girl was never allowed to visit her Aunt Annice, although +frequently invited. Miss Ashton, however, wrote to her occasionally, +and every Christmas sent a box of presents which even Cyrus and +Deborah Morgan could not forbid her to accept, although they looked +with disapproving eyes and ominously set lips at the dainty, frivolous +trifles the actress woman sent. They would have liked to cast those +painted fans and lace frills and beflounced lingerie into the fire as +if they had been infected rags from a pest-house. + +The path thus set for Joscelyn's dancing feet to walk in was indeed +sedate and narrow. She was seldom allowed to mingle with the young +people of even quiet, harmless Spring Valley; she was never allowed to +attend local concerts, much less take part in them; she was forbidden +to read novels, and Cyrus Morgan burned an old copy of Shakespeare +which Paul had given him years ago and which he had himself read and +treasured, lest its perusal should awaken unlawful instincts in +Joscelyn's heart. The girl's passion for reading was so marked that +her grandparents felt that it was their duty to repress it as far as +lay in their power. + +But Joscelyn's vitality was such that all her bonds and bands served +but little to check or retard the growth of her rich nature. Do what +they might they could not make a Morgan of her. Her every step was a +dance, her every word and gesture full of a grace and virility that +filled the old folks with uneasy wonder. She seemed to them charged +with dangerous tendencies all the more potent from repression. She was +sweet-tempered and sunny, truthful and modest, but she was as little +like the trim, simple Spring Valley girls as a crimson rose is like a +field daisy, and her unlikeness bore heavily on her grandparents. + +Yet they loved her and were proud of her. "Our girl Josie," as they +called her, was more to them than they would have admitted even to +themselves, and in the main they were satisfied with her, although the +grandmother grumbled because Josie did not take kindly to patchwork +and rug-making and the grandfather would fain have toned down that +exuberance of beauty and vivacity into the meeker pattern of +maidenhood he had been accustomed to. + +When Joscelyn was seventeen Deborah Morgan noticed a change in her. +The girl became quieter and more brooding, falling at times into +strange, idle reveries, with her hands clasped over her knee and her +big eyes fixed unseeingly on space; or she would creep away for +solitary rambles in the beech wood, going away droopingly and +returning with dusky glowing cheeks and a nameless radiance, as of +some newly discovered power, shining through every muscle and motion. +Mrs. Morgan thought the child needed a tonic and gave her sulphur and +molasses. + +One day the revelation came. Cyrus and Deborah had driven across the +valley to visit their married daughter. Not finding her at home they +returned. Mrs. Morgan went into the house while her husband went to +the stable. Joscelyn was not in the kitchen, but the grandmother heard +the sound of voices and laughter in the sitting room across the hall. + +"What company has Josie got?" she wondered, as she opened the hall +door and paused for a moment on the threshold to listen. As she +listened her old face grew grey and pinched; she turned noiselessly +and left the house, and flew to her husband as one distracted. + +"Cyrus, Josie is play-acting in the room ... laughing and reciting and +going on. I heard her. Oh, I've always feared it would break out in +her and it has! Come you and listen to her." + +The old couple crept through the kitchen and across the hall to the +open parlour door as if they were stalking a thief. Joscelyn's laugh +rang out as they did so ... a mocking, triumphant peal. Cyrus and +Deborah shivered as if they had heard sacrilege. + +Joscelyn had put on a trailing, clinging black skirt which her aunt +had sent her a year ago and which she had never been permitted to +wear. It transformed her into a woman. She had cast aside her waist of +dark plum-coloured homespun and wrapped a silken shawl about herself +until only her beautiful arms and shoulders were left bare. Her hair, +glossy and brown, with burnished red lights where the rays of the dull +autumn sun struck on it through the window, was heaped high on her +head and held in place by a fillet of pearl beads. Her cheeks were +crimson, her whole body from head to foot instinct and alive with a +beauty that to Cyrus and Deborah, as they stood mute with horror in +the open doorway, seemed akin to some devilish enchantment. + +Joscelyn, rapt away from her surroundings, did not perceive her +grandparents. Her face was turned from them and she was addressing an +unseen auditor in passionate denunciation. She spoke, moved, posed, +gesticulated, with an inborn genius shining through every motion and +tone like an illuminating lamp. + +"Josie, what are you doing?" + +It was Cyrus who spoke, advancing into the room like a stern, hard +impersonation of judgment. Joscelyn's outstretched arm fell to her +side and she turned sharply around; fear came into her face and the +light went out of it. A moment before she had been a woman, splendid, +unafraid; now she was again the schoolgirl, too confused and shamed to +speak. + +"What are you doing, Josie?" asked her grandfather again, "dressed up +in that indecent manner and talking and twisting to yourself?" + +Joscelyn's face, that had grown pale, flamed scarlet again. She lifted +her head proudly. + +"I was trying Aunt Annice's part in her new play," she answered. "I +have not been doing anything wrong, Grandfather." + +"Wrong! It's your mother's blood coming out in you, girl, in spite of +all our care! Where did you get that play?" + +"Aunt Annice sent it to me," answered Joscelyn, casting a quick glance +at the book on the table. Then, when her grandfather picked it up +gingerly, as if he feared contamination, she added quickly, "Oh, give +it to me, please, Grandfather. Don't take it away." + +"I am going to burn it," said Cyrus Morgan sternly. + +"Oh, don't, Grandfather," cried Joscelyn, with a sob in her voice. +"Don't burn it, please. I ... I ... won't practise out of it any more. +I'm sorry I've displeased you. Please give me my book." + +"No," was the stern reply. "Go to your room, girl, and take off that +rig. There is to be no more play-acting in my house, remember that." + +He flung the book into the fire that was burning in the grate. For the +first time in her life Joscelyn flamed out into passionate defiance. + +"You are cruel and unjust, Grandfather. I have done no wrong ... it is +not doing wrong to develop the one gift I have. It's the only thing I +can do ... and I am going to do it. My mother was an actress and a +good woman. So is Aunt Annice. So I mean to be." + +"Oh, Josie, Josie," said her grandmother in a scared voice. Her +grandfather only repeated sternly, "Go, take that rig off, girl, and +let us hear no more of this." + +Joscelyn went but she left consternation behind her. Cyrus and Deborah +could not have been more shocked if they had discovered the girl +robbing her grandfather's desk. They talked the matter over bitterly +at the kitchen hearth that night. + +"We haven't been strict enough with the girl, Mother," said Cyrus +angrily. "We'll have to be stricter if we don't want to have her +disgracing us. Did you hear how she defied me? 'So I mean to be,' she +says. Mother, we'll have trouble with that girl yet." + +"Don't be too harsh with her, Pa ... it'll maybe only drive her to +worse," sobbed Deborah. + +"I ain't going to be harsh. What I do is for her own good, you know +that, Mother. Josie is as dear to me as she is to you, but we've got +to be stricter with her." + +They were. From that day Josie was watched and distrusted. She was +never permitted to be alone. There were no more solitary walks. She +felt herself under the surveillance of cold, unsympathetic eyes every +moment and her very soul writhed. Joscelyn Morgan, the high-spirited +daughter of high-spirited parents, could not long submit to such +treatment. It might have passed with a child; to a woman, thrilling +with life and conscious power to her very fingertips, it was galling +beyond measure. Joscelyn rebelled, but she did nothing secretly ... +that was not her nature. She wrote to her Aunt Annice, and when she +received her reply she went straight and fearlessly to her +grandparents with it. + +"Grandfather, this letter is from my aunt. She wishes me to go and +live with her and prepare for the stage. I told her I wished to do so. +I am going." + +Cyrus and Deborah looked at her in mute dismay. + +"I know you despise the profession of an actress," the girl went on +with heightened colour. "I am sorry you think so about it because it +is the only one open to me. I must go ... I must." + +"Yes, you must," said Cyrus cruelly. "It's in your blood ... your bad +blood, girl." + +"My blood isn't bad," cried Joscelyn proudly. "My mother was a sweet, +true, good woman. You are unjust, Grandfather. But I don't want you to +be angry with me. I love you both and I am very grateful indeed for +all your kindness to me. I wish that you could understand what...." + +"We understand enough," interrupted Cyrus harshly. "This is all I have +to say. Go to your play-acting aunt if you want to. Your grandmother +and me won't hinder you. But you'll come back here no more. We'll have +nothing further to do with you. You can choose your own way and walk +in it." + +With this dictum Joscelyn went from Spring Valley. She clung to +Deborah and wept at parting, but Cyrus did not even say goodbye to +her. On the morning of her departure he went away on business and did +not return until evening. + + * * * * * + +Joscelyn went on the stage. Her aunt's influence and her mother's fame +helped her much. She missed the hard experiences that come to the +unassisted beginner. But her own genius must have won in any case. She +had all her mother's gifts, deepened by her inheritance of Morgan +intensity and sincerity ... much, too, of the Morgan firmness of will. +When Joscelyn Morgan was twenty-two she was famous over two +continents. + +When Cyrus Morgan returned home on the evening after his +granddaughter's departure he told his wife that she was never to +mention the girl's name in his hearing again. Deborah obeyed. She +thought her husband was right, albeit she might in her own heart +deplore the necessity of such a decree. Joscelyn had disgraced them; +could that be forgiven? + +Nevertheless both the old people missed her terribly. The house seemed +to have lost its soul with that vivid, ripely tinted young life. They +got their married daughter's oldest girl, Pauline, to come and stay +with them. Pauline was a quiet, docile maiden, industrious and +commonplace--just such a girl as they had vainly striven to make of +Joscelyn, to whom Pauline had always been held up as a model. Yet +neither Cyrus nor Deborah took to her, and they let her go +unregretfully when they found that she wished to return home. + +"She hasn't any of Josie's gimp," was old Cyrus's unspoken fault. +Deborah spoke, but all she said was, "Polly's a good girl, Father, +only she hasn't any snap." + +Joscelyn wrote to Deborah occasionally, telling her freely of her +plans and doings. If it hurt the girl that no notice was ever taken of +her letters she still wrote them. Deborah read the letters grimly and +then left them in Cyrus's way. Cyrus would not read them at first; +later on he read them stealthily when Deborah was out of the house. + +When Joscelyn began to succeed she sent to the old farmhouse papers +and magazines containing her photographs and criticisms of her plays +and acting. Deborah cut them out and kept them in her upper bureau +drawer with Joscelyn's letters. Once she overlooked one and Cyrus +found it when he was kindling the fire. He got the scissors and cut it +out carefully. A month later Deborah discovered it between the leaves +of the family Bible. + +But Joscelyn's name was never mentioned between them, and when other +people asked them concerning her their replies were cold and +ungracious. In a way they had relented towards her, but their shame of +her remained. They could never forget that she was an actress. + +Once, six years after Joscelyn had left Spring Valley, Cyrus, who was +reading a paper by the table, got up with an angry exclamation and +stuffed it into the stove, thumping the lid on over it with grim +malignity. + +"That fool dunno what he's talking about," was all he would say. +Deborah had her share of curiosity. The paper was the _National +Gazette_ and she knew that their next-door neighbour, James Pennan, +took it. She went over that evening and borrowed it, saying that their +own had been burned before she had had time to read the serial in it. +With one exception she read all its columns carefully without finding +anything to explain her husband's anger. Then she doubtfully plunged +into the exception ... a column of "Stage Notes." Halfway down she +came upon an adverse criticism of Joscelyn Morgan and her new play. It +was malicious and vituperative. Deborah Morgan's old eyes sparkled +dangerously as she read it. + +"I guess somebody is pretty jealous of Josie," she muttered. "I don't +wonder Pa was riled up. But I guess she can hold her own. She's a +Morgan." + +No long time after this Cyrus took a notion he'd like a trip to the +city. He'd like to see the Horse Fair and look up Cousin Hiram +Morgan's folks. + +"Hiram and me used to be great chums, Mother. And we're getting kind +of mossy, I guess, never stirring out of Spring Valley. Let's go and +dissipate for a week--what say?" + +Deborah agreed readily, albeit of late years she had been much averse +to going far from home and had never at any time been very fond of +Cousin Hiram's wife. Cyrus was as pleased as a child over their trip. +On the second day of their sojourn in the city he slipped away when +Deborah had gone shopping with Mrs. Hiram and hurried through the +streets to the Green Square Theatre with a hang-dog look. He bought a +ticket apologetically and sneaked in to his seat. It was a matinee +performance, and Joscelyn Morgan was starring in her famous new play. + +Cyrus waited for the curtain to rise, feeling as if every one of his +Spring Valley neighbours must know where he was and revile him for it. +If Deborah were ever to find out ... but Deborah must never find out! +For the first time in their married life the old man deliberately +plotted to deceive his old wife. He must see his girl Josie just once; +it was a terrible thing that she was an actress, but she was a +successful one, nobody could deny that, except fools who yapped in the +_National Gazette_. + +The curtain went up and Cyrus rubbed his eyes. He had certainly braced +his nerves to behold some mystery of iniquity; instead he saw an old +kitchen so like his own at home that it bewildered him; and there, +sitting by the cheery wood stove, in homespun gown, with primly +braided hair, was Joscelyn--his girl Josie, as he had seen her a +thousand times by his own ingle-side. The building rang with applause; +one old man pulled out a red bandanna and wiped tears of joy and pride +from his eyes. She hadn't changed--Josie hadn't changed. Play-acting +hadn't spoiled her--couldn't spoil her. Wasn't she Paul's daughter! +And all this applause was for her--for Josie. + +Joscelyn's new play was a homely, pleasant production with rollicking +comedy and heart-moving pathos skilfully commingled. Joscelyn pervaded +it all with a convincing simplicity that was really the triumph of +art. Cyrus Morgan listened and exulted in her; at every burst of +applause his eyes gleamed with pride. He wanted to go on the stage and +box the ears of the villain who plotted against her; he wanted to +shake hands with the good woman who stood by her; he wanted to pay off +the mortgage and make Josie happy. He wiped tears from his eyes in the +third act when Josie was turned out of doors and, when the fourth left +her a happy, blushing bride, hand in hand with her farmer lover, he +could have wept again for joy. + +Cyrus Morgan went out into the daylight feeling as if he had awakened +from a dream. At the outer door he came upon Mrs. Hiram and Deborah. +Deborah's face was stained with tears, and she caught at his hand. + +"Oh, Pa, wasn't it splendid--wasn't our girl Josie splendid! I'm so +proud of her. Oh, I was bound to hear her. I was afraid you'd be mad, +so I didn't let on and when I saw you in the seat down there I +couldn't believe my eyes. Oh, I've just been crying the whole time. +Wasn't it splendid! Wasn't our girl Josie splendid?" + +The crowd around looked at the old pair with amused, indulgent +curiosity, but they were quite oblivious to their surroundings, even +to Mrs. Hiram's anxiety to decoy them away. Cyrus Morgan cleared his +throat and said, "It was great, Mother, great. She took the shine off +the other play-actors all right. I knew that _National Gazette_ man +didn't know what he was talking about. Mother, let us go and see Josie +right off. She's stopping with her aunt at the Maberly Hotel--I saw it +in the paper this morning. I'm going to tell her she was right and we +were wrong. Josie's beat them all, and I'm going to tell her so!" + + + + +When Jack and Jill Took a Hand + + +_Jack's Side of It_ + +Jill says I have to begin this story because it was me--I mean it was +I--who made all the trouble in the first place. That is so like Jill. +She is such a good hand at forgetting. Why, it was she who suggested +the plot to me. I should never have thought of it myself--not that +Jill is any smarter than I am, either, but girls are such creatures +for planning up mischief and leading other folks into it and then +laying the blame on them when things go wrong. How could I tell Dick +would act so like a mule? I thought grown-up folks had more sense. +Aunt Tommy was down on me for weeks, while she thought Jill a regular +heroine. But there! Girls don't know anything about being fair, and I +am determined I will never have anything more to do with them and +their love affairs as long as I live. Jill says I will change my mind +when I grow up, but I won't. + +Still, Jill is a pretty good sort of girl. I have to scold her +sometimes, but if any other chap tried to I would punch his head for +him. + +I suppose it _is_ time I explained who Dick and Aunt Tommy are. Dick +is our minister. He hasn't been it very long. He only came a year ago. +I shall never forget how surprised Jill and I were that first Sunday +we went to church and saw him. We had always thought that ministers +had to be old. All the ministers we knew were. Mr. Grinnell, the one +before Dick came, must have been as old as Methuselah. But Dick was +young--and good-looking. Jill said she thought it a positive sin for a +minister to be so good-looking, it didn't seem Christian; but that was +just because all the ministers we knew happened to be homely so that +it didn't appear natural. + +Dick was tall and pale and looked as if he had heaps of brains. He had +thick curly brown hair and big dark blue eyes--Jill said his eyes were +like an archangel's, but how could she tell? She never saw an +archangel. I liked his nose. It was so straight and finished-looking. +Mr. Grinnell had the worst-looking nose you ever saw. Jill and I used +to make poetry about it in church to keep from falling asleep when he +preached such awful long sermons. + +Dick preached great sermons. They were so nice and short. It was such +fun to hear him thump the pulpit when he got excited; and when he got +more excited still he would lean over the pulpit, his face all white, +and talk so low and solemn that it would just send the most gorgeous +thrills through you. + +Dick came to Owlwood--that's our place; I hate these +explanations--quite a lot, even before Aunt Tommy came. He and Father +were chums; they had been in college together and Father said Dick was +the best football player he ever knew. Jill and I soon got acquainted +with him and this was another uncanny thing. We had never thought it +possible to get acquainted with a minister. Jill said she didn't think +it proper for a real live minister to be so chummy. But then Jill was +a little jealous because Dick and I, being both men; were better +friends than he and she could be. He taught me to skate that winter +and fence with canes and do long division. I could never understand +long division before Dick came, although I was away on in fractions. + +Jill has just been in and says I ought to explain that Dick's name +wasn't Dick. I do wish Jill would mind her own business. Of course it +wasn't. His real name was the Reverend Stephen Richmond, but Jill and +I always called him Dick behind his back; it seemed so jolly and +venturesome, somehow, to speak of a minister like that. Only we had to +be careful not to let Father and Mother hear us. Mother wouldn't even +let Father call Dick "Stephen"; she said it would set a bad example of +familiarity to the children. Mother is an old darling. She won't +believe we're half as bad as we are. + +Well, early in May comes Aunt Tommy. I must explain who Aunt Tommy is +or Jill will be at me again. She is Father's youngest sister and her +real name is Bertha Gordon, but Father has always called her Tommy and +she likes it. + +Jill and I had never seen Aunt Tommy before, but we took to her from +the start because she was so pretty and because she talked to us just +as if we were grown up. She called Jill Elizabeth, and Jill would +adore a Hottentot who called her Elizabeth. + +Aunt Tommy is the prettiest girl I ever saw. If Jill is half as +good-looking when she gets to be twenty--she's only ten now, same age +as I am, we're twins--I shall be proud of her for a sister. + +Aunt Tommy is all white and dimpled. She has curly red hair and big +jolly brown eyes and scrumptious freckles. I do like freckles in a +girl, although Jill goes wild if she thinks she has one on her nose. +When we talked of writing this story Jill said I wasn't to say that +Aunt Tommy had freckles because it wouldn't sound romantic. But I +don't care. She has freckles and I think they are all right. + +We went to church with Aunt Tommy the first Sunday after she came, one +on each side of her. Aunt Tommy is the only girl in the world I'd walk +hand in hand with before people. She looked fine that day. She had on +a gorgeous dress, all frills and ruffles, and a big white floppy hat. +I was proud of her for an aunt, I can tell you, and I was anxious for +Dick to see her. When he came up to speak to me and Jill after church +came out I said, "Aunt Tommy, this is Mr. Richmond," just like the +grown-up people say. Aunt Tommy and Dick shook hands and Dick got as +red as anything. It was funny to see him. + +The very next evening he came down to Owlwood. We hadn't expected him +until Tuesday, for he never came Monday night before. That is Father's +night for going to a lodge meeting. Mother was away this time too. I +met Dick on the porch and took him into the parlour, thinking what a +bully talk we could have all alone together, without Jill bothering +around. But in a minute Aunt Tommy came in and she and Dick began to +talk, and I just couldn't get a word in edgewise. I got so disgusted I +started out, but I don't believe they ever noticed I was gone. I liked +Aunt Tommy very well, but I didn't think she had any business to +monopolize Dick like that when he and I were such old chums. + +Outside I came across Jill. She was sitting all alone in the dark, +curled up on the edge of the verandah just where she could see into +the parlour through the big glass door. I sat down beside her, for I +wanted sympathy. + +"Dick's in there talking to Aunt Tommy," I said. "I don't see what +makes him want to talk to her." + +"What a goose you are!" said Jill in that aggravatingly patronizing +way of hers. "Why, Dick has fallen in love with Aunt Tommy!" + +Honest, I jumped. I never was so surprised. + +"How do you know?" I asked. + +"Because I do," said Jill. "I knew it yesterday at church and I think +it is so romantic." + +"I don't see how you can tell," I said--and I didn't. + +"You'll understand better when you get older," said Jill. Sometimes +Jill talks as if she were a hundred years older than I am, instead of +being a twin. And really, sometimes I think she _is_ older. + +"I didn't think ministers ever fell in love," I protested. + +"Some do," said Jill sagely. "Mr. Grinnell wouldn't ever, I suppose. +But Dick is different. I'd like him for a husband myself. But he'd be +too old for me by the time I grew up, so I suppose I'll have to let +Aunt Tommy have him. It will be all in the family anyhow--that is one +comfort. I think Aunt Tommy ought to have me for a flower girl and +I'll wear pink silk clouded over with white chiffon and carry a big +bouquet of roses." + +"Jill, you take my breath away," I said, and she did. My imagination +couldn't travel as fast as that. But after I had thought the idea +over a bit I liked it. It was a good deal like a book; and, besides, a +minister is a respectable thing to have in a family. + +"We must help them all we can," said Jill. + +"What can we do?" I asked. + +"We must praise Dick to Aunt Tommy and Aunt Tommy to Dick and we must +keep out of the way--we mustn't ever hang around when they want to be +alone," said Jill. + +"I don't want to give up being chums with Dick," I grumbled. + +"We must be self-sacrificing," said Jill. And that sounded so fine it +reconciled me to the attempt. + +We sat there and watched Dick and Aunt Tommy for an hour. I thought +they were awfully prim and stiff. If I'd been Dick I'd have gone over +and hugged her. I said so to Jill and Jill was shocked. She said it +wouldn't be proper when they weren't even engaged. + +When Dick went away Aunt Tommy came out to the verandah and discovered +us. She sat down between us and put her arms about us. Aunt Tommy has +such cute ways. + +"I like your minister very much," she said. + +"He's bully," I said. + +"He's as handsome as a prince," Jill said. + +"He preaches splendid sermons--he makes people sit up in church, I can +tell you," I said. + +"He has a heavenly tenor voice," Jill said. + +"He's got a magnificent muscle," I said. + +"He has the most poetical eyes," Jill said. + +"He swims like a duck," I said. + +"He looks just like a Greek god," Jill said. + +I'm sure Jill couldn't have known what a Greek god looked like, but I +suppose she got the comparison out of some novel. Jill is always +reading novels. She borrows them from the cook. + +Aunt Tommy laughed and said, "You darlings." + +For the next three months Jill and I were wild. It was just like +reading a serial story to watch Dick and Aunt Tommy. One day when Dick +came Aunt Tommy wasn't quite ready to come down, so Jill and I went in +to the parlour to help things along. We knew we hadn't much time, so +we began right off. + +"Aunt Tommy is the jolliest girl I know," I said. + +"She is as beautiful as a dream," Jill said. + +"She can play games as good as a boy," I said. + +"She does the most elegant fancy work," Jill said. + +"She never gets mad," I said. + +"She plays and sings divinely," Jill said. + +"She can cook awfully good things," I said, for I was beginning to run +short of compliments. Jill was horrified; she said afterwards that it +wasn't a bit romantic. But I don't care--I believe Dick liked it, for +he smiled with his eyes I just as he always does when he's pleased. +Girls don't understand everything. + + * * * * * + +But at the end of three months we began to get anxious. Things were +going so slow. Dick and Aunt Tommy didn't seem a bit further ahead +than at first. Jill said it was because Aunt Tommy didn't encourage +Dick enough. + +"I do wish we could hurry them up a little," she said. "At this rate +they will never be married this year and by next I'll be too big to be +a flower girl. I'm stretching out horribly as it is. Mother has had to +let down my frocks again." + +"I wish they would get engaged and have done with it," I said. "My +mind would be at rest then. It's all Dick's fault. Why doesn't he ask +Aunt Tommy to marry him? What's making him so slow about it? If I +wanted a girl to marry me--but I wouldn't ever--I'd tell her so right +spang off." + +"I suppose ministers have to be more dignified," said Jill, "but three +months ought to be enough time for anyone. And Aunt Tommy is only +going to be here another month. If Dick could be made a little +jealous it would hurry him up. And he could be made jealous if you had +any spunk about you." + +"I guess I've got more spunk than you have," I said. + +"The trouble with Dick is this," said Jill. "There is nobody else +coming to see Aunt Tommy and he thinks he is sure of her. If you could +tell him something different it would stir him up." + +"Are you sure it would?" I asked. + +"It always does in novels," said Jill. And that settled it, of course. + +Jill and I fixed up what I was to say and Jill made me say it over and +over again to be sure I had it right. I told her--sarcastically--that +she'd better say it herself and then it would be done properly. Jill +said she would if it were Aunt Tommy, but when it was Dick it was +better for a man to do it. So of course I agreed. + +I didn't know when I would have a chance to stir Dick up, but +Providence--so Jill said--favoured us. Aunt Tommy didn't expect Dick +down the next night, so she and Father and Mother all went away +somewhere. Dick came after all, and Jill sent me into the parlour to +tell him. He was standing before the mantel looking at Aunt Tommy's +picture. There was such an adoring look in his eyes. I could see it +quite plain in the mirror before him. I practised that look a lot +before my own glass after that--because I thought it might come in +handy some time, you know--but I guess I couldn't have got it just +right because when I tried it on Jill she asked me if I had a pain. + +"Well, Jack, old man," said Dick, sitting down on the sofa. I sat down +before him. + +"Aunt Tommy is out," I said, to get the worst over. "I guess you like +Aunt Tommy pretty well, don't you, Mr. Richmond?" + +"Yes," said Dick softly. + +"So do other men," I said--mysterious, as Jill had ordered me. + +Dick thumped one of the sofa pillows. + +"Yes, I suppose so," he said. + +"There's a man in New York who just worships Aunt Tommy," I said. "He +writes her most every day and sends her books and music and elegant +presents. I guess she's pretty fond of him too. She keeps his +photograph on her bedroom table and I've seen her kissing it." + +I stopped there, not because I had said all I had to say, but because +Dick's face scared me--honest, it did. It had all gone white, like it +does in the pulpit sometimes when he is tremendously in earnest, only +ten times worse. But all he said was, + +"Is your Aunt Bertha engaged to this--this man?" + +"Not exactly engaged," I said, "but I guess anybody else who wants to +marry her will have to reckon with him." + +Dick got up. + +"I think I won't wait this evening," he said. + +"I wish you'd stay and have a talk with me," I said. "I haven't had a +talk with you for ages and I have a million things to tell you." + +Dick smiled as if it hurt him to smile. + +"I can't tonight, Jacky. Some other time we'll have a good powwow, old +chap." + +He took his hat and went out. Then Jill came flying in to hear all +about it. I told her as well as I could, but she wasn't satisfied. If +Dick took it so quietly, she declared, I couldn't have made it strong +enough. + +"If you had seen Dick's face," I said, "you would have thought I made +it plenty strong. And I'd like to know what Aunt Tommy will say to all +this when she finds out." + +"Well, you didn't tell a thing but what was true," said Jill. + +The next evening was Dick's regular night for coming, but he didn't +come, although Jill and I went down the lane a dozen times to watch +for him. The night after that was prayer-meeting night. Dick had +always walked home with Aunt Tommy and us, but that night he didn't. +He only just bowed and smiled as he passed us in the porch. Aunt Tommy +hardly spoke all the way home, only just held tight to Jill's and my +hands. But after we got home she seemed in great spirits and laughed +and chatted with Father and Mother. + +"What does this mean?" asked Jill, grabbing me in the hall on our way +to bed. + +"You'd better get another novel from the cook and find out," I said +grouchily. I was disgusted with things in general and Dick in +particular. + +The three weeks that followed were awful. Dick never came near +Owlwood. Jill and I fought every day, we were so cross and +disappointed. Nothing had come out right, and Jill blamed it all on +me. She said I must have made it too strong. There was no fun in +anything, not even in going to church. Dick hardly thumped the pulpit +at all and when he did it was only a measly little thump. But Aunt +Tommy didn't seem to worry any. She sang and laughed and joked from +morning to night. + +"She doesn't mind Dick's making an ass of himself, anyway, that's one +consolation," I said to Jill. + +"She is breaking her heart about it," said Jill, "and that's your +consolation!" + +"I don't believe it," I said. "What makes you think so?" + +"She cries every night," said Jill. "I can tell by the look of her +eyes in the morning." + +"She doesn't look half as woebegone over it as you do," I said. + +"If I had her reason for looking woebegone I wouldn't look it either," +said Jill. + +I asked her to explain her meaning, but she only said that little boys +couldn't understand those things. + +Things went on like this for another week. Then they reached--so Jill +says--a climax. If Jill knows what that means I don't. But Pinky +Carewe was the climax. Pinky's name is James, but Jill and I always +called him Pinky because we couldn't bear him. He took to calling at +Owlwood and one evening he took Aunt Tommy out driving. Then Jill came +to me. + +"Something has got to be done," she said resolutely. "I am not going +to have Pinky Carewe for an Uncle Tommy and that is all there is about +it. You must go straight to Dick and tell him the truth about the New +York man." + +I looked at Jill to see if she were in earnest. When I saw that she +was I said, "I wouldn't take all the gems of Golconda and go and tell +Dick that I'd been hoaxing him. You can do it yourself, Jill Gordon." + +"You didn't tell him anything that wasn't true," said Jill. + +"I don't know how a minister might look upon it," I said. "Anyway, I +won't go." + +"Then I suppose I've got to," said Jill very dolefully. + +"Yes, you'll have to," I said. + +And this finishes my part of the story, and Jill is going to tell the +rest. But you needn't believe everything she says about me in it. + + +_Jill's Side of It_ + +Jacky has made a fearful muddle of his part, but I suppose I shall +just have to let it go. You couldn't expect much better of a boy. But +I am determined to re-describe Aunt Tommy, for the way Jacky has done +it is just disgraceful. I know exactly how to do it, the way it is +always done in stories. + +Aunt Tommy is divinely beautiful. Her magnificent wealth of burnished +auburn hair flows back in amethystine waves from her sun-kissed brow. +Her eyes are gloriously dark and deep, like midnight lakes mirroring +the stars of heaven; her features are like sculptured marble and her +mouth is like a trembling, curving Cupid's bow (this is a classical +allusion) luscious and glowing as a dewy rose. Her creamy skin is as +fair and flawless as the inner petals of a white lily. (She may have a +weeny teeny freckle or two in summer, but you'd never notice.) Her +slender form is matchless in its symmetry and her voice is like the +ripple of a woodland brook. + +There, I'm sure that's ever so much better than Jacky's description, +and now I can proceed with a clear conscience. + +Well, I didn't like the idea of going and explaining to Dick very +much, but it had to be done unless I wanted to run the risk of having +Pinky Carewe in the family. So I went the next morning. + +I put on my very prettiest pink organdie dress and did my hair the new +way, which is very becoming to me. When you are going to have an +important interview with a man it is always well to look your very +best. I put on my big hat with the wreath of pink roses that Aunt +Tommy had brought me from New York and took my spandy ruffled parasol. + +"With your shield or upon it, Jill," said Jacky when I started. (This +is another classical allusion.) + +I went straight up the hill and down the road to the manse where Dick +lived with his old housekeeper, Mrs. Dodge. She came to the door when +I knocked and I said, very politely, "Can I see the Reverend Stephen +Richmond, if you please?" + +Mrs. Dodge went upstairs and came right back saying would I please go +up to the study. Up I went, my heart in my mouth, I can tell you, and +there was Dick among his books, looking so pale and sorrowful and +interesting, for all the world like Lord Algernon Francis in the +splendid serial in the paper cook took. There was a Madonna on his +desk that looked just like Aunt Tommy. + +"Good evening, Miss Elizabeth," said Dick, just as if I were grown up, +you know. "Won't you sit down? Try that green velvet chair. I am sure +it was created for a pink dress and unfortunately neither Mrs. Dodge +nor I possess one. How are all your people?" + +"We are all pretty well; thank you," I said, "except Aunt Tommy. +She--" I was going to say, "She cries every night after she goes to +bed," but I remembered just in time that if I were in Aunt Tommy's +place I wouldn't want a man to know I cried about him even if I did. +So I said instead "--she has got a cold." + +"Ah, indeed, I am sorry to hear it," said Dick, politely but coldly, +as if it were part of his duty as a minister to be sorry for anybody +who had a cold, but as if, apart from that, it was not a concern of +his if Aunt Tommy had galloping consumption. + +"And Jack and I are terribly harrowed up in our minds," I went on. +"That is what I've come up to see you about." + +"Well, tell me all about it," said Dick. + +"I'm afraid to," I said. "I know you'll be cross even if you are a +minister. It's about what Jack told you about that man in New York and +Aunt Tommy." + +Dick turned as red as fire. + +"I'd rather not discuss your Aunt Bertha's affairs," he said stiffly. + +"You must hear this," I cried, feeling thankful that Jacky hadn't come +after all, for he'd never have got any further ahead after that snub. +"It's all a mistake. There is a man in New York and he just worships +Aunt Tommy and she just adores him. But he's seventy years old and +he's her Uncle Matthew who brought her up ever since her father died +and you've heard her talking about him a hundred times. That's all, +cross my heart solemn and true." + +You never saw anything like Dick's face when I stopped. It looked just +like a sunrise. But he said slowly, "Why did Jacky tell me such +a--tell me it in such a way?" + +"We wanted to make you jealous," I said. "I put Jacky up to it." + +"I didn't think it was in either of you to do such a thing," said Dick +reproachfully. + +"Oh, Dick," I cried--fancy my calling him Dick right to his face! +Jacky will never believe I really did it. He says I would never have +dared. But it wasn't daring at all, it was just forgetting. "Oh, Dick, +we didn't mean any harm. We thought you weren't getting on fast enough +and we wanted to stir you up like they do in books. We thought if we +made you jealous it would work all right. We didn't mean any harm. Oh, +please forgive us!" + +I was just ready to cry. But that dear Dick leaned over the table and +patted my hand. + +"There, there, it's all right. I understand and of course I forgive +you. Don't cry, sweetheart." + +The way Dick said "sweetheart" was perfectly lovely. I envied Aunt +Tommy, and I wanted to keep on crying so that he would go on +comforting me. + +"And you'll come back to see Aunt Tommy again?" I said. + +Dick's face clouded over; he got up and walked around the room several +times before he said a word. Then he came and sat down beside me and +explained it all to me, just as if I were grown up. + +"Sweetheart, we'll talk this all out. You see, it is this way. Your +Aunt Bertha is the sweetest woman in the world. But I'm only a poor +minister and I have no right to ask her to share my life of hard work +and self-denial. And even if I dared I know she wouldn't do it. She +doesn't care anything for me except as a friend. I never meant to tell +her I cared for her but I couldn't help going to Owlwood, even though +I knew it was a weakness on my part. So now that I'm out of the habit +of going I think it would be wisest to stay out. It hurts dreadfully, +but it would hurt worse after a while. Don't you agree with me, Miss +Elizabeth?" + +I thought hard and fast. If I were in Aunt Tommy's place I mightn't +want a man to know I cried about him, but I was quite sure I'd rather +have him know than have him stay away because he didn't know. So I +spoke right up. + +"No, I don't, Mr. Richmond; Aunt Tommy does care--you just ask her. +She cries every blessed night because you never come to Owlwood." + +"Oh, Elizabeth!" said Dick. + +He got up and stalked about the room again. + +"You'll come back?" I said. + +"Yes," he answered. + +I drew a long breath. It was such a responsibility off my mind. + +"Then you'd better come down with me right off," I said, "for Pinky +Carewe had her out driving last night and I want a stop put to that as +soon as possible. Even if he is rich he's a perfect pig." + +Dick got his hat and came. We walked up the road in lovely creamy +yellow twilight and I was, oh, so happy. + +"Isn't it just like a novel?" I said. + +"I am afraid, Elizabeth," said Dick preachily, "that you read too many +novels, and not the right kind, either. Some of these days I am going +to ask you to promise me that you will read no more books except those +your mother and I pick out for you." + +You don't know how squelched I felt. And I knew I would have to +promise, too, for Dick can make me do anything he likes. + +When we got to Owlwood I left Dick in the parlour and flew up to Aunt +Tommy's room. I found her all scrunched up on her bed in the dark with +her face in the pillows. + +"Aunt Tommy, Dick is down in the parlour and he wants to see you," I +said. + +Didn't Aunt Tommy fly up, though! + +"Oh, Jill--but I'm not fit to be seen--tell him I'll be down in a few +minutes." + +I knew Aunt Tommy wanted to fix her hair and dab rose-water on her +eyes, so I trotted meekly down and told Dick. Then I flew out to Jacky +and dragged him around to the glass door. It was all hung over with +vines and a wee bit ajar so that we could see and hear everything that +went on. + +Jacky said it was only sneaks that listened--but he didn't say it +until next day. At the time he listened just as hard as I did. I +didn't care if it was mean. I just had to listen. I was perfectly wild +to hear how a man would propose and how a girl would accept and it was +too good a chance to lose. + +Presently in sweeps Aunt Tommy, in an elegant dress, not a hair out of +place. She looked perfectly sweet, only her nose was a little red. +Dick looked at her for just a moment, then he stepped forward and took +her right into his arms. + +Aunt Tommy drew back her head for just a second as if she were going +to crush him in the dust, and then she just all kind of crumpled up +and her face went down on his shoulder. + +"Oh--Bertha--I--love--you--I--love you," he said, just like that, all +quick and jerky. + +"You--you have taken a queer way of showing it," said Aunt Tommy, all +muffled. + +"I--I--was led to believe that there was another man--whom you cared +for--and I thought you were only trifling with me. So I sulked like a +jealous fool. Bertha, darling, you do love me a little, don't you?" + +Aunt Tommy lifted her head and stuck up her mouth and he kissed her. +And there it was, all over, and they were engaged as quick as that, +mind you. He didn't even go down on his knees. There was nothing +romantic about it and I was never so disgusted in my life. When I grow +up and anybody proposes to me he will have to be a good deal more +flowery and eloquent than that, I can tell you, if he wants me to +listen to him. + +I left Jacky peeking still and I went to bed. After a long time Aunt +Tommy came up to my room and sat down on my bed in the moonlight. + +"You dear blessed Elizabeth!" she said. + +"It's all right then, is it?" I asked. + +"Yes, it is all right, thanks to you, dearie. We are to be married in +October and somebody must be my little flower girl." + +"I think Dick will make a splendid husband," I said. "But Aunt Tommy, +you mustn't be too hard on Jacky. He only wanted to help things along, +and it was I who put him up it in the first place." + +"You have atoned by going and confessing," said Aunt Tommy with a hug, +"Jacky had no business to put that off on you. I'll forgive him, of +course, but I'll punish him by not letting him know that I will for a +little while. Then I'll ask him to be a page at my wedding." + +Well, the wedding came off last week. It was a perfectly gorgeous +affair. Aunt Tommy's dress was a dream--and so was mine, all pink silk +and chiffon and carnations. Jacky made a magnificent page too, in a +suit of white velvet. The wedding cake was four stories high, and Dick +looked perfectly handsome. He kissed me too, right after he kissed +Aunt Tommy. + +So everything turned out all right, and I believe Dick would never +have dared to speak up if we hadn't helped things along. But Jacky and +I have decided that we will never meddle in an affair of the kind +again. It is too hard on the nerves. + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Lucy Maud Montgomery Short Stories, +1905 to 1906, by Lucy Maud Montgomery + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MONTGOMERY SHORT STORIES *** + +***** This file should be named 24876.txt or 24876.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/8/7/24876/ + +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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