summaryrefslogtreecommitdiff
path: root/old/7502-h.htm.2021-01-26
blob: f45a8dd52ec919623baa9a05b476dbd65c9fa0f1 (plain) 
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516
517
518
519
520
521
522
523
524
525
526
527
528
529
530
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571
572
573
574
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598
599
600
601
602
603
604
605
606
607
608
609
610
611
612
613
614
615
616
617
618
619
620
621
622
623
624
625
626
627
628
629
630
631
632
633
634
635
636
637
638
639
640
641
642
643
644
645
646
647
648
649
650
651
652
653
654
655
656
657
658
659
660
661
662
663
664
665
666
667
668
669
670
671
672
673
674
675
676
677
678
679
680
681
682
683
684
685
686
687
688
689
690
691
692
693
694
695
696
697
698
699
700
701
702
703
704
705
706
707
708
709
710
711
712
713
714
715
716
717
718
719
720
721
722
723
724
725
726
727
728
729
730
731
732
733
734
735
736
737
738
739
740
741
742
743
744
745
746
747
748
749
750
751
752
753
754
755
756
757
758
759
760
761
762
763
764
765
766
767
768
769
770
771
772
773
774
775
776
777
778
779
780
781
782
783
784
785
786
787
788
789
790
791
792
793
794
795
796
797
798
799
800
801
802
803
804
805
806
807
808
809
810
811
812
813
814
815
816
817
818
819
820
821
822
823
824
825
826
827
828
829
830
831
832
833
834
835
836
837
838
839
840
841
842
843
844
845
846
847
848
849
850
851
852
853
854
855
856
857
858
859
860
861
862
863
864
865
866
867
868
869
870
871
872
873
874
875
876
877
878
879
880
881
882
883
884
885
886
887
888
889
890
891
892
893
894
895
896
897
898
899
900
901
902
903
904
905
906
907
908
909
910
911
912
913
914
915
916
917
918
919
920
921
922
923
924
925
926
927
928
929
930
931
932
933
934
935
936
937
938
939
940
941
942
943
944
945
946
947
948
949
950
951
952
953
954
955
956
957
958
959
960
961
962
963
964
965
966
967
968
969
970
971
972
973
974
975
976
977
978
979
980
981
982
983
984
985
986
987
988
989
990
991
992
993
994
995
996
997
998
999
1000
1001
1002
1003
1004
1005
1006
1007
1008
1009
1010
1011
1012
1013
1014
1015
1016
1017
1018
1019
1020
1021
1022
1023
1024
1025
1026
1027
1028
1029
1030
1031
1032
1033
1034
1035
1036
1037
1038
1039
1040
1041
1042
1043
1044
1045
1046
1047
1048
1049
1050
1051
1052
1053
1054
1055
1056
1057
1058
1059
1060
1061
1062
1063
1064
1065
1066
1067
1068
1069
1070
1071
1072
1073
1074
1075
1076
1077
1078
1079
1080
1081
1082
1083
1084
1085
1086
1087
1088
1089
1090
1091
1092
1093
1094
1095
1096
1097
1098
1099
1100
1101
1102
1103
1104
1105
1106
1107
1108
1109
1110
1111
1112
1113
1114
1115
1116
1117
1118
1119
1120
1121
1122
1123
1124
1125
1126
1127
1128
1129
1130
1131
1132
1133
1134
1135
1136
1137
1138
1139
1140
1141
1142
1143
1144
1145
1146
1147
1148
1149
1150
1151
1152
1153
1154
1155
1156
1157
1158
1159
1160
1161
1162
1163
1164
1165
1166
1167
1168
1169
1170
1171
1172
1173
1174
1175
1176
1177
1178
1179
1180
1181
1182
1183
1184
1185
1186
1187
1188
1189
1190
1191
1192
1193
1194
1195
1196
1197
1198
1199
1200
1201
1202
1203
1204
1205
1206
1207
1208
1209
1210
1211
1212
1213
1214
1215
1216
1217
1218
1219
1220
1221
1222
1223
1224
1225
1226
1227
1228
1229
1230
1231
1232
1233
1234
1235
1236
1237
1238
1239
1240
1241
1242
1243
1244
1245
1246
1247
1248
1249
1250
1251
1252
1253
1254
1255
1256
1257
1258
1259
1260
1261
1262
1263
1264
1265
1266
1267
1268
1269
1270
1271
1272
1273
1274
1275
1276
1277
1278
1279
1280
1281
1282
1283
1284
1285
1286
1287
1288
1289
1290
1291
1292
1293
1294
1295
1296
1297
1298
1299
1300
1301
1302
1303
1304
1305
1306
1307
1308
1309
1310
1311
1312
1313
1314
1315
1316
1317
1318
1319
1320
1321
1322
1323
1324
1325
1326
1327
1328
1329
1330
1331
1332
1333
1334
1335
1336
1337
1338
1339
1340
1341
1342
1343
1344
1345
1346
1347
1348
1349
1350
1351
1352
1353
1354
1355
1356
1357
1358
1359
1360
1361
1362
1363
1364
1365
1366
1367
1368
1369
1370
1371
1372
1373
1374
1375
1376
1377
1378
1379
1380
1381
1382
1383
1384
1385
1386
1387
1388
1389
1390
1391
1392
1393
1394
1395
1396
1397
1398
1399
1400
1401
1402
1403
1404
1405
1406
1407
1408
1409
1410
1411
1412
1413
1414
1415
1416
1417
1418
1419
1420
1421
1422
1423
1424
1425
1426
1427
1428
1429
1430
1431
1432
1433
1434
1435
1436
1437
1438
1439
1440
1441
1442
1443
1444
1445
1446
1447
1448
1449
1450
1451
1452
1453
1454
1455
1456
1457
1458
1459
1460
1461
1462
1463
1464
1465
1466
1467
1468
1469
1470
1471
1472
1473
1474
1475
1476
1477
1478
1479
1480
1481
1482
1483
1484
1485
1486
1487
1488
1489
1490
1491
1492
1493
1494
1495
1496
1497
1498
1499
1500
1501
1502
1503
1504
1505
1506
1507
1508
1509
1510
1511
1512
1513
1514
1515
1516
1517
1518
1519
1520
1521
1522
1523
1524
1525
1526
1527
1528
1529
1530
1531
1532
1533
1534
1535
1536
1537
1538
1539
1540
1541
1542
1543
1544
1545
1546
1547
1548
1549
1550
1551
1552
1553
1554
1555
1556
1557
1558
1559
1560
1561
1562
1563
1564
1565
1566
1567
1568
1569
1570
1571
1572
1573
1574
1575
1576
1577
1578
1579
1580
1581
1582
1583
1584
1585
1586
1587
1588
1589
1590
1591
1592
1593
1594
1595
1596
1597
1598
1599
1600
1601
1602
1603
1604
1605
1606
1607
1608
1609
1610
1611
1612
1613
1614
1615
1616
1617
1618
1619
1620
1621
1622
1623
1624
1625
1626
1627
1628
1629
1630
1631
1632
1633
1634
1635
1636
1637
1638
1639
1640
1641
1642
1643
1644
1645
1646
1647
1648
1649
1650
1651
1652
1653
1654
1655
1656
1657
1658
1659
1660
1661
1662
1663
1664
1665
1666
1667
1668
1669
1670
1671
1672
1673
1674
1675
1676
1677
1678
1679
1680
1681
1682
1683
1684
1685
1686
1687
1688
1689
1690
1691
1692
1693
1694
1695
1696
1697
1698
1699
1700
1701
1702
1703
1704
1705
1706
1707
1708
1709
1710
1711
1712
1713
1714
1715
1716
1717
1718
1719
1720
1721
1722
1723
1724
1725
1726
1727
1728
1729
1730
1731
1732
1733
1734
1735
1736
1737
1738
1739
1740
1741
1742
1743
1744
1745
1746
1747
1748
1749
1750
1751
1752
1753
1754
1755
1756
1757
1758
1759
1760
1761
1762
1763
1764
1765
1766
1767
1768
1769
1770
1771
1772
1773
1774
1775
1776
1777
1778
1779
1780
1781
1782
1783
1784
1785
1786
1787
1788
1789
1790
1791
1792
1793
1794
1795
1796
1797
1798
1799
1800
1801
1802
1803
1804
1805
1806
1807
1808
1809
1810
1811
1812
1813
1814
1815
1816
1817
1818
1819
1820
1821
1822
1823
1824
1825
1826
1827
1828
1829
1830
1831
1832
1833
1834
1835
1836
1837
1838
1839
1840
1841
1842
1843
1844
1845
1846
1847
1848
1849
1850
1851
1852
1853
1854
1855
1856
1857
1858
1859
1860
1861
1862
1863
1864
1865
1866
1867
1868
1869
1870
1871
1872
1873
1874
1875
1876
1877
1878
1879
1880
1881
1882
1883
1884
1885
1886
1887
1888
1889
1890
1891
1892
1893
1894
1895
1896
1897
1898
1899
1900
1901
1902
1903
1904
1905
1906
1907
1908
1909
1910
1911
1912
1913
1914
1915
1916
1917
1918
1919
1920
1921
1922
1923
1924
1925
1926
1927
1928
1929
1930
1931
1932
1933
1934
1935
1936
1937
1938
1939
1940
1941
1942
1943
1944
1945
1946
1947
1948
1949
1950
1951
1952
1953
1954
1955
1956
1957
1958
1959
1960
1961
1962
1963
1964
1965
1966
1967
1968
1969
1970
1971
1972
1973
1974
1975
1976
1977
1978
1979
1980
1981
1982
1983
1984
1985
1986
1987
1988
1989
1990
1991
1992
1993
1994
1995
1996
1997
1998
1999
2000
2001
2002
2003
2004
2005
2006
2007
2008
2009
2010
2011
2012
2013
2014
2015
2016
2017
2018
2019
2020
2021
2022
2023
2024
2025
2026
2027
2028
2029
2030
2031
2032
2033
2034
2035
2036
2037
2038
2039
2040
2041
2042
2043
2044
2045
2046
2047
2048
2049
2050
2051
2052
2053
2054
2055
2056
2057
2058
2059
2060
2061
2062
2063
2064
2065
2066
2067
2068
2069
2070
2071
2072
2073
2074
2075
2076
2077
2078
2079
2080
2081
2082
2083
2084
2085
2086
2087
2088
2089
2090
2091
2092
2093
2094
2095
2096
2097
2098
2099
2100
2101
2102
2103
2104
2105
2106
2107
2108
2109
2110
2111
2112
2113
2114
2115
2116
2117
2118
2119
2120
2121
2122
2123
2124
2125
2126
2127
2128
2129
2130
2131
2132
2133
2134
2135
2136
2137
2138
2139
2140
2141
2142
2143
2144
2145
2146
2147
2148
2149
2150
2151
2152
2153
2154
2155
2156
2157
2158
2159
2160
2161
2162
2163
2164
2165
2166
2167
2168
2169
2170
2171
2172
2173
2174
2175
2176
2177
2178
2179
2180
2181
2182
2183
2184
2185
2186
2187
2188
2189
2190
2191
2192
2193
2194
2195
2196
2197
2198
2199
2200
2201
2202
2203
2204
2205
2206
2207
2208
2209
2210
2211
2212
2213
2214
2215
2216
2217
2218
2219
2220
2221
2222
2223
2224
2225
2226
2227
2228
2229
2230
2231
2232
2233
2234
2235
2236
2237
2238
2239
2240
2241
2242
2243
2244
2245
2246
2247
2248
2249
2250
2251
2252
2253
2254
2255
2256
2257
2258
2259
2260
2261
2262
2263
2264
2265
2266
2267
2268
2269
2270
2271
2272
2273
2274
2275
2276
2277
2278
2279
2280
2281
2282
2283
2284
2285
2286
2287
2288
2289
2290
2291
2292
2293
2294
2295
2296
2297
2298
2299
2300
2301
2302
2303
2304
2305
2306
2307
2308
2309
2310
2311
2312
2313
2314
2315
2316
2317
2318
2319
2320
2321
2322
2323
2324
2325
2326
2327
2328
2329
2330
2331
2332
2333
2334
2335
2336
2337
2338
2339
2340
2341
2342
2343
2344
2345
2346
2347
2348
2349
2350
2351
2352
2353
2354
2355
2356
2357
2358
2359
2360
2361
2362
2363
2364
2365
2366
2367
2368
2369
2370
2371
2372
2373
2374
2375
2376
2377
2378
2379
2380
2381
2382
2383
2384
2385
2386
2387
2388
2389
2390
2391
2392
2393
2394
2395
2396
2397
2398
2399
2400
2401
2402
2403
2404
2405
2406
2407
2408
2409
2410
2411
2412
2413
2414
2415
2416
2417
2418
2419
2420
2421
2422
2423
2424
2425
2426
2427
2428
2429
2430
2431
2432
2433
2434
2435
2436
2437
2438
2439
2440
2441
2442
2443
2444
2445
2446
2447
2448
2449
2450
2451
2452
2453
2454
2455
2456
2457
2458
2459
2460
2461
2462
2463
2464
2465
2466
2467
2468
2469
2470
2471
2472
2473
2474
2475
2476
2477
2478
2479
2480
2481
2482
2483
2484
2485
2486
2487
2488
2489
2490
2491
2492
2493
2494
2495
2496
2497
2498
2499
2500
2501
2502
2503
2504
2505
2506
2507
2508
2509
2510
2511
2512
2513
2514
2515
2516
2517
2518
2519
2520
2521
2522
2523
2524
2525
2526
2527
2528
2529
2530
2531
2532
2533
2534
2535
2536
2537
2538
2539
2540
2541
2542
2543
2544
2545
2546
2547
2548
2549
2550
2551
2552
2553
2554
2555
2556
2557
2558
2559
2560
2561
2562
2563
2564
2565
2566
2567
2568
2569
2570
2571
2572
2573
2574
2575
2576
2577
2578
2579
2580
2581
2582
2583
2584
2585
2586
2587
2588
2589
2590
2591
2592
2593
2594
2595
2596
2597
2598
2599
2600
2601
2602
2603
2604
2605
2606
2607
2608
2609
2610
2611
2612
2613
2614
2615
2616
2617
2618
2619
2620
2621
2622
2623
2624
2625
2626
2627
2628
2629
2630
2631
2632
2633
2634
2635
2636
2637
2638
2639
2640
2641
2642
2643
2644
2645
2646
2647
2648
2649
2650
2651
2652
2653
2654
2655
2656
2657
2658
2659
2660
2661
2662
2663
2664
2665
2666
2667
2668
2669
2670
2671
2672
2673
2674
2675
2676
2677
2678
2679
2680
2681
2682
2683
2684
2685
2686
2687
2688
2689
2690
2691
2692
2693
2694
2695
2696
2697
2698
2699
2700
2701
2702
2703
2704
2705
2706
2707
2708
2709
2710
2711
2712
2713
2714
2715
2716
2717
2718
2719
2720
2721
2722
2723
2724
2725
2726
2727
2728
2729
2730
2731
2732
2733
2734
2735
2736
2737
2738
2739
2740
2741
2742
2743
2744
2745
2746
2747
2748
2749
2750
2751
2752
2753
2754
2755
2756
2757
2758
2759
2760
2761
2762
2763
2764
2765
2766
2767
2768
2769
2770
2771
2772
2773
2774
2775
2776
2777
2778
2779
2780
2781
2782
2783
2784
2785
2786
2787
2788
2789
2790
2791
2792
2793
2794
2795
2796
2797
2798
2799
2800
2801
2802
2803
2804
2805
2806
2807
2808
2809
2810
2811
2812
2813
2814
2815
2816
2817
2818
2819
2820
2821
2822
2823
2824
2825
2826
2827
2828
2829
2830
2831
2832
2833
2834
2835
2836
2837
2838
2839
2840
2841
2842
2843
2844
2845
2846
2847
2848
2849
2850
2851
2852
2853
2854
2855
2856
2857
2858
2859
2860
2861
2862
2863
2864
2865
2866
2867
2868
2869
2870
2871
2872
2873
2874
2875
2876
2877
2878
2879
2880
2881
2882
2883
2884
2885
2886
2887
2888
2889
2890
2891
2892
2893
2894
2895
2896
2897
2898
2899
2900
2901
2902
2903
2904
2905
2906
2907
2908
2909
2910
2911
2912
2913
2914
2915
2916
2917
2918
2919
2920
2921
2922
2923
2924
2925
2926
2927
2928
2929
2930
2931
2932
2933
2934
2935
2936
2937
2938
2939
2940
2941
2942
2943
2944
2945
2946
2947
2948
2949
2950
2951
2952
2953
2954
2955
2956
2957
2958
2959
2960
2961
2962
2963
2964
2965
2966
2967
2968
2969
2970
2971
2972
2973
2974
2975
2976
2977
2978
2979
2980
2981
2982
2983
2984
2985
2986
2987
2988
2989
2990
2991
2992
2993
2994
2995
2996
2997
2998
2999
3000
3001
3002
3003
3004
3005
3006
3007
3008
3009
3010
3011
3012
3013
3014
3015
3016
3017
3018
3019
3020
3021
3022
3023
3024
3025
3026
3027
3028
3029
3030
3031
3032
3033
3034
3035
3036
3037
3038
3039
3040
3041
3042
3043
3044
3045
3046
3047
3048
3049
3050
3051
3052
3053
3054
3055
3056
3057
3058
3059
3060
3061
3062
3063
3064
3065
3066
3067
3068
3069
3070
3071
3072
3073
3074
3075
3076
3077
3078
3079
3080
3081
3082
3083
3084
3085
3086
3087
3088
3089
3090
3091
3092
3093
3094
3095
3096
3097
3098
3099
3100
3101
3102
3103
3104
3105
3106
3107
3108
3109
3110
3111
3112
3113
3114
3115
3116
3117
3118
3119
3120
3121
3122
3123
3124
3125
3126
3127
3128
3129
3130
3131
3132
3133
3134
3135
3136
3137
3138
3139
3140
3141
3142
3143
3144
3145
3146
3147
3148
3149
3150
3151
3152
3153
3154
3155
3156
3157
3158
3159
3160
3161
3162
3163
3164
3165
3166
3167
3168
3169
3170
3171
3172
3173
3174
3175
3176
3177
3178
3179
3180
3181
3182
3183
3184
3185
3186
3187
3188
3189
3190
3191
3192
3193
3194
3195
3196
3197
3198
3199
3200
3201
3202
3203
3204
3205
3206
3207
3208
3209
3210
3211
3212
3213
3214
3215
3216
3217
3218
3219
3220
3221
3222
3223
3224
3225
3226
3227
3228
3229
3230
3231
3232
3233
3234
3235
3236
3237
3238
3239
3240
3241
3242
3243
3244
3245
3246
3247
3248
3249
3250
3251
3252
3253
3254
3255
3256
3257
3258
3259
3260
3261
3262
3263
3264
3265
3266
3267
3268
3269
3270
3271
3272
3273
3274
3275
3276
3277
3278
3279
3280
3281
3282
3283
3284
3285
3286
3287
3288
3289
3290
3291
3292
3293
3294
3295
3296
3297
3298
3299
3300
3301
3302
3303
3304
3305
3306
3307
3308
3309
3310
3311
3312
3313
3314
3315
3316
3317
3318
3319
3320
3321
3322
3323
3324
3325
3326
3327
3328
3329
3330
3331
3332
3333
3334
3335
3336
3337
3338
3339
3340
3341
3342
3343
3344
3345
3346
3347
3348
3349
3350
3351
3352
3353
3354
3355
3356
3357
3358
3359
3360
3361
3362
3363
3364
3365
3366
3367
3368
3369
3370
3371
3372
3373
3374
3375
3376
3377
3378
3379
3380
3381
3382
3383
3384
3385
3386
3387
3388
3389
3390
3391
3392
3393
3394
3395
3396
3397
3398
3399
3400
3401
3402
3403
3404
3405
3406
3407
3408
3409
3410
3411
3412
3413
3414
3415
3416
3417
3418
3419
3420
3421
3422
3423
3424
3425
3426
3427
3428
3429
3430
3431
3432
3433
3434
3435
3436
3437
3438
3439
3440
3441
3442
3443
3444
3445
3446
3447
3448
3449
3450
3451
3452
3453
3454
3455
3456
3457
3458
3459
3460
3461
3462
3463
3464
3465
3466
3467
3468
3469
3470
3471
3472
3473
3474
3475
3476
3477
3478
3479
3480
3481
3482
3483
3484
3485
3486
3487
3488
3489
3490
3491
3492
3493
3494
3495
3496
3497
3498
3499
3500
3501
3502
3503
3504
3505
3506
3507
3508
3509
3510
3511
3512
3513
3514
3515
3516
3517
3518
3519
3520
3521
3522
3523
3524
3525
3526
3527
3528
3529
3530
3531
3532
3533
3534
3535
3536
3537
3538
3539
3540
3541
3542
3543
3544
3545
3546
3547
3548
3549
3550
3551
3552
3553
3554
3555
3556
3557
3558
3559
3560
3561
3562
3563
3564
3565
3566
3567
3568
3569
3570
3571
3572
3573
3574
3575
3576
3577
3578
3579
3580
3581
3582
3583
3584
3585
3586
3587
3588
3589
3590
3591
3592
3593
3594
3595
3596
3597
3598
3599
3600
3601
3602
3603
3604
3605
3606
3607
3608
3609
3610
3611
3612
3613
3614
3615
3616
3617
3618
3619
3620
3621
3622
3623
3624
3625
3626
3627
3628
3629
3630
3631
3632
3633
3634
3635
3636
3637
3638
3639
3640
3641
3642
3643
3644
3645
3646
3647
3648
3649
3650
3651
3652
3653
3654
3655
3656
3657
3658
3659
3660
3661
3662
3663
3664
3665
3666
3667
3668
3669
3670
3671
3672
3673
3674
3675
3676
3677
3678
3679
3680
3681
3682
3683
3684
3685
3686
3687
3688
3689
3690
3691
3692
3693
3694
3695
3696
3697
3698
3699
3700
3701
3702
3703
3704
3705
3706
3707
3708
3709
3710
3711
3712
3713
3714
3715
3716
3717
3718
3719
3720
3721
3722
3723
3724
3725
3726
3727
3728
3729
3730
3731
3732
3733
3734
3735
3736
3737
3738
3739
3740
3741
3742
3743
3744
3745
3746
3747
3748
3749
3750
3751
3752
3753
3754
3755
3756
3757
3758
3759
3760
3761
3762
3763
3764
3765
3766
3767
3768
3769
3770
3771
3772
3773
3774
3775
3776
3777
3778
3779
3780
3781
3782
3783
3784
3785
3786
3787
3788
3789
3790
3791
3792
3793
3794
3795
3796
3797
3798
3799
3800
3801
3802
3803
3804
3805
3806
3807
3808
3809
3810
3811
3812
3813
3814
3815
3816
3817
3818
3819
3820
3821
3822
3823
3824
3825
3826
3827
3828
3829
3830
3831
3832
3833
3834
3835
3836
3837
3838
3839
3840
3841
3842
3843
3844
3845
3846
3847
3848
3849
3850
3851
3852
3853
3854
3855
3856
3857
3858
3859
3860
3861
3862
3863
3864
3865
3866
3867
3868
3869
3870
3871
3872
3873
3874
3875
3876
3877
3878
3879
3880
3881
3882
3883
3884
3885
3886
3887
3888
3889
3890
3891
3892
3893
3894
3895
3896
3897
3898
3899
3900
3901
3902
3903
3904
3905
3906
3907
3908
3909
3910
3911
3912
3913
3914
3915
3916
3917
3918
3919
3920
3921
3922
3923
3924
3925
3926
3927
3928
3929
3930
3931
3932
3933
3934
3935
3936
3937
3938
3939
3940
3941
3942
3943
3944
3945
3946
3947
3948
3949
3950
3951
3952
3953
3954
3955
3956
3957
3958
3959
3960
3961
3962
3963
3964
3965
3966
3967
3968
3969
3970
3971
3972
3973
3974
3975
3976
3977
3978
3979
3980
3981
3982
3983
3984
3985
3986
3987
3988
3989
3990
3991
3992
3993
3994
3995
3996
3997
3998
3999
4000
4001
4002
4003
4004
4005
4006
4007
4008
4009
4010
4011
4012
4013
4014
4015
4016
4017
4018
4019
4020
4021
4022
4023
4024
4025
4026
4027
4028
4029
4030
4031
4032
4033
4034
4035
4036
4037
4038
4039
4040
4041
4042
4043
4044
4045
4046
4047
4048
4049
4050
4051
4052
4053
4054
4055
4056
4057
4058
4059
4060
4061
4062
4063
4064
4065
4066
4067
4068
4069
4070
4071
4072
4073
4074
4075
4076
4077
4078
4079
4080
4081
4082
4083
4084
4085
4086
4087
4088
4089
4090
4091
4092
4093
4094
4095
4096
4097
4098
4099
4100
4101
4102
4103
4104
4105
4106
4107
4108
4109
4110
4111
4112
4113
4114
4115
4116
4117
4118
4119
4120
4121
4122
4123
4124
4125
4126
4127
4128
4129
4130
4131
4132
4133
4134
4135
4136
4137
4138
4139
4140
4141
4142
4143
4144
4145
4146
4147
4148
4149
4150
4151
4152
4153
4154
4155
4156
4157
4158
4159
4160
4161
4162
4163
4164
4165
4166
4167
4168
4169
4170
4171
4172
4173
4174
4175
4176
4177
4178
4179
4180
4181
4182
4183
4184
4185
4186
4187
4188
4189
4190
4191
4192
4193
4194
4195
4196
4197
4198
4199
4200
4201
4202
4203
4204
4205
4206
4207
4208
4209
4210
4211
4212
4213
4214
4215
4216
4217
4218
4219
4220
4221
4222
4223
4224
4225
4226
4227
4228
4229
4230
4231
4232
4233
4234
4235
4236
4237
4238
4239
4240
4241
4242
4243
4244
4245
4246
4247
4248
4249
4250
4251
4252
4253
4254
4255
4256
4257
4258
4259
4260
4261
4262
4263
4264
4265
4266
4267
4268
4269
4270
4271
4272
4273
4274
4275
4276
4277
4278
4279
4280
4281
4282
4283
4284
4285
4286
4287
4288
4289
4290
4291
4292
4293
4294
4295
4296
4297
4298
4299
4300
4301
4302
4303
4304
4305
4306
4307
4308
4309
4310
4311
4312
4313
4314
4315
4316
4317
4318
4319
4320
4321
4322
4323
4324
4325
4326
4327
4328
4329
4330
4331
4332
4333
4334
4335
4336
4337
4338
4339
4340
4341
4342
4343
4344
4345
4346
4347
4348
4349
4350
4351
4352
4353
4354
4355
4356
4357
4358
4359
4360
4361
4362
4363
4364
4365
4366
4367
4368
4369
4370
4371
4372
4373
4374
4375
4376
4377
4378
4379
4380
4381
4382
4383
4384
4385
4386
4387
4388
4389
4390
4391
4392
4393
4394
4395
4396
4397
4398
4399
4400
4401
4402
4403
4404
4405
4406
4407
4408
4409
4410
4411
4412
4413
4414
4415
4416
4417
4418
4419
4420
4421
4422
4423
4424
4425
4426
4427
4428
4429
4430
4431
4432
4433
4434
4435
4436
4437
4438
4439
4440
4441
4442
4443
4444
4445
4446
4447
4448
4449
4450
4451
4452
4453
4454
4455
4456
4457
4458
4459
4460
4461
4462
4463
4464
4465
4466
4467
4468
4469
4470
4471
4472
4473
4474
4475
4476
4477
4478
4479
4480
4481
4482
4483
4484
4485
4486
4487
4488
4489
4490
4491
4492
4493
4494
4495
4496
4497
4498
4499
4500
4501
4502
4503
4504
4505
4506
4507
4508
4509
4510
4511
4512
4513
4514
4515
4516
4517
4518
4519
4520
4521
4522
4523
4524
4525
4526
4527
4528
4529
4530
4531
4532
4533
4534
4535
4536
4537
4538
4539
4540
4541
4542
4543
4544
4545
4546
4547
4548
4549
4550
4551
4552
4553
4554
4555
4556
4557
4558
4559
4560
4561
4562
4563
4564
4565
4566
4567
4568
4569
4570
4571
4572
4573
4574
4575
4576
4577
4578
4579
4580
4581
4582
4583
4584
4585
4586
4587
4588
4589
4590
4591
4592
4593
4594
4595
4596
4597
4598
4599
4600
4601
4602
4603
4604
4605
4606
4607
4608
4609
4610
4611
4612
4613
4614
4615
4616
4617
4618
4619
4620
4621
4622
4623
4624
4625
4626
4627
4628
4629
4630
4631
4632
4633
4634
4635
4636
4637
4638
4639
4640
4641
4642
4643
4644
4645
4646
4647
4648
4649
4650
4651
4652
4653
4654
4655
4656
4657
4658
4659
4660
4661
4662
4663
4664
4665
4666
4667
4668
4669
4670
4671
4672
4673
4674
4675
4676
4677
4678
4679
4680
4681
4682
4683
4684
4685
4686
4687
4688
4689
4690
4691
4692
4693
4694
4695
4696
4697
4698
4699
4700
4701
4702
4703
4704
4705
4706
4707
4708
4709
4710
4711
4712
4713
4714
4715
4716
4717
4718
4719
4720
4721
4722
4723
4724
4725
4726
4727
4728
4729
4730
4731
4732
4733
4734
4735
4736
4737
4738
4739
4740
4741
4742
4743
4744
4745
4746
4747
4748
4749
4750
4751
4752
4753
4754
4755
4756
4757
4758
4759
4760
4761
4762
4763
4764
4765
4766
4767
4768
4769
4770
4771
4772
4773
4774
4775
4776
4777
4778
4779
4780
4781
4782
4783
4784
4785
4786
4787
4788
4789
4790
4791
4792
4793
4794
4795
4796
4797
4798
4799
4800
4801
4802
4803
4804
4805
4806
4807
4808
4809
4810
4811
4812
4813
4814
4815
4816
4817
4818
4819
4820
4821
4822
4823
4824
4825
4826
4827
4828
4829
4830
4831
4832
4833
4834
4835
4836
4837
4838
4839
4840
4841
4842
4843
4844
4845
4846
4847
4848
4849
4850
4851
4852
4853
4854
4855
4856
4857
4858
4859
4860
4861
4862
4863
4864
4865
4866
4867
4868
4869
4870
4871
4872
4873
4874
4875
4876
4877
4878
4879
4880
4881
4882
4883
4884
4885
4886
4887
4888
4889
4890
4891
4892
4893
4894
4895
4896
4897
4898
4899
4900
4901
4902
4903
4904
4905
4906
4907
4908
4909
4910
4911
4912
4913
4914
4915
4916
4917
4918
4919
4920
4921
4922
4923
4924
4925
4926
4927
4928
4929
4930
4931
4932
4933
4934
4935
4936
4937
4938
4939
4940
4941
4942
4943
4944
4945
4946
4947
4948
4949
4950
4951
4952
4953
4954
4955
4956
4957
4958
4959
4960
4961
4962
4963
4964
4965
4966
4967
4968
4969
4970
4971
4972
4973
4974
4975
4976
4977
4978
4979
4980
4981
4982
4983
4984
4985
4986
4987
4988
4989
4990
4991
4992
4993
4994
4995
4996
4997
4998
4999
5000
5001
5002
5003
5004
5005
5006
5007
5008
5009
5010
5011
5012
5013
5014
5015
5016
5017
5018
5019
5020
5021
5022
5023
5024
5025
5026
5027
5028
5029
5030
5031
5032
5033
5034
5035
5036
5037
5038
5039
5040
5041
5042
5043
5044
5045
5046
5047
5048
5049
5050
5051
5052
5053
5054
5055
5056
5057
5058
5059
5060
5061
5062
5063
5064
5065
5066
5067
5068
5069
5070
5071
5072
5073
5074
5075
5076
5077
5078
5079
5080
5081
5082
5083
5084
5085
5086
5087
5088
5089
5090
5091
5092
5093
5094
5095
5096
5097
5098
5099
5100
5101
5102
5103
5104
5105
5106
5107
5108
5109
5110
5111
5112
5113
5114
5115
5116
5117
5118
5119
5120
5121
5122
5123
5124
5125
5126
5127
5128
5129
5130
5131
5132
5133
5134
5135
5136
5137
5138
5139
5140
5141
5142
5143
5144
5145
5146
5147
5148
5149
5150
5151
5152
5153
5154
5155
5156
5157
5158
5159
5160
5161
5162
5163
5164
5165
5166
5167
5168
5169
5170
5171
5172
5173
5174
5175
5176
5177
5178
5179
5180
5181
5182
5183
5184
5185
5186
5187
5188
5189
5190
5191
5192
5193
5194
5195
5196
5197
5198
5199
5200
5201
5202
5203
5204
5205
5206
5207
5208
5209
5210
5211
5212
5213
5214
5215
5216
5217
5218
5219
5220
5221
5222
5223
5224
5225
5226
5227
5228
5229
5230
5231
5232
5233
5234
5235
5236
5237
5238
5239
5240
5241
5242
5243
5244
5245
5246
5247
5248
5249
5250
5251
5252
5253
5254
5255
5256
5257
5258
5259
5260
5261
5262
5263
5264
5265
5266
5267
5268
5269
5270
5271
5272
5273
5274
5275
5276
5277
5278
5279
5280
5281
5282
5283
5284
5285
5286
5287
5288
5289
5290
5291
5292
5293
5294
5295
5296
5297
5298
5299
5300
5301
5302
5303
5304
5305
5306
5307
5308
5309
5310
5311
5312
5313
5314
5315
5316
5317
5318
5319
5320
5321
5322
5323
5324
5325
5326
5327
5328
5329
5330
5331
5332
5333
5334
5335
5336
5337
5338
5339
5340
5341
5342
5343
5344
5345
5346
5347
5348
5349
5350
5351
5352
5353
5354
5355
5356
5357
5358
5359
5360
5361
5362
5363
5364
5365
5366
5367
5368
5369
5370
5371
5372
5373
5374
5375
5376
5377
5378
5379
5380
5381
5382
5383
5384
5385
5386
5387
5388
5389
5390
5391
5392
5393
5394
5395
5396
5397
5398
5399
5400
5401
5402
5403
5404
5405
5406
5407
5408
5409
5410
5411
5412
5413
5414
5415
5416
5417
5418
5419
5420
5421
5422
5423
5424
5425
5426
5427
5428
5429
5430
5431
5432
5433
5434
5435
5436
5437
5438
5439
5440
5441
5442
5443
5444
5445
5446
5447
5448
5449
5450
5451
5452
5453
5454
5455
5456
5457
5458
5459
5460
5461
5462
5463
5464
5465
5466
5467
5468
5469
5470
5471
5472
5473
5474
5475
5476
5477
5478
5479
5480
5481
5482
5483
5484
5485
5486
5487
5488
5489
5490
5491
5492
5493
5494
5495
5496
5497
5498
5499
5500
5501
5502
5503
5504
5505
5506
5507
5508
5509
5510
5511
5512
5513
5514
5515
5516
5517
5518
5519
5520
5521
5522
5523
5524
5525
5526
5527
5528
5529
5530
5531
5532
5533
5534
5535
5536
5537
5538
5539
5540
5541
5542
5543
5544
5545
5546
5547
5548
5549
5550
5551
5552
5553
5554
5555
5556
5557
5558
5559
5560
5561
5562
5563
5564
5565
5566
5567
5568
5569
5570
5571
5572
5573
5574
5575
5576
5577
5578
5579
5580
5581
5582
5583
5584
5585
5586
5587
5588
5589
5590
5591
5592
5593
5594
5595
5596
5597
5598
5599
5600
5601
5602
5603
5604
5605
5606
5607
5608
5609
5610
5611
5612
5613
5614
5615
5616
5617
5618
5619
5620
5621
5622
5623
5624
5625
5626
5627
5628
5629
5630
5631
5632
5633
5634
5635
5636
5637
5638
5639
5640
5641
5642
5643
5644
5645
5646
5647
5648
5649
5650
5651
5652
5653
5654
5655
5656
5657
5658
5659
5660
5661
5662
5663
5664
5665
5666
5667
5668
5669
5670
5671
5672
5673
5674
5675
5676
5677
5678
5679
5680
5681
5682
5683
5684
5685
5686
5687
5688
5689
5690
5691
5692
5693
5694
5695
5696
5697
5698
5699
5700
5701
5702
5703
5704
5705
5706
5707
5708
5709
5710
5711
5712
5713
5714
5715
5716
5717
5718
5719
5720
5721
5722
5723
5724
5725
5726
5727
5728
5729
5730
5731
5732
5733
5734
5735
5736
5737
5738
5739
5740
5741
5742
5743
5744
5745
5746
5747
5748
5749
5750
5751
5752
5753
5754
5755
5756
5757
5758
5759
5760
5761
5762
5763
5764
5765
5766
5767
5768
5769
5770
5771
5772
5773
5774
5775
5776
5777
5778
5779
5780
5781
5782
5783
5784
5785
5786
5787
5788
5789
5790
5791
5792
5793
5794
5795
5796
5797
5798
5799
5800
5801
5802
5803
5804
5805
5806
5807
5808
5809
5810
5811
5812
5813
5814
5815
5816
5817
5818
5819
5820
5821
5822
5823
5824
5825
5826
5827
5828
5829
5830
5831
5832
5833
5834
5835
5836
5837
5838
5839
5840
5841
5842
5843
5844
5845
5846
5847
5848
5849
5850
5851
5852
5853
5854
5855
5856
5857
5858
5859
5860
5861
5862
5863
5864
5865
5866
5867
5868
5869
5870
5871
5872
5873
5874
5875
5876
5877
5878
5879
5880
5881
5882
5883
5884
5885
5886
5887
5888
5889
5890
5891
5892
5893
5894
5895
5896
5897
5898
5899
5900
5901
5902
5903
5904
5905
5906
5907
5908
5909
5910
5911
5912
5913
5914
5915
5916
5917
5918
5919
5920
5921
5922
5923
5924
5925
5926
5927
5928
5929
5930
5931
5932
5933
5934
5935
5936
5937
5938
5939
5940
5941
5942
5943
5944
5945
5946
5947
5948
5949
5950
5951
5952
5953
5954
5955
5956
5957
5958
5959
5960
5961
5962
5963
5964
5965
5966
5967
5968
5969
5970
5971
5972
5973
5974
5975
5976
5977
5978
5979
5980
5981
5982
5983
5984
5985
5986
5987
5988
5989
5990
5991
5992
5993
5994
5995
5996
5997
5998
5999
6000
6001
6002
6003
6004
6005
6006
6007
6008
6009
6010
6011
6012
6013
6014
6015
6016
6017
6018
6019
6020
6021
6022
6023
6024
6025
6026
6027
6028
6029
6030
6031
6032
6033
6034
6035
6036
6037
6038
6039
6040
6041
6042
6043
6044
6045
6046
6047
6048
6049
6050
6051
6052
6053
6054
6055
6056
6057
6058
6059
6060
6061
6062
6063
6064
6065
6066
6067
6068
6069
6070
6071
6072
6073
6074
6075
6076
6077
6078
6079
6080
6081
6082
6083
6084
6085
6086
6087
6088
6089
6090
6091
6092
6093
6094
6095
6096
6097
6098
6099
6100
6101
6102
6103
6104
6105
6106
6107
6108
6109
6110
6111
6112
6113
6114
6115
6116
6117
6118
6119
6120
6121
6122
6123
6124
6125
6126
6127
6128
6129
6130
6131
6132
6133
6134
6135
6136
6137
6138
6139
6140
6141
6142
6143
6144
6145
6146
6147
6148
6149
6150
6151
6152
6153
6154
6155
6156
6157
6158
6159
6160
6161
6162
6163
6164
6165
6166
6167
6168
6169
6170
6171
6172
6173
6174
6175
6176
6177
6178
6179
6180
6181
6182
6183
6184
6185
6186
6187
6188
6189
6190
6191
6192
6193
6194
6195
6196
6197
6198
6199
6200
6201
6202
6203
6204
6205
6206
6207
6208
6209
6210
6211
6212
6213
6214
6215
6216
6217
6218
6219
6220
6221
6222
6223
6224
6225
6226
6227
6228
6229
6230
6231
6232
6233
6234
6235
6236
6237
6238
6239
6240
6241
6242
6243
6244
6245
6246
6247
6248
6249
6250
6251
6252
6253
6254
6255
6256
6257
6258
6259
6260
6261
6262
6263
6264
6265
6266
6267
6268
6269
6270
6271
6272
6273
6274
6275
6276
6277
6278
6279
6280
6281
6282
6283
6284
6285
6286
6287
6288
6289
6290
6291
6292
6293
6294
6295
6296
6297
6298
6299
6300
6301
6302
6303
6304
6305
6306
6307
6308
6309
6310
6311
6312
6313
6314
6315
6316
6317
6318
6319
6320
6321
6322
6323
6324
6325
6326
6327
6328
6329
6330
6331
6332
6333
6334
6335
6336
6337
6338
6339
6340
6341
6342
6343
6344
6345
6346
6347
6348
6349
6350
6351
6352
6353
6354
6355
6356
6357
6358
6359
6360
6361
6362
6363
6364
6365
6366
6367
6368
6369
6370
6371
6372
6373
6374
6375
6376
6377
6378
6379
6380
6381
6382
6383
6384
6385
6386
6387
6388
6389
6390
6391
6392
6393
6394
6395
6396
6397
6398
6399
6400
6401
6402
6403
6404
6405
6406
6407
6408
6409
6410
6411
6412
6413
6414
6415
6416
6417
6418
6419
6420
6421
6422
6423
6424
6425
6426
6427
6428
6429
6430
6431
6432
6433
6434
6435
6436
6437
6438
6439
6440
6441
6442
6443
6444
6445
6446
6447
6448
6449
6450
6451
6452
6453
6454
6455
6456
6457
6458
6459
6460
6461
6462
6463
6464
6465
6466
6467
6468
6469
6470
6471
6472
6473
6474
6475
6476
6477
6478
6479
6480
6481
6482
6483
6484
6485
6486
6487
6488
6489
6490
6491
6492
6493
6494
6495
6496
6497
6498
6499
6500
6501
6502
6503
6504
6505
6506
6507
6508
6509
6510
6511
6512
6513
6514
6515
6516
6517
6518
6519
6520
6521
6522
6523
6524
6525
6526
6527
6528
6529
6530
6531
6532
6533
6534
6535
6536
6537
6538
6539
6540
6541
6542
6543
6544
6545
6546
6547
6548
6549
6550
6551
6552
6553
6554
6555
6556
6557
6558
6559
6560
6561
6562
6563
6564
6565
6566
6567
6568
6569
6570
6571
6572
6573
6574
6575
6576
6577
6578
6579
6580
6581
6582
6583
6584
6585
6586
6587
6588
6589
6590
6591
6592
6593
6594
6595
6596
6597
6598
6599
6600
6601
6602
6603
6604
6605
6606
6607
6608
6609
6610
6611
6612
6613
6614
6615
6616
6617
6618
6619
6620
6621
6622
6623
6624
6625
6626
6627
6628
6629
6630
6631
6632
6633
6634
6635
6636
6637
6638
6639
6640
6641
6642
6643
6644
6645
6646
6647
6648
6649
6650
6651
6652
6653
6654
6655
6656
6657
6658
6659
6660
6661
6662
6663
6664
6665
6666
6667
6668
6669
6670
6671
6672
6673
6674
6675
6676
6677
6678
6679
6680
6681
6682
6683
6684
6685
6686
6687
6688
6689
6690
6691
6692
6693
6694
6695
6696
6697
6698
6699
6700
6701
6702
6703
6704
6705
6706
6707
6708
6709
6710
6711
6712
6713
6714
6715
6716
6717
6718
6719
6720
6721
6722
6723
6724
6725
6726
6727
6728
6729
6730
6731
6732
6733
6734
6735
6736
6737
6738
6739
6740
6741
6742
6743
6744
6745
6746
6747
6748
6749
6750
6751
6752
6753
6754
6755
6756
6757
6758
6759
6760
6761
6762
6763
6764
6765
6766
6767
6768
6769
6770
6771
6772
6773
6774
6775
6776
6777
6778
6779
6780
6781
6782
6783
6784
6785
6786
6787
6788
6789
6790
6791
6792
6793
6794
6795
6796
6797
6798
6799
6800
6801
6802
6803
6804
6805
6806
6807
6808
6809
6810
6811
6812
6813
6814
6815
6816
6817
6818
6819
6820
6821
6822
6823
6824
6825
6826
6827
6828
6829
6830
6831
6832
6833
6834
6835
6836
6837
6838
6839
6840
6841
6842
6843
6844
6845
6846
6847
6848
6849
6850
6851
6852
6853
6854
6855
6856
6857
6858
6859
6860
6861
6862
6863
6864
6865
6866
6867
6868
6869
6870
6871
6872
6873
6874
6875
6876
6877
6878
6879
6880
6881
6882
6883
6884
6885
6886
6887
6888
6889
6890
6891
6892
6893
6894
6895
6896
6897
6898
6899
6900
6901
6902
6903
6904
6905
6906
6907
6908
6909
6910
6911
6912
6913
6914
6915
6916
6917
6918
6919
6920
6921
6922
6923
6924
6925
6926
6927
6928
6929
6930
6931
6932
6933
6934
6935
6936
6937
6938
6939
6940
6941
6942
6943
6944
6945
6946
6947
6948
6949
6950
6951
6952
6953
6954
6955
6956
6957
6958
6959
6960
6961
6962
6963
6964
6965
6966
6967
6968
6969
6970
6971
6972
6973
6974
6975
6976
6977
6978
6979
6980
6981
6982
6983
6984
6985
6986
6987
6988
6989
6990
6991
6992
6993
6994
6995
6996
6997
6998
6999
7000
7001
7002
7003
7004
7005
7006
7007
7008
7009
7010
7011
7012
7013
7014
7015
7016
7017
7018
7019
7020
7021
7022
7023
7024
7025
7026
7027
7028
7029
7030
7031
7032
7033
7034
7035
7036
7037
7038
7039
7040
7041
7042
7043
7044
7045
7046
7047
7048
7049
7050
7051
7052
7053
7054
7055
7056
7057
7058
7059
7060
7061
7062
7063
7064
7065
7066
7067
7068
7069
7070
7071
7072
7073
7074
7075
7076
7077
7078
7079
7080
7081
7082
7083
7084
7085
7086
7087
7088
7089
7090
7091
7092
7093
7094
7095
7096
7097
7098
7099
7100
7101
7102
7103
7104
7105
7106
7107
7108
7109
7110
7111
7112
7113
7114
7115
7116
7117
7118
7119
7120
7121
7122
7123
7124
7125
7126
7127
7128
7129
7130
7131
7132
7133
7134
7135
7136
7137
7138
7139
7140
7141
7142
7143
7144
7145
7146
7147
7148
7149
7150
7151
7152
7153
7154
7155
7156
7157
7158
7159
7160
7161
7162
7163
7164
7165
7166
7167
7168
7169
7170
7171
7172
7173
7174
7175
7176
7177
7178
7179
7180
7181
7182
7183
7184
7185
7186
7187
7188
7189
7190
7191
7192
7193
7194
7195
7196
7197
7198
7199
7200
7201
7202
7203
7204
7205
7206
7207
7208
7209
7210
7211
7212
7213
7214
7215
7216
7217
7218
7219
7220
7221
7222
7223
7224
7225
7226
7227
7228
7229
7230
7231
7232
7233
7234
7235
7236
7237
7238
7239
7240
7241
7242
7243
7244
7245
7246
7247
7248
7249
7250
7251
7252
7253
7254
7255
7256
7257
7258
7259
7260
7261
7262
7263
7264
7265
7266
7267
7268
7269
7270
7271
7272
7273
7274
7275
7276
7277
7278
7279
7280
7281
7282
7283
7284
7285
7286
7287
7288
7289
7290
7291
7292
7293
7294
7295
7296
7297
7298
7299
7300
7301
7302
7303
7304
7305
7306
7307
7308
7309
7310
7311
7312
7313
7314
7315
7316
7317
7318
7319
7320
7321
7322
7323
7324
7325
7326
7327
7328
7329
7330
7331
7332
7333
7334
7335
7336
7337
7338
7339
7340
7341
7342
7343
7344
7345
7346
7347
7348
7349
7350
7351
7352
7353
7354
7355
7356
7357
7358
7359
7360
7361
7362
7363
7364
7365
7366
7367
7368
7369
7370
7371
7372
7373
7374
7375
7376
7377
7378
7379
7380
7381
7382
7383
7384
7385
7386
7387
7388
7389
7390
7391
7392
7393
7394
7395
7396
7397
7398
7399
7400
7401
7402
7403
7404
7405
7406
7407
7408
7409
7410
7411
7412
7413
7414
7415
7416
7417
7418
7419
7420
7421
7422
7423
7424
7425
7426
7427
7428
7429
7430
7431
7432
7433
7434
7435
7436
7437
7438
7439
7440
7441
7442
7443
7444
7445
7446
7447
7448
7449
7450
7451
7452
7453
7454
7455
7456
7457
7458
7459
7460
7461
7462
7463
7464
7465
7466
7467
7468
7469
7470
7471
7472
7473
7474
7475
7476
7477
7478
7479
7480
7481
7482
7483
7484
7485
7486
7487
7488
7489
7490
7491
7492
7493
7494
7495
7496
7497
7498
7499
7500
7501
7502
7503
7504
7505
7506
7507
7508
7509
7510
7511
7512
7513
7514
7515
7516
7517
7518
7519
7520
7521
7522
7523
7524
7525
7526
7527
7528
7529
7530
7531
7532
7533
7534
7535
7536
7537
7538
7539
7540
7541
7542
7543
7544
7545
7546
7547
7548
7549
7550
7551
7552
7553
7554
7555
7556
7557
7558
7559
7560
7561
7562
7563
7564
7565
7566
7567
7568
7569
7570
7571
7572
7573
7574
7575
7576
7577
7578
7579
7580
7581
7582
7583
7584
7585
7586
7587
7588
7589
7590
7591
7592
7593
7594
7595
7596
7597
7598
7599
7600
7601
7602
7603
7604
7605
7606
7607
7608
7609
7610
7611
7612
7613
7614
7615
7616
7617
7618
7619
7620
7621
7622
7623
7624
7625
7626
7627
7628
7629
7630
7631
7632
7633
7634
7635
7636
7637
7638
7639
7640
7641
7642
7643
7644
7645
7646
7647
7648
7649
7650
7651
7652
7653
7654
7655
7656
7657
7658
7659
7660
7661
7662
7663
7664
7665
7666
7667
7668
7669
7670
7671
7672
7673
7674
7675
7676
7677
7678
7679
7680
7681
7682
7683
7684
7685
7686
7687
7688
7689
7690
7691
7692
7693
7694
7695
7696
7697
7698
7699
7700
7701
7702
7703
7704
7705
7706
7707
7708
7709
7710
7711
7712
7713
7714
7715
7716
7717
7718
7719
7720
7721
7722
7723
7724
7725
7726
7727
7728
7729
7730
7731
7732
7733
7734
7735
7736
7737
7738
7739
7740
7741
7742
7743
7744
7745
7746
7747
7748
7749
7750
7751
7752
7753
7754
7755
7756
7757
7758
7759
7760
7761
7762
7763
7764
7765
7766
7767
7768
7769
7770
7771
7772
7773
7774
7775
7776
7777
7778
7779
7780
7781
7782
7783
7784
7785
7786
7787
7788
7789
7790
7791
7792
7793
7794
7795
7796
7797
7798
7799
7800
7801
7802
7803
7804
7805
7806
7807
7808
7809
7810
7811
7812
7813
7814
7815
7816
7817
7818
7819
7820
7821
7822
7823
7824
7825
7826
7827
7828
7829
7830
7831
7832
7833
7834
7835
7836
7837
7838
7839
7840
7841
7842
7843
7844
7845
7846
7847
7848
7849
7850
7851
7852
7853
7854
7855
7856
7857
7858
7859
7860
7861
7862
7863
7864
7865
7866
7867
7868
7869
7870
7871
7872
7873
7874
7875
7876
7877
7878
7879
7880
7881
7882
7883
7884
7885
7886
7887
7888
7889
7890
7891
7892
7893
7894
7895
7896
7897
7898
7899
7900
7901
7902
7903
7904
7905
7906
7907
7908
7909
7910
7911
7912
7913
7914
7915
7916
7917
7918
7919
7920
7921
7922
7923
7924
7925
7926
7927
7928
7929
7930
7931
7932
7933
7934
7935
7936
7937
7938
7939
7940
7941
7942
7943
7944
7945
7946
7947
7948
7949
7950
7951
7952
7953
7954
7955
7956
7957
7958
7959
7960
7961
7962
7963
7964
7965
7966
7967
7968
7969
7970
7971
7972
7973
7974
7975
7976
7977
7978
7979
7980
7981
7982
7983
7984
7985
7986
7987
7988
7989
7990
7991
7992
7993
7994
7995
7996
7997
7998
7999
8000
8001
8002
8003
8004
8005
8006
8007
8008
8009
8010
8011
8012
8013
8014
8015
8016
8017
8018
8019
8020
8021
8022
8023
8024
8025
8026
8027
8028
8029
8030
8031
8032
8033
8034
8035
8036
8037
8038
8039
8040
8041
8042
8043
8044
8045
8046
8047
8048
8049
8050
8051
8052
8053
8054
8055
8056
8057
8058
8059
8060
8061
8062
8063
8064
8065
8066
8067
8068
8069
8070
8071
8072
8073
8074
8075
8076
8077
8078
8079
8080
8081
8082
8083
8084
8085
8086
8087
8088
8089
8090
8091
8092
8093
8094
8095
8096
8097
8098
8099
8100
8101
8102
8103
8104
8105
8106
8107
8108
8109
8110
8111
8112
8113
8114
8115
8116
8117
8118
8119
8120
8121
8122
8123
8124
8125
8126
8127
8128
8129
8130
8131
8132
8133
8134
8135
8136
8137
8138
8139
8140
8141
8142
8143
8144
8145
8146
8147
8148
8149
8150
8151
8152
8153
8154
8155
8156
8157
8158
8159
8160
8161
8162
8163
8164
8165
8166
8167
8168
8169
8170
8171
8172
8173
8174
8175
8176
8177
8178
8179
8180
8181
8182
8183
8184
8185
8186
8187
8188
8189
8190
8191
8192
8193
8194
8195
8196
8197
8198
8199
8200
8201
8202
8203
8204
8205
8206
8207
8208
8209
8210
8211
8212
8213
8214
8215
8216
8217
8218
8219
8220
8221
8222
8223
8224
8225
8226
8227
8228
8229
8230
8231
8232
8233
8234
8235
8236
8237
8238
8239
8240
8241
8242
8243
8244
8245
8246
8247
8248
8249
8250
8251
8252
8253
8254
8255
8256
8257
8258
8259
8260
8261
8262
8263
8264
8265
8266
8267
8268
8269
8270
8271
8272
8273
8274
8275
8276
8277
8278
8279
8280
8281
8282
8283
8284
8285
8286
8287
8288
8289
8290
8291
8292
8293
8294
8295
8296
8297
8298
8299
8300
8301
8302
8303
8304
8305
8306
8307
8308
8309
8310
8311
8312
8313
8314
8315
8316
8317
8318
8319
8320
8321
8322
8323
8324
8325
8326
8327
8328
8329
8330
8331
8332
8333
8334
8335
8336
8337
8338
8339
8340
8341
8342
8343
8344
8345
8346
8347
8348
8349
8350
8351
8352
8353
8354
8355
8356
8357
8358
8359
8360
8361
8362
8363
8364
8365
8366
8367
8368
8369
8370
8371
8372
8373
8374
8375
8376
8377
8378
8379
8380
8381
8382
8383
8384
8385
8386
8387
8388
8389
8390
8391
8392
8393
8394
8395
8396
8397
8398
8399
8400
8401
8402
8403
8404
8405
8406
8407
8408
8409
8410
8411
8412
8413
8414
8415
8416
8417
8418
8419
8420
8421
8422
8423
8424
8425
8426
8427
8428
8429
8430
8431
8432
8433
8434
8435
8436
8437
8438
8439
8440
8441
8442
8443
8444
8445
8446
8447
8448
8449
8450
8451
8452
8453
8454
8455
8456
8457
8458
8459
8460
8461
8462
8463
8464
8465
8466
8467
8468
8469
8470
8471
8472
8473
8474
8475
8476
8477
8478
8479
8480
8481
8482
8483
8484
8485
8486
8487
8488
8489
8490
8491
8492
8493
8494
8495
8496
8497
8498
8499
8500
8501
8502
8503
8504
8505
8506
8507
8508
8509
8510
8511
8512
8513
8514
8515
8516
8517
8518
8519
8520
8521
8522
8523
8524
8525
8526
8527
8528
8529
8530
8531
8532
8533
8534
8535
8536
8537
8538
8539
8540
8541
8542
8543
8544
8545
8546
8547
8548
8549
8550
8551
8552
8553
8554
8555
8556
8557
8558
8559
8560
8561
8562
8563
8564
8565
8566
8567
8568
8569
8570
8571
8572
8573
8574
8575
8576
8577
8578
8579
8580
8581
8582
8583
8584
8585
8586
8587
8588
8589
8590
8591
8592
8593
8594
8595
8596
8597
8598
8599
8600
8601
8602
8603
8604
8605
8606
8607
8608
8609
8610
8611
8612
8613
8614
8615
8616
8617
8618
8619
8620
8621
8622
8623
8624
8625
8626
8627
8628
8629
8630
8631
8632
8633
8634
8635
8636
8637
8638
8639
8640
8641
8642
8643
8644
8645
8646
8647
8648
8649
8650
8651
8652
8653
8654
8655
8656
8657
8658
8659
8660
8661
8662
8663
8664
8665
8666
8667
8668
8669
8670
8671
8672
8673
8674
8675
8676
8677
8678
8679
8680
8681
8682
8683
8684
8685
8686
8687
8688
8689
8690
8691
8692
8693
8694
8695
8696
8697
8698
8699
8700
8701
8702
8703
8704
8705
8706
8707
8708
8709
8710
8711
8712
8713
8714
8715
8716
8717
8718
8719
8720
8721
8722
8723
8724
8725
8726
8727
8728
8729
8730
8731
8732
8733
8734
8735
8736
8737
8738
8739
8740
8741
8742
8743
8744
8745
8746
8747
8748
8749
8750
8751
8752
8753
8754
8755
8756
8757
8758
8759
8760
8761
8762
8763
8764
8765
8766
8767
8768
8769
8770
8771
8772
8773
8774
8775
8776
8777
8778
8779
8780
8781
8782
8783
8784
8785
8786
8787
8788
8789
8790
8791
8792
8793
8794
8795
8796
8797
8798
8799
8800
8801
8802
8803
8804
8805
8806
8807
8808
8809
8810
8811
8812
8813
8814
8815
8816
8817
8818
8819
8820
8821
8822
8823
8824
8825
8826
8827
8828
8829
8830
8831
8832
8833
8834
8835
8836
8837
8838
8839
8840
8841
8842
8843
8844
8845
8846
8847
8848
8849
8850
8851
8852
8853
8854
8855
8856
8857
8858
8859
8860
8861
8862
8863
8864
8865
8866
8867
8868
8869
8870
8871
8872
8873
8874
8875
8876
8877
8878
8879
8880
8881
8882
8883
8884
8885
8886
8887
8888
8889
8890
8891
8892
8893
8894
8895
8896
8897
8898
8899
8900
8901
8902
8903
8904
8905
8906
8907
8908
8909
8910
8911
8912
8913
8914
8915
8916
8917
8918
8919
8920
8921
8922
8923
8924
8925
8926
8927
8928
8929
8930
8931
8932
8933
8934
8935
8936
8937
8938
8939
8940
8941
8942
8943
8944
8945
8946
8947
8948
8949
8950
8951
8952
8953
8954
8955
8956
8957
8958
8959
8960
8961
8962
8963
8964
8965
8966
8967
8968
8969
8970
8971
8972
8973
8974
8975
8976
8977
8978
8979
8980
8981
8982
8983
8984
8985
8986
8987
8988
8989
8990
8991
8992
8993
8994
8995
8996
8997
8998
8999
9000
9001
9002
9003
9004
9005
9006
9007
9008
9009
9010
9011
9012
9013
9014
9015
9016
9017
9018
9019
9020
9021
9022
9023
9024
9025
9026
9027
9028
9029
9030
9031
9032
9033
9034
9035
9036
9037
9038
9039
9040
9041
9042
9043
9044
9045
9046
9047
9048
9049
9050
9051
9052
9053
9054
9055
9056
9057
9058
9059
9060
9061
9062
9063
9064
9065
9066
9067
9068
9069
9070
9071
9072
9073
9074
9075
9076
9077
9078
9079
9080
9081
9082
9083
9084
9085
9086
9087
9088
9089
9090
9091
9092
9093
9094
9095
9096
9097
9098
9099
9100
9101
9102
9103
9104
9105
9106
9107
9108
9109
9110
9111
9112
9113
9114
9115
9116
9117
9118
9119
9120
9121
9122
9123
9124
9125
9126
9127
9128
9129
9130
9131
9132
9133
9134
9135
9136
9137
9138
9139
9140
9141
9142
9143
9144
9145
9146
9147
9148
9149
9150
9151
9152
9153
9154
9155
9156
9157
9158
9159
9160
9161
9162
9163
9164
9165
9166
9167
9168
9169
9170
9171
9172
9173
9174
9175
9176
9177
9178
9179
9180
9181
9182
9183
9184
9185
9186
9187
9188
9189
9190
9191
9192
9193
9194
9195
9196
9197
9198
9199
9200
9201
9202
9203
9204
9205
9206
9207
9208
9209
9210
9211
9212
9213
9214
9215
9216
9217
9218
9219
9220
9221
9222
9223
9224
9225
9226
9227
9228
9229
9230
9231
9232
9233
9234
9235
9236
9237
9238
9239
9240
9241
9242
9243
9244
9245
9246
9247
9248
9249
9250
9251
9252
9253
9254
9255
9256
9257
9258
9259
9260
9261
9262
9263
9264
9265
9266
9267
9268
9269
9270
9271
9272
9273
9274
9275
9276
9277
9278
9279
9280
9281
9282
9283
9284
9285
9286
9287
9288
9289
9290
9291
9292
9293
9294
9295
9296
9297
9298
9299
9300
9301
9302
9303
9304
9305
9306
9307
9308
9309
9310
9311
9312
9313
9314
9315
9316
9317
9318
9319
9320
9321
9322
9323
9324
9325
9326
9327
9328
9329
9330
9331
9332
9333
9334
9335
9336
9337
9338
9339
9340
9341
9342
9343
9344
9345
9346
9347
9348
9349
9350
9351
9352
9353
9354
9355
9356
9357
9358
9359
9360
9361
9362
9363
9364
9365
9366
9367
9368
9369
9370
9371
9372
9373
9374
9375
9376
9377
9378
9379
9380
9381
9382
9383
9384
9385
9386
9387
9388
9389
9390
9391
9392
9393
9394
9395
9396
9397
9398
9399
9400
9401
9402
9403
9404
9405
9406
9407
9408
9409
9410
9411
9412
9413
9414
9415
9416
9417
9418
9419
9420
9421
9422
9423
9424
9425
9426
9427
9428
9429
9430
9431
9432
9433
9434
9435
9436
9437
9438
9439
9440
9441
9442
9443
9444
9445
9446
9447
9448
9449
9450
9451
9452
9453
9454
9455
9456
9457
9458
9459
9460
9461
9462
9463
9464
9465
9466
9467
9468
9469
9470
9471
9472
9473
9474
9475
9476
9477
9478
9479
9480
9481
9482
9483
9484
9485
9486
9487
9488
9489
9490
9491
9492
9493
9494
9495
9496
9497
9498
9499
9500
9501
9502
9503
9504
9505
9506
9507
9508
9509
9510
9511
9512
9513
9514
9515
9516
9517
9518
9519
9520
9521
9522
9523
9524
9525
9526
9527
9528
9529
9530
9531
9532
9533
9534
9535
9536
9537
9538
9539
9540
9541
9542
9543
9544
9545
9546
9547
9548
9549
9550
9551
9552
9553
9554
9555
9556
9557
9558
9559
9560
9561
9562
9563
9564
9565
9566
9567
9568
9569
9570
9571
9572
9573
9574
9575
9576
9577
9578
9579
9580
9581
9582
9583
9584
9585
9586
9587
9588
9589
9590
9591
9592
9593
9594
9595
9596
9597
9598
9599
9600
9601
9602
9603
9604
9605
9606
9607
9608
9609
9610
9611
9612
9613
9614
9615
9616
9617
9618
9619
9620
9621
9622
9623
9624
9625
9626
9627
9628
9629
9630
9631
9632
9633
9634
9635
9636
9637
9638
9639
9640
9641
9642
9643
9644
9645
9646
9647
9648
9649
9650
9651
9652
9653
9654
9655
9656
9657
9658
9659
9660
9661
9662
9663
9664
9665
9666
9667
9668
9669
9670
9671
9672
9673
9674
9675
9676
9677
9678
9679
9680
9681
9682
9683
9684
9685
9686
9687
9688
9689
9690
9691
9692
9693
9694
9695
9696
9697
9698
9699
9700
9701
9702
9703
9704
9705
9706
9707
9708
9709
9710
9711
9712
9713
9714
9715
9716
9717
9718
9719
9720
9721
9722
9723
9724
9725
9726
9727
9728
9729
9730
9731
9732
9733
9734
9735
9736
9737
9738
9739
9740
9741
9742
9743
9744
9745
9746
9747
9748
9749
9750
9751
9752
9753
9754
9755
9756
9757
9758
9759
9760
9761
9762
9763
9764
9765
9766
9767
9768
9769
9770
9771
9772
9773
9774
9775
9776
9777
9778
9779
9780
9781
9782
9783
9784
9785
9786
9787
9788
9789
9790
9791
9792
9793
9794
9795
9796
9797
9798
9799
9800
9801
9802
9803
9804
9805
9806
9807
9808
9809
9810
9811
9812
9813
9814
9815
9816
9817
9818
9819
9820
9821
9822
9823
9824
9825
9826
9827
9828
9829
9830
9831
9832
9833
9834
9835
9836
9837
9838
9839
9840
9841
9842
9843
9844
9845
9846
9847
9848
9849
9850
9851
9852
9853
9854
9855
9856
9857
9858
9859
9860
9861
9862
9863
9864
9865
9866
9867
9868
9869
9870
9871
9872
9873
9874
9875
9876
9877
9878
9879
9880
9881
9882
9883
9884
9885
9886
9887
9888
9889
9890
9891
9892
9893
9894
9895
9896
9897
9898
9899
9900
9901
9902
9903
9904
9905
9906
9907
9908
9909
9910
9911
9912
9913
9914
9915
9916
9917
9918
9919
9920
9921
9922
9923
9924
9925
9926
9927
9928
9929
9930
9931
9932
9933
9934
9935
9936
9937
9938
9939
9940
9941
9942
9943
9944
9945
9946
9947
9948
9949
9950
9951
9952
9953
9954
9955
9956
9957
9958
9959
9960
9961
9962
9963
9964
9965
9966
9967
9968
9969
9970
9971
9972
9973
9974
9975
9976
9977
9978
9979
9980
9981
9982
9983
9984
9985
9986
9987
9988
9989
9990
9991
9992
9993
9994
9995
9996
9997
9998
9999
10000
10001
10002
10003
10004
10005
10006
10007
10008
10009
10010
10011
10012
10013
10014
10015
10016
10017
10018
10019
10020
10021
10022
10023
10024
10025
10026
10027
10028
10029
10030
10031
10032
10033
10034
10035
10036
10037
10038
10039
10040
10041
10042
10043
10044
10045
10046
10047
10048
10049
10050
10051
10052
10053
10054
10055
10056
10057
10058
10059
10060
10061
10062
10063
10064
10065
10066
10067
10068
10069
10070
10071
10072
10073
10074
10075
10076
10077
10078
10079
10080
10081
10082
10083
10084
10085
10086
10087
10088
10089
10090
10091
10092
10093
10094
10095
10096
10097
10098
10099
10100
10101
10102
10103
10104
10105
10106
10107
10108
10109
10110
10111
10112
10113
10114
10115
10116
10117
10118
10119
10120
10121
10122
10123
10124
10125
10126
10127
10128
10129
10130
10131
10132
10133
10134
10135
10136
10137
10138
10139
10140
10141
10142
10143
10144
10145
10146
10147
10148
10149
10150
10151
10152
10153
10154
10155
10156
10157
10158
10159
10160
10161
10162
10163
10164
10165
10166
10167
10168
10169
10170
10171
10172
10173
10174
10175
10176
10177
10178
10179
10180
10181
10182
10183
10184
10185
10186
10187
10188
10189
10190
10191
10192
10193
10194
10195
10196
10197
10198
10199
10200
10201
10202
10203
10204
10205
10206
10207
10208
10209
10210
10211
10212
10213
10214
10215
10216
10217
10218
10219
10220
10221
10222
10223
10224
10225
10226
10227
10228
10229
10230
10231
10232
10233
10234
10235
10236
10237
10238
10239
10240
10241
10242
10243
10244
10245
10246
10247
10248
10249
10250
10251
10252
10253
10254
10255
10256
10257
10258
10259
10260
10261
10262
10263
10264
10265
10266
10267
10268
10269
10270
10271
10272
10273
10274
10275
10276
10277
10278
10279
10280
10281
10282
10283
10284
10285
10286
10287
10288
10289
10290
10291
10292
10293
10294
10295
10296
10297
10298
10299
10300
10301
10302
10303
10304
10305
10306
10307
10308
10309
10310
10311
10312
10313
10314
10315
10316
10317
10318
10319
10320
10321
10322
10323
10324
10325
10326
10327
10328
10329
10330
10331
10332
10333
10334
10335
10336
10337
10338
10339
10340
10341
10342
10343
10344
10345
10346
10347
10348
10349
10350
10351
10352
10353
10354
10355
10356
10357
10358
10359
10360
10361
10362
10363
10364
10365
10366
10367
10368
10369
10370
10371
10372
10373
10374
10375
10376
10377
10378
10379
10380
10381
10382
10383
10384
10385
10386
10387
10388
10389
10390
10391
10392
10393
10394
10395
10396
10397
10398
10399
10400
10401
10402
10403
10404
10405
10406
10407
10408
10409
10410
10411
10412
10413
10414
10415
10416
10417
10418
10419
10420
10421
10422
10423
10424
10425
10426
10427
10428
10429
10430
10431
10432
10433
10434
10435
10436
10437
10438
10439
10440
10441
10442
10443
10444
10445
10446
10447
10448
10449
10450
10451
10452
10453
10454
10455
10456
10457
10458
10459
10460
10461
10462
10463
10464
10465
10466
10467
10468
10469
10470
10471
10472
10473
10474
10475
10476
10477
10478
10479
10480
10481
10482
10483
10484
10485
10486
10487
10488
10489
10490
10491
10492
10493
10494
10495
10496
10497
10498
10499
10500
10501
10502
10503
10504
10505
10506
10507
10508
10509
10510
10511
10512
10513
10514
10515
10516
10517
10518
10519
10520
10521
10522
10523
10524
10525
10526
10527
10528
10529
10530
10531
10532
10533
10534
10535
10536
10537
10538
10539
10540
10541
10542
10543
10544
10545
10546
10547
10548
10549
10550
10551
10552
10553
10554
10555
10556
10557
10558
10559
10560
10561
10562
10563
10564
10565
10566
10567
10568
10569
10570
10571
10572
10573
10574
10575
10576
10577
10578
10579
10580
10581
10582
10583
10584
10585
10586
10587
10588
10589
10590
10591
10592
10593
10594
10595
10596
10597
10598
10599
10600
10601
10602
10603
10604
10605
10606
10607
10608
10609
10610
10611
10612
10613
10614
10615
10616
10617
10618
10619
10620
10621
10622
10623
10624
10625
10626
10627
10628
10629
10630
10631
10632
10633
10634
10635
10636
10637
10638
10639
10640
10641
10642
10643
10644
10645
10646
10647
10648
10649
10650
10651
10652
10653
10654
10655
10656
10657
10658
10659
10660
10661
10662
10663
10664
10665
10666
10667
10668
10669
10670
10671
10672
10673
10674
10675
10676
10677
10678
10679
10680
10681
10682
10683
10684
10685
10686
10687
10688
10689
10690
10691
10692
10693
10694
10695
10696
10697
10698
10699
10700
10701
10702
10703
10704
10705
10706
10707
10708
10709
10710
10711
10712
10713
10714
10715
10716
10717
10718
10719
10720
10721
10722
10723
10724
10725
10726
10727
10728
10729
10730
10731
10732
10733
10734
10735
10736
10737
10738
10739
10740
10741
10742
10743
10744
10745
10746
10747
10748
10749
10750
10751
10752
10753
10754
10755
10756
10757
10758
10759
10760
10761
10762
10763
10764
10765
10766
10767
10768
10769
10770
10771
10772
10773
10774
10775
10776
10777
10778
10779
10780
10781
10782
10783
10784
10785
10786
10787
10788
10789
10790
10791
10792
10793
10794
10795
10796
10797
10798
10799
10800
10801
10802
10803
10804
10805
10806
10807
10808
10809
10810
10811
10812
10813
10814
10815
10816
10817
10818
10819
10820
10821
10822
10823
10824
10825
10826
10827
10828
10829
10830
10831
10832
10833
10834
10835
10836
10837
10838
10839
10840
10841
10842
10843
10844
10845
10846
10847
10848
10849
10850
10851
10852
10853
10854
10855
10856
10857
10858
10859
10860
10861
10862
10863
10864
10865
10866
10867
10868
10869
10870
10871
10872
10873
10874
10875
10876
10877
10878
10879
10880
10881
10882
10883
10884
10885
10886
10887
10888
10889
10890
10891
10892
10893
10894
10895
10896
10897
10898
10899
10900
10901
10902
10903
10904
10905
10906
10907
10908
10909
10910
10911
10912
10913
10914
10915
10916
10917
10918
10919
10920
10921
10922
10923
10924
10925
10926
10927
10928
10929
10930
10931
10932
10933
10934
10935
10936
10937
10938
10939
10940
10941
10942
10943
10944
10945
10946
10947
10948
10949
10950
10951
10952
10953
10954
10955
10956
10957
10958
10959
10960
10961
10962
10963
10964
10965
10966
10967
10968
10969
10970
10971
10972
10973
10974
10975
10976
10977
10978
10979
10980
10981
10982
10983
10984
10985
10986
10987
10988
10989
10990
10991
10992
10993
10994
10995
10996
10997
10998
10999
11000
11001
11002
11003
11004
11005
11006
11007
11008
11009
11010
11011
11012
11013
11014
11015
11016
11017
11018
11019
11020
11021
11022
11023
11024
11025
11026
11027
11028
11029
11030
11031
11032
11033
11034
11035
11036
11037
11038
11039
11040
11041
11042
11043
11044
11045
11046
11047
11048
11049
11050
11051
11052
11053
11054
11055
11056
11057
11058
11059
11060
11061
11062
11063
11064
11065
11066
11067
11068
11069
11070
11071
11072
11073
11074
11075
11076
11077
11078
11079
11080
11081
11082
11083
11084
11085
11086
11087
11088
11089
11090
11091
11092
11093
11094
11095
11096
11097
11098
11099
11100
11101
11102
11103
11104
11105
11106
11107
11108
11109
11110
11111
11112
11113
11114
11115
11116
11117
11118
11119
11120
11121
11122
11123
11124
11125
11126
11127
11128
11129
11130
11131
11132
11133
11134
11135
11136
11137
11138
11139
11140
11141
11142
11143
11144
11145
11146
11147
11148
11149
11150
11151
11152
11153
11154
11155
11156
11157
11158
11159
11160
11161
11162
11163
11164
11165
11166
11167
11168
11169
11170
11171
11172
11173
11174
11175
11176
11177
11178
11179
11180
11181
11182
11183
11184
11185
11186
11187
11188
11189
11190
11191
11192
11193
11194
11195
11196
11197
11198
11199
11200
11201
11202
11203
11204
11205
11206
11207
11208
11209
11210
11211
11212
11213
11214
11215
11216
11217
11218
11219
11220
11221
11222
11223
11224
11225
11226
11227

<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?>

<!DOCTYPE html
   PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
   "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" >

<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en">
  <head>
    <title>
      Annie Kilburn, by W. D. Howells
    </title>
    <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve">

    body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify}
    P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; }
    H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; }
    hr  { width: 50%; text-align: center;}
    .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; }
    blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;}
    .mynote    {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;}
    .toc       { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;}
    .toc2      { margin-left: 20%;}
    div.fig    { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; }
    div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; }
    .figleft   {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;}
    .figright  {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;}
    .pagenum   {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal;
               margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%;
               text-align: right;}
    pre        { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;}

</style>
  </head>
  <body>


<pre>

The Project Gutenberg EBook of Annie Kilburn, by William Dean Howells

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: Annie Kilburn
       A Novel

Author: William Dean Howells


Release Date: February, 2005 [EBook #7502]
This file was first posted on May 11, 2003
Last Updated: February 25, 2018

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANNIE KILBURN ***




Produced by Eric Eldred, William Flis, Charles Franks, David Widger,
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team






</pre>

    <div style="height: 8em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h1>
      ANNIE KILBURN
    </h1>
    <h3>
      A Novel
    </h3>
    <h3>
      <b> By W. D. Howells </b>
    </h3>
    <p>
      Author of
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   &ldquo;Indian Summer&rdquo;
    &ldquo;The Rise of Silas Lapham&rdquo;
    &ldquo;April Hopes&rdquo; etc.
</pre>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      <b>CONTENTS</b>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> I. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> II. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> III. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> IV. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> V. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> VI. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> VII. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> VIII. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> IX. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> X. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> XI. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> XII. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> XIII. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> XIV. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> XV. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> XVI. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> XVII. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> XVIII. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> XIX. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> XX. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> XXI. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> XXII. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> XXIII. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> XXIV. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> XXV. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> XXVI. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> XXVII. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> XXVIII. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0029"> XXIX. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0030"> XXX. </a>
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      I.
    </h2>
    <p>
      After the death of Judge Kilburn his daughter came back to America. They
      had been eleven winters in Rome, always meaning to return, but staying on
      from year to year, as people do who have nothing definite to call them
      home. Toward the last Miss Kilburn tacitly gave up the expectation of
      getting her father away, though they both continued to say that they were
      going to take passage as soon as the weather was settled in the spring. At
      the date they had talked of for sailing he was lying in the Protestant
      cemetery, and she was trying to gather herself together, and adjust her
      life to his loss. This would have been easier with a younger person, for
      she had been her father's pet so long, and then had taken care of his
      helplessness with a devotion which was finally so motherly, that it was
      like losing at once a parent and a child when he died, and she remained
      with the habit of giving herself when there was no longer any one to
      receive the sacrifice. He had married late, and in her thirty-first year
      he was seventy-eight; but the disparity of their ages, increasing toward
      the end through his infirmities, had not loosened for her the ties of
      custom and affection that bound them; she had seen him grow more and more
      fitfully cognisant of what they had been to each other since her mother's
      death, while she grew the more tender and fond with him. People who came
      to condole with her seemed not to understand this, or else they thought it
      would help her to bear up if they treated her bereavement as a relief from
      hopeless anxiety. They were all surprised when she told them she still
      meant to go home.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, my dear,&rdquo; said one old lady, who had been away from America twenty
      years, &ldquo;<i>this</i> is home! You've lived in this apartment longer now
      than the oldest inhabitant has lived in most American towns. What are you
      talking about? Do you mean that you are going back to Washington?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh no. We were merely staying on in Washington from force of habit, after
      father gave up practice. I think we shall go back to the old homestead,
      where we used to spend our summers, ever since I can remember.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And where is that?&rdquo; the old lady asked, with the sharpness which people
      believe must somehow be good for a broken spirit.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's in the interior of Massachusetts&mdash;you wouldn't know it: a place
      called Hatboro'.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I certainly shouldn't,&rdquo; said the old lady, with superiority. &ldquo;Why
      Hatboro', of all the ridiculous reasons?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was one of the first places where they began to make straw hats; it
      was a nickname at first, and then they adopted it. The old name was
      Dorchester Farms. Father fought the change, but it was of no use; the
      people wouldn't have it Farms after the place began to grow; and by that
      time they had got used to Hatboro'. Besides, I don't see how it's any
      worse than Hatfield, in England.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's very American.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, it's American. We have Boxboro' too, you know, in Massachusetts.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you are going from Rome to Hatboro', Mass.,&rdquo; said the old lady,
      trying to present the idea in the strongest light by abbreviating the name
      of the State.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Miss Kilburn. &ldquo;It will be a change, but not so much of a
      change as you would think. It was father's wish to go back.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, my <i>dear</i>!&rdquo; cried the old lady. &ldquo;You're letting that weigh with
      you, I see. Don't do it! If it wasn't wise, don't you suppose that the
      last thing he could wish you to do would be to sacrifice yourself to a
      sick whim of his?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The kindness expressed in the words touched Annie Kilburn. She had a
      certain beauty of feature; she was near-sighted; but her eyes were brown
      and soft, her lips red and full; her dark hair grew low, and played in
      little wisps and rings on her temples, where her complexion was clearest;
      the bold contour of her face, with its decided chin and the rather large
      salient nose, was like her father's; it was this, probably, that gave an
      impression of strength, with a wistful qualification. She was at that time
      rather thin, and it could have been seen that she would be handsomer when
      her frame had rounded out in fulfilment of its generous design. She opened
      her lips to speak, but shut them again in an effort at self-control before
      she said&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I really wish to do it. At this moment I would rather be in Hatboro'
      than in Rome.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, very well,&rdquo; said the old lady, gathering herself up as one does from
      throwing away one's sympathy upon an unworthy object; &ldquo;if you really <i>wish</i>
      it&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know that it must seem preposterous and&mdash;and almost ungrateful
      that I should think of going back, when I might just as well stay. Why,
      I've a great many more friends here than I have there; I suppose I shall
      be almost a stranger when I get there, and there's no comparison in
      congeniality; and yet I feel that I must go back. I can't tell you why.
      But I have a longing; I feel that I must try to be of some use in the
      world&mdash;try to do some good&mdash;and in Hatboro' I think I shall know
      how.&rdquo; She put on her glasses, and looked at the old lady as if she might
      attempt an explanation, but, as if a clearer vision of the veteran
      worldling discouraged her, she did not make the effort.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>Oh</i>!&rdquo; said the old lady. &ldquo;If you want to be of use, and do good&mdash;&rdquo;
       She stopped, as if then there were no more to be said by a sensible
      person. &ldquo;And shall you be going soon?&rdquo; she asked. The idea seemed to
      suggest her own departure, and she rose after speaking.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just as soon as possible,&rdquo; answered Miss Kilburn. Words take on a colour
      of something more than their explicit meaning from the mood in which they
      are spoken: Miss Kilburn had a sense of hurrying her visitor away, and the
      old lady had a sense of being turned out-of-doors, that the preparations
      for the homeward voyage might begin instantly.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      II.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Many times after the preparations began, and many times after they were
      ended, Miss Kilburn faltered in doubt of her decision; and if there had
      been any will stronger than her own to oppose it, she might have reversed
      it, and stayed in Rome. All the way home there was a strain of misgiving
      in her satisfaction at doing what she believed to be for the best, and the
      first sight of her native land gave her a shock of emotion which was not
      unmixed joy. She felt forlorn among people who were coming home with all
      sorts of high expectations, while she only had high intentions.
    </p>
    <p>
      These dated back a good many years; in fact, they dated back to the time
      when the first flush of her unthinking girlhood was over, and she began to
      question herself as to the life she was living. It was a very pleasant
      life, ostensibly. Her father had been elected from the bench to Congress,
      and had kept his title and his repute as a lawyer through several terms in
      the House before he settled down to the practice of his profession in the
      courts at Washington, where he made a good deal of money. They passed from
      boarding to house-keeping, in the easy Washington way, after their
      impermanent Congressional years, and divided their time between a
      comfortable little place in Nevada Circle and the old homestead in
      Hatboro'. He was fond of Washington, and robustly content with the world
      as he found it there and elsewhere. If his daughter's compunctions came to
      her through him, it must have been from some remoter ancestry; he was not
      apparently characterised by their transmission, and probably she derived
      them from her mother, who died when she was a little girl, and of whom she
      had no recollection. Till he began to break, after they went abroad, he
      had his own way in everything; but as men grow old or infirm they fall
      into subjection to their womenkind; their rude wills yield in the suppler
      insistence of the feminine purpose; they take the colour of the feminine
      moods and emotions; the cycle of life completes itself where it began, in
      helpless dependence upon the sex; and Rufus Kilburn did not escape the
      common lot. He was often complaining and unlovely, as aged and ailing men
      must be; perhaps he was usually so; but he had moments when he recognised
      the beauty of his daughter's aspiration with a spiritual sympathy, which
      showed that he must always have had an intellectual perception of it. He
      expressed with rhetorical largeness and looseness the longing which was
      not very definite in her own heart, and mingled with it a strain of
      homesickness poignantly simple and direct for the places, the scenes, the
      persons, the things, of his early days. As he failed more and more, his
      homesickness was for natural aspects which had wholly ceased to exist
      through modern changes and improvements, and for people long since dead,
      whom he could find only in an illusion of that environment in some other
      world. In the pathos of this situation it was easy for his daughter to
      keep him ignorant of the passionate rebellion against her own ideals in
      which she sometimes surprised herself. When he died, all counter-currents
      were lost in the tidal revulsion of feeling which swept her to the
      fulfilment of what she hoped was deepest and strongest in her nature, with
      shame for what she hoped was shallowest, till that moment of repulsion in
      which she saw the thickly roofed and many towered hills of Boston grow up
      out of the western waves.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had always regarded her soul as the battlefield of two opposite
      principles, the good and the bad, the high and the low. God made her, she
      thought, and He alone; He made everything that she was; but she would not
      have said that He made the evil in her. Yet her belief did not admit the
      existence of Creative Evil; and so she said to herself that she herself
      was that evil, and she must struggle against herself; she must question
      whatever she strongly wished because she strongly wished it. It was not
      logical; she did not push her postulates to their obvious conclusions; and
      there was apt to be the same kind of break between her conclusions and her
      actions as between her reasons and her conclusions. She acted impulsively,
      and from a force which she could not analyse. She indulged reveries so
      vivid that they seemed to weaken and exhaust her for the grapple with
      realities; the recollection of them abashed her in the presence of facts.
    </p>
    <p>
      With all this, it must not be supposed that she was morbidly
      introspective. Her life had been apparently a life of cheerful
      acquiescence in worldly conditions; it had been, in some measure, a life
      of fashion, or at least of society. It had not been without the interests
      of other girls' lives, by any means; she had sometimes had fancies,
      flirtations, but she did not think she had been really in love, and she
      had refused some offers of marriage for that reason.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      III.
    </h2>
    <p>
      The industry of making straw hats began at Hatboro', as many other
      industries have begun in New England, with no great local advantages, but
      simply because its founder happened to live there, and to believe that it
      would pay. There was a railroad, and labour of the sort he wanted was
      cheap and abundant in the village and the outlying farms. In time the work
      came to be done more and more by machinery, and to be gathered into large
      shops. The buildings increased in size and number; the single line of the
      railroad was multiplied into four, and in the region of the tracks several
      large, ugly, windowy wooden bulks grew up for shoe shops; a stocking
      factory followed; yet this business activity did not warp the old village
      from its picturesqueness or quiet. The railroad tracks crossed its main
      street; but the shops were all on one side of them, with the work-people's
      cottages and boarding-houses, and on the other were the simple, square,
      roomy old mansions, with their white paint and their green blinds, varied
      by the modern colour and carpentry of French-roofed villas. The old houses
      stood quite close to the street, with a strip of narrow door-yard before
      them; the new ones affected a certain depth of lawn, over which their
      owners personally pushed a clucking hand-mower in the summer evenings
      after tea. The fences had been taken away from the new houses, in the
      taste of some of the Boston suburbs; they generally remained before the
      old ones, whose inmates resented the ragged effect that their absence gave
      the street. The irregularity had hitherto been of an orderly and
      harmonious kind, such as naturally follows the growth of a country road
      into a village thoroughfare. The dwellings were placed nearer or further
      from the sidewalk as their builders fancied, and the elms that met in a
      low arch above the street had an illusive symmetry in the perspective;
      they were really set at uneven intervals, and in a line that wavered
      capriciously in and out. The street itself lounged and curved along,
      widening and contracting like a river, and then suddenly lost itself over
      the brow of an upland which formed a natural boundary of the village.
      Beyond this was South Hatboro', a group of cottages built by city people
      who had lately come in&mdash;idlers and invalids, the former for the cool
      summer, and the latter for the dry winter. At chance intervals in the old
      village new side streets branched from the thoroughfare to the right and
      the left, and here and there a Queen Anne cottage showed its chimneys and
      gables on them. The roadway under the elms that kept it dark and cool with
      their hovering shade, and swept the wagon-tops with their pendulous boughs
      at places, was unpaved; but the sidewalks were asphalted to the last
      dwelling in every direction, and they were promptly broken out in winter
      by the public snow-plough.
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Kilburn saw them in the spring, when their usefulness was least
      apparent, and she did not know whether to praise the spirit of progress
      which showed itself in them as well as in other things at Hatboro'. She
      had come prepared to have misgivings, but she had promised herself to be
      just; she thought she could bear the old ugliness, if not the new. Some of
      the new things, however, were not so ugly; the young station-master was
      handsome in his railroad uniform, and pleasanter to the eye than the
      veteran baggage-master, incongruous in his stiff silk cap and his shirt
      sleeves and spectacles. The station itself, one of Richardson's, massive
      and low, with red-tiled, spreading veranda roofs, impressed her with its
      fitness, and strengthened her for her encounter with the business
      architecture of Hatboro', which was of the florid, ambitious New York
      type, prevalent with every American town in the early stages of its
      prosperity. The buildings were of pink brick, faced with granite, and
      supported in the first story by columns of painted iron; flat-roofed
      blocks looked down over the low-wooden structures of earlier Hatboro', and
      a large hotel had pushed back the old-time tavern, and planted itself
      flush upon the sidewalk. But the stores seemed very good, as she glanced
      at them from her carriage, and their show-windows were tastefully
      arranged; the apothecary's had an interior of glittering neatness
      unsurpassed by an Italian apothecary's; and the provision-man's, besides
      its symmetrical array of pendent sides and quarters indoors, had banks of
      fruit and vegetables without, and a large aquarium with a spraying
      fountain in its window.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bolton, the farmer who had always taken care of the Kilburn place, came to
      meet her at the station and drive her home. Miss Kilburn had bidden him
      drive slowly, so that she could see all the changes, and she noticed the
      new town-hall, with which she could find no fault; the Baptist and
      Methodist churches were the same as of old; the Unitarian church seemed to
      have shrunk as if the architecture had sympathised with its dwindling body
      of worshippers; just beyond it was the village green, with the soldiers'
      monument, and the tall white-painted flag-pole, and the four small brass
      cannon threatening the points of the compass at its base.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stop a moment, Mr. Bolton,&rdquo; said Miss Kilburn; and she put her head quite
      out of the carriage, and stared at the figure on the monument.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was strange that the first misgiving she could really make sure of
      concerning Hatboro' should relate to this figure, which she herself was
      mainly responsible for placing there. When the money was subscribed and
      voted for the statue, the committee wrote out to her at Rome as one who
      would naturally feel an interest in getting something fit and economical
      for them. She accepted the trust with zeal and pleasure; but she overruled
      their simple notion of an American volunteer at rest, with his hands
      folded on the muzzle of his gun, as intolerably hackneyed and commonplace.
      Her conscience, she said, would not let her add another recruit to the
      regiment of stone soldiers standing about in that posture on the tops of
      pedestals all over the country; and so, instead of going to an Italian
      statuary with her fellow-townsmen's letter, and getting him to make the
      figure they wanted, she doubled the money and gave the commission to a
      young girl from Kansas, who had come out to develop at Rome the genius
      recognised at Topeka. They decided together that it would be best to have
      something ideal, and the sculptor promptly imagined and rapidly executed a
      design for a winged Victory, poising on the summit of a white marble
      shaft, and clasping its hands under its chin, in expression of the grief
      that mingled with the popular exultation. Miss Kilburn had her doubts
      while the work went on, but she silenced them with the theory that when
      the figure was in position it would be all right.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now that she saw it in position she wished to ask Mr. Bolton what was
      thought of it, but she could not nerve herself to the question. He
      remained silent, and she felt that he was sorry for her. &ldquo;Oh, may I be
      very humble; may I be helped to be very humble!&rdquo; she prayed under her
      breath. It seemed as if she could not take her eyes from the figure; it
      was such a modern, such an American shape, so youthfully inadequate, so
      simple, so sophisticated, so like a young lady in society indecorously
      exposed for a <i>tableau vivant</i>. She wondered if the people in
      Hatboro' felt all this about it; if they realised how its involuntary
      frivolity insulted the solemn memory of the slain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Drive on, please,&rdquo; she said gently.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bolton pulled the reins, and as the horses started he pointed with his
      whip to a church at the other side of the green. &ldquo;That's the new Orthodox
      church,&rdquo; he explained.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, is it?&rdquo; asked Miss Kilburn. &ldquo;It's very handsome, I'm sure.&rdquo; She was
      not sensible of admiring the large Romanesque pile very much, though it
      was certainly not bad, but she remembered that Bolton was a member of the
      Orthodox church, and she was grateful to him for not saying anything about
      the soldiers' monument.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We sold the old buildin' to the Catholics, and they moved it down ont'
      the side street.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Miss Kilburn caught the glimmer of a cross where he beckoned, through the
      flutter of the foliage.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They had to razee the steeple some to git their cross on,&rdquo; he added; and
      then he showed her the high-school building as they passed, and the
      Episcopal chapel, of blameless church-warden's Gothic, half hidden by its
      Japanese ivy, under a branching elm, on another side street.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;that was built before we went abroad.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I disremember,&rdquo; he said absently. He let the horses walk on the soft,
      darkly shaded road, where the wheels made a pleasant grinding sound, and
      set himself sidewise on his front seat, so as to talk to Miss Kilburn more
      at his ease.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I d'know,&rdquo; he began, after clearing his throat, with a conscious air, &ldquo;as
      you know we'd got a new minister to our church.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I hadn't heard of it,&rdquo; said Miss Kilburn, with her mind full of the
      monument still. &ldquo;But I might have heard and forgotten it,&rdquo; she added. &ldquo;I
      was very much taken up toward the last before I left Rome.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, come to think,&rdquo; said Bolton; &ldquo;I don't know's you'd had time to
      heard. He hain't been here a great while.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is he&mdash;satisfactory?&rdquo; asked Miss Kilburn, feeling how far from
      satisfactory the Victory was, and formulating an explanatory apology to
      the committee in her mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh yes, he's satisfactory enough, as far forth as that goes. He's
      talented, and he's right up with the times. Yes, he's progressive. I guess
      they got pretty tired of Mr. Rogers, even before he died; and they kept
      the supply a-goin' till&mdash;all was blue, before they could settle on
      anybody. In fact they couldn't seem to agree on anybody till Mr. Peck
      come.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Miss Kilburn had got as far, in her tacit interview with the committee, as
      to have offered to replace at her own expense the Victory with a
      Volunteer, and she seemed to be listening to Bolton with rapt attention.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, it's like this,&rdquo; continued the farmer. &ldquo;He's progressive in his
      idees, 'n' at the same time he's spiritual-minded; and so I guess he suits
      pretty well all round. Of course you can't suit everybody. There's always
      got to be a dog in the manger, it don't matter where you go. But if
      anybody was to ask me, I should say Mr. Peck suited. Yes, I don't know but
      what I should.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Miss Kilburn instantaneously closed her transaction with the committee,
      removed the Victory, and had the Volunteer unveiled with appropriate
      ceremonies, opened with prayer by the Rev. Mr. Peck.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Peck?&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Did you tell me his name was Peck?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, ma'am; Rev. Julius W. Peck. He's from down Penobscotport way, in
      Maine. I guess he's all right.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Miss Kilburn did not reply. Her mind had been taken off the monument for
      the moment by her dislike for the name of the new minister, and the
      Victory had seized the opportunity to get back.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bolton sighed deeply, and continued in a strain whose diffusiveness at
      last became perceptible to Miss Kilburn through her own humiliation.
      &ldquo;There's some in every community that's bound to complain, I don't care
      what you do to accommodate 'em; and what I done, I done as much to stop
      their clack as anything, and give him the right sort of a start off, an' I
      guess I did. But Mis' Bolton she didn't know but what you'd look at it in
      the light of a libbutty, and I didn't know but what you <i>would</i> think
      I no business to done it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He seemed to be addressing a question to her, but she only replied with a
      dazed frown, and Bolton was obliged to go on.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I didn't let him room in your part of the house; that is to say, not
      sleep there; but I thought, as you was comin' home, and I better be airin'
      it up some, anyway, I might as well let him set in the old Judge's room.
      If you think it was more than I had a right to do, I'm willin' to pay for
      it. Git up!&rdquo; Bolton turned fully round toward his horses, to hide the
      workings of emotion in his face, and shook the reins like a desperate man.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What <i>are</i> you talking about, Mr. Bolton?&rdquo; cried Miss Kilburn. &ldquo;<i>Whom</i>
      are you talking about?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Bolton answered, with a kind of violence, &ldquo;Mr. Peck; I took him to board,
      first off.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You took him to board?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. I know it wa'n't just accordin' to the letter o' the law, and the
      old Judge was always pootty p'tic'lah. But I've took care of the place
      goin' on twenty years now, and I hain't never had a chick nor a child in
      it before. The child,&rdquo; he continued, partly turning his face round again,
      and beginning to look Miss Kilburn in the eye, &ldquo;wa'n't one to touch
      anything, anyway, and we kep' her in our part all the while; Mis' Bolton
      she couldn't seem to let her out of her sight, she got so fond of her, and
      she used to follow me round among the hosses like a kitten. I declare, I
      <i>miss</i> her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Bolton's face, the colour of one of the lean ploughed fields of Hatboro',
      and deeply furrowed, lighted up with real feeling, which he tried to make
      go as far in the work of reconciling Miss Kilburn as if it had been
      factitious.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I don't understand,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;What child are you talking about?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Peck's.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was he married?&rdquo; she asked, with displeasure, she did not know why.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, yes, he <i>had</i> been,&rdquo; answered Bolton. &ldquo;But she'd be'n in the
      asylum ever since the child was born.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh,&rdquo; said Miss Kilburn, with relief; and she fell back upon the seat from
      which she had started forward.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bolton might easily have taken her tone for that of disgust. He faced
      round upon her once more. &ldquo;It was kind of queer, his havin' the child with
      him, an' takin' most the care of her himself; and so, as I <i>say</i>,
      Mis' Bolton and me we took him in, as much to stop folks' mouths as
      anything, till they got kinder used to it. But we didn't take him into
      your part, as I <i>say</i>; and as <i>I</i> say, I'm willin' to pay you
      whatever you say for the use of the old Judge's study. I presume that part
      of it <i>was</i> a libbutty.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was all perfectly right, Mr. Bolton,&rdquo; said Miss Kilburn.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;His wife died anyway, more than a year ago,&rdquo; said Bolton, as if the fact
      completed his atonement to Miss Kilburn, &ldquo;<i>Git</i> ep! I told him from
      the start that it had got to be a temporary thing, an' 't I only took him
      till he could git settled somehow. I guess he means to go to
      house-keepin', if he can git the right kind of a house-keeper; he wants an
      old one. If it was a young one, I guess he wouldn't have any great
      trouble, if he went about it the right way.&rdquo; Bolton's sarcasm was merely a
      race sarcasm. He was a very mild man, and his thick-growing eyelashes
      softened and shadowed his grey eyes, and gave his lean face pathos.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You could have let him stay till he had found a suitable place,&rdquo; said
      Miss Kilburn.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I wa'n't goin' to do <i>that</i>,&rdquo; said Bolton. &ldquo;But I'm 'bliged to
      you just the same.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They came up in sight of the old square house, standing back a good
      distance from the road, with a broad sweep of grass sloping down before it
      into a little valley, and rising again to the wall fencing the grounds
      from the street. The wall was overhung there by a company of magnificent
      elms, which turned and formed one side of the avenue leading to the house.
      Their tops met and mixed somewhat incongruously with those of the stiff
      dark maples which more densely shaded the other side of the lane.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bolton drove into their gloom, and then out into the wide sunny space at
      the side of the house where Miss Kilburn had alighted so often with her
      father. Bolton's dog, grown now so very old as to be weak-minded, barked
      crazily at his master, and then, recognising him, broke into an imbecile
      whimper, and went back and coiled his rheumatism up in the sun on a warm
      stone before the door. Mrs. Bolton had to step over him as she came out,
      formally supporting her right elbow with her left hand as she offered the
      other in greeting to Miss Kilburn, with a look of question at her husband.
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Kilburn intercepted the look, and began to laugh.
    </p>
    <p>
      All was unchanged, and all so strange; it seemed as if her father must
      both get down with her from the carriage and come to meet her from the
      house. Her glance involuntarily took in the familiar masses and details;
      the patches of short tough grass mixed with decaying chips and small weeds
      underfoot, and the spacious June sky overhead; the fine network and
      blisters of the cracking and warping white paint on the clapboarding, and
      the hills beyond the bulks of the village houses and trees; the woodshed
      stretching with its low board arches to the barn, and the milk-pans tilted
      to sun against the underpinning of the L, and Mrs. Bolton's pot plants in
      the kitchen window.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you think I could be hard about such a thing as that? It was
      perfectly right. O Mrs. Bolton!&rdquo; She stopped laughing and began to cry;
      she put away Mrs. Bolton's carefully offered hand, she threw herself upon
      the bony structure of her bosom, and buried her face sobbing in the
      leathery folds of her neck.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bolton suffered her embrace above the old dog, who fled with a cry of
      rheumatic apprehension from the sweep of Miss Kilburn's skirts, and then
      came back and snuffed at them in a vain effort to recall her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, go in and lay down by the stove,&rdquo; said Mrs. Bolton, with a divided
      interest, while she beat Miss Kilburn's back with her bony palm in sign of
      sympathy. But the dog went off up the lane, and stood there by the pasture
      bars, barking abstractedly at intervals.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      IV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Miss Kilburn found that the house had been well aired for her coming, but
      an old earthy and mouldy smell, which it took days and nights of open
      doors and windows to drive out, stole back again with the first turn of
      rainy weather. She had fires built on the hearths and in the stoves, and
      after opening her trunks and scattering her dresses on beds and chairs,
      she spent most of the first week outside of the house, wandering about the
      fields and orchards to adjust herself anew to the estranged features of
      the place. The house she found lower-ceiled and smaller than she
      remembered it. The Boltons had kept it up very well, and in spite of the
      earthy and mouldy smell, it was conscientiously clean. There was not a
      speck of dust anywhere; the old yellowish-white paint was spotless; the
      windows shone. But there was a sort of frigidity in the perfect order and
      repair which repelled her, and she left her things tossed about, as if to
      break the ice of this propriety. In several places, within and without,
      she found marks of the faithful hand of Bolton in economical patches of
      the woodwork; but she was not sure that they had not been there eleven
      years before; and there were darnings in the carpets and curtains, which
      affected her with the same mixture of novelty and familiarity. Certain
      stale smells about the place (minor smells as compared with the prevalent
      odour) confused her; she could not decide whether she remembered them of
      old, or was reminded of the odours she used to catch in passing the pantry
      on the steamer.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her father had never been sure that he would not return any next year or
      month, and the house had always been ready to receive them. In his study
      everything was as he left it. His daughter looked for signs of Mr. Peck's
      occupation, but there were none; Mrs. Bolton explained that she had put
      him in a table from her own sitting-room to write at. The Judge's desk was
      untouched, and his heavy wooden arm-chair stood pulled up to it as if he
      were in it. The ranks of law-books, in their yellow sheepskin, with their
      red titles above and their black titles below, were in the order he had
      taught Mrs. Bolton to replace them in after dusting; the stuffed owl on a
      shelf above the mantel looked down with a clear solemnity in its gum-copal
      eyes, and Mrs. Bolton took it from its perch to show Miss Kilburn that
      there was not a moth on it, nor the sign of a moth.
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Kilburn experienced here that refusal of the old associations to take
      the form of welcome which she had already felt in the earth and sky and
      air outside; in everything there was a sense of impassable separation. Her
      dead father was no nearer in his wonted place than the trees of the
      orchard, or the outline of the well-known hills, or the pink of the
      familiar sunsets. In her rummaging about the house she pulled open a chest
      of drawers which used to stand in the room where she slept when a child.
      It was full of her own childish clothing, a little girl's linen and
      muslin; and she thought with a throe of despair that she could as well
      hope to get back into these outgrown garments, which the helpless piety of
      Mrs. Bolton had kept from the rag-bag, as to think of re-entering the
      relations of the life so long left off.
    </p>
    <p>
      It surprised her to find how cold the Boltons were; she had remembered
      them as always very kind and willing; but she was so used now to the ways
      of the Italians and their showy affection, it was hard for her to realise
      that people could be both kind and cold. The Boltons seemed ashamed of
      their feelings, and hid them; it was the same in some degree with all the
      villagers when she began to meet them, and the fact slowly worked back
      into her consciousness, wounding its way in. People did not come to see
      her at once. They waited, as they told her, till she got settled, before
      they called, and then they did not appear very glad to have her back.
    </p>
    <p>
      But this was not altogether the effect of their temperament. The Kilburns
      had made a long summer always in Hatboro', and they had always talked of
      it as home; but they had never passed a whole year there since Judge
      Kilburn first went to Congress, and they were not regarded as full
      neighbours or permanent citizens. Miss Kilburn, however, kept up her
      childhood friendships, and she and some of the ladies called one another
      by their Christian names, but they believed that she met people in
      Washington whom she liked better; the winters she spent there certainly
      weakened the ties between them, and when it came to those eleven years in
      Rome, the letters they exchanged grew rarer and rarer, till they stopped
      altogether. Some of the girls went away; some died; others became dead and
      absent to her in their marriages and household cares.
    </p>
    <p>
      After waiting for one another, three of them came together to see her one
      day. They all kissed her, after a questioning glance at her face and
      dress, as if they wanted to see whether she had grown proud or too
      fashionable. But they were themselves apparently much better dressed, and
      certainly more richly dressed. In a place like Hatboro', where there is no
      dinner-giving, and evening parties are few, the best dress is a street
      costume, which may be worn for calls and shopping, and for church and all
      public entertainments. The well-to-do ladies make an effect of outdoor
      fashion, in which the poorest shop hand has her part; and in their turn
      they share her indoor simplicity. These old friends of Annie's wore
      bonnets and frocks of the latest style and costly material.
    </p>
    <p>
      They let her make the advances, receiving them with blank passivity, or
      repelling them with irony, according to the several needs of their
      self-respect, and talking to one another across her. One of them asked her
      when her hair had begun to turn, and they each told her how thin she was,
      but promised her that Hatboro' air would bring her up. At the same time
      they feigned humility in regard to everything about Hatboro' but the air;
      they laughed when she said she intended now to make it her home the whole
      year round, and said they guessed she would be tired of it long before
      fall; there were plenty of summer folks that passed the winter as long as
      the June weather lasted. As they grew more secure of themselves, or less
      afraid of one another in her presence, their voices rose; they laughed
      loudly at nothing, and they yelled in a nervous chorus at times, each
      trying to make herself heard above the others.
    </p>
    <p>
      She asked them about the social life in the village, and they told her
      that a good many new people had really settled there, but they did not
      know whether she would like them; they were not the old Hatboro' style.
      Annie showed them some of the things she had brought home, especially
      Roman views, and they said now she ought to give an evening in the church
      parlour with them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You'll have to come to our church, Annie,&rdquo; said Mrs. Putney. &ldquo;The
      Unitarian doesn't have preaching once in a month, and Mr. Peck is very
      liberal.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He's 'most <i>too</i> liberal for some,&rdquo; said Emmeline Gerrish. Of the
      three she had grown the stoutest, and from being a slight, light-minded
      girl, she had become a heavy matron, habitually censorious in her speech.
      She did not mean any more by it, however, than she did by her girlish
      frivolity, and if she was not supported in her severity, she was apt to
      break down and disown it with a giggle, as she now did.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I don't know about his being <i>too</i> liberal,&rdquo; said Mrs.
      Wilmington, a large red-haired blonde, with a lazy laugh. &ldquo;He makes you
      feel that you're a pretty miserable sinner.&rdquo; She made a grimace of
      humorous disgust.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Gerrish says that's just the trouble,&rdquo; Mrs. Gerrish broke in. &ldquo;Mr.
      Peck don't put stress enough on the promises. That's what Mr. Gerrish
      says. You must have been surprised, Annie,&rdquo; she added, &ldquo;to find that he'd
      been staying in your house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was glad Mrs. Bolton invited him,&rdquo; answered Annie sincerely, but not
      instantly.
    </p>
    <p>
      The ladies waited, with an exchange of glances, for her reply, as if they
      had talked the matter over beforehand, and had agreed to find out just how
      Annie Kilburn felt about it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I guess he paid his board,&rdquo; said Mrs. Wilmington, jocosely rejecting
      the implication that he had been the guest of the Boltons.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't see what he expects to do with that little girl of his, without
      any mother, that way,&rdquo; said Mrs. Gerrish. &ldquo;He ought to get married.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps he will, when he's waited a proper time,&rdquo; suggested Mrs. Putney
      demurely.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, his wife's been the same as dead ever since the child was born. I
      don't know what you call a proper time, Ellen,&rdquo; argued Mrs. Gerrish.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I presume a minister feels differently about such things,&rdquo; Mrs.
      Wilmington remarked indolently.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't see why a minister should feel any different from anybody else,&rdquo;
       said Mrs. Gerrish. &ldquo;It's his duty to do it on his child's account. I don't
      see why he don't have the remains brought to Hatboro', anyway.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They debated this point at some length, and they seemed to forget Annie.
      She listened with more interest than her concern in the last resting-place
      of the minister's dead wife really inspired. These old friends of hers
      seemed to have lost the sensitiveness of their girlhood without having
      gained tenderness in its place. They treated the affair with a nakedness
      that shocked her. In the country and in small towns people come face to
      face with life, especially women. It means marrying, child-bearing,
      household cares and burdens, neighbourhood gossip, sickness, death,
      burial, and whether the corpse appeared natural. But ever so much kindness
      goes with their disillusion; they are blunted, but not embittered.
    </p>
    <p>
      They ended by recalling Annie to mind, and Mrs. Putney said: &ldquo;I suppose
      you haven't been to the cemetery yet? They've got it all fixed up since
      you went away&mdash;drives laid out, and paths cut through, and
      everything. A good many have put up family tombs, and they've taken away
      the old iron fences round the lots, and put granite curbing. They mow the
      grass all the time. It's a perfect garden.&rdquo; Mrs. Putney was a small woman,
      already beginning to wrinkle. She had married a man whom Annie remembered
      as a mischievous little boy, with a sharp tongue and a nervous
      temperament; her father had always liked him when he came about the house,
      but Annie had lost sight of him in the years that make small boys and
      girls large ones, and he was at college when she went abroad. She had an
      impression of something unhappy in her friend's marriage.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think it's <i>too</i> much fixed up myself,&rdquo; said Mrs. Gerrish. She
      turned suddenly to Annie: &ldquo;You going to have your father fetched home?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The other ladies started a little at the question and looked at Annie; it
      was not that they were shocked, but they wanted to see whether she would
      not be so.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; she said briefly. She added, helplessly, &ldquo;It wasn't his wish.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should have thought he would have liked to be buried alongside of your
      mother,&rdquo; said Mrs. Gerrish. &ldquo;But the Judge always <i>was</i> a little
      peculiar. I presume you can have the name and the date put on the monument
      just the same.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Annie flushed at this intimate comment and suggestion from a woman whom as
      a girl she had never admitted to familiarity with her, but had tolerated
      her because she was such a harmless simpleton, and hung upon other girls
      whom she liked better. The word monument cowed her, however. She was
      afraid they might begin to talk about the soldiers' monument. She answered
      hastily, and began to ask them about their families.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Wilmington, who had no children, and Mrs. Putney, who had one, spoke
      of Mrs. Gerrish's large family. She had four children, and she refused the
      praises of her friends for them, though she celebrated them herself. &ldquo;You
      ought to have seen the two little girls that Ellen lost, Annie,&rdquo; she said.
      &ldquo;Ellen Putney, I don't see how you ever got over that. Those two lovely,
      healthy children gone, and poor little Winthrop left! I always did say it
      was too hard.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She had married a clerk in the principal dry-goods store, who had
      prospered rapidly, and was now one of the first business men of the place,
      and had an ambition to be a leading citizen. She believed in his fitness
      to deal with the questions of religion and education which he took part
      in, and was always quoting Mr. Gerrish. She called him Mr. Gerrish so much
      that other people began to call him so too. But Mrs. Putney's husband held
      out against it, and had the habit of returning the little man's
      ceremonious salutations with an easy, &ldquo;Hello, Billy,&rdquo; &ldquo;Good morning,
      Billy.&rdquo; It was his theory that this was good for Gerrish, who might
      otherwise have forgotten when everybody called him Billy. He was one of
      the old Putneys; and he was a lawyer by profession.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Wilmington's husband had come to Hatboro' since Annie's long absence
      began; he had capital, and he had started a stocking-mill in Hatboro'. He
      was much older than his wife, whom he had married after a protracted
      widowerhood. She had one of the best houses and the most richly furnished
      in Hatboro'. She and Mrs. Putney saw Mrs. Gerrish at rare intervals, and
      in observance of some notable fact of their girlish friendship like the
      present.
    </p>
    <p>
      In pursuance of the subject of children, Mrs. Gerrish said that she
      sometimes had a notion to offer to take Mr. Peck's little girl herself
      till he could get fixed somehow, but Mr. Gerrish would not let her. Mr.
      Gerrish said Mr. Peck had better get married himself if he wanted a
      step-mother for his little girl. Mr. Gerrish was peculiar about keeping a
      family to itself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, you'll think <i>we've</i> come to board with you <i>too</i>,&rdquo; said
      Mrs. Putney, in reference to Mr. Peck.
    </p>
    <p>
      The ladies all rose, and having got upon their feet, began to shout and
      laugh again&mdash;like girls, they implied.
    </p>
    <p>
      They stayed and talked a long time after rising, with the same note of
      unsparing personality in their talk. Where there are few public interests
      and few events, as in such places, there can be no small-talk, nothing of
      the careless touch-and-go of larger societies. Every one knows all the
      others, and knows the worst of them. People are not unkind; they are
      mutually and freely helpful; but they have only themselves to occupy their
      minds. Annie's friends had also to distinguish themselves to her from the
      rest of the villagers, and it was easiest to do this by an attitude of
      criticism mingled with large allowance. They ended a dissection of the
      community by saying that they believed there was no place like Hatboro',
      after all.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the contagion of their perfunctory gaiety Annie began to scream and
      laugh too, as she followed them to the door, and stood talking to them
      while they got into Mrs. Wilmington's extension-top carry-all. She
      answered with deafening promises, when they put their bonnets out of the
      carry-all and called back to her to be sure to come soon to see them soon.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      V.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bolton made no advances with Annie toward the discussion of her
      friends; but when Annie asked about their families, she answered with the
      incisive directness of a country-bred woman. She delivered her judgments
      as she went about her work, the morning after the ladies' visit, while
      Annie sat before the breakfast-table, which she had given her leave to
      clear. As she passed in and out from the dining-room to the kitchen she
      kept talking; she raised her voice in the further room, and lowered it
      when she drew near again. She wore a dismal calico wrapper, which made no
      compromise with the gauntness of her figure; her reddish-brown hair, which
      grew in a fringe below her crown, was plaited into small tags or tails,
      pulled up and tied across the top of her head, the bare surfaces of which
      were curiously mottled with the dye which she sometimes put on her hair.
      Behind, this was gathered up into a small knob pierced with a single
      hair-pin; the arrangement left Mrs. Bolton's visage to the unrestricted
      expression of character. She did not let it express toward Annie any
      expectation of the confidential relations that are supposed to exist
      between people who have been a long time master and servant. She had never
      recognised her relations with the Kilburns in these terms. She was a
      mature Yankee single woman, of confirmed self-respect, when she first came
      as house-keeper to Judge Kilburn, twenty years ago, and she had not
      changed her nature in changing her condition by her marriage with Oliver
      Bolton; she was childless, unless his comparative youth conferred a sort
      of adoptive maternity upon her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Annie went into her father's study, where she had lit the fire in the
      Franklin-stove on her way to breakfast. It had come on to rain during the
      night, after the fine yesterday which Mrs. Gerrish had denounced to its
      face as a weather-breeder. At first it rained silently, stealthily; but
      toward morning Annie heard the wind rising, and when she looked out of her
      window after daylight she found a fierce north-easterly storm drenching
      and chilling the landscape. Now across the flattened and tangled grass of
      the lawn the elms were writhing in the gale, and swinging their long lean
      boughs to and fro; from another window she saw the cuffed and hustled
      maples ruffling their stiff masses of foliage, and shuddering in the
      storm. She turned away, with a sigh of the luxurious melancholy which a
      northeaster inspires in people safely sheltered from it, and sat down
      before her fire. She recalled the three women who had visited her the day
      before, in the better-remembered figures of their childhood and young
      girlhood; and their present character did not seem a broken promise.
      Nothing was really disappointed in it but the animal joy, the hopeful riot
      of their young blood, which must fade and die with the happiest fate. She
      perceived that what they had come to was not unjust to what they had been;
      and as our own fate always appears to us unaccomplished, a thing for the
      distant future to fulfil, she began to ask herself what was to be the
      natural sequence of such a temperament, such mental and moral traits, as
      hers. Had her life been so noble in anything but vague aspirations that
      she could ever reasonably expect the destiny of grand usefulness which she
      had always unreasonably expected? The question came home to her with such
      pain, in the light of what her old playmates had become, that she suddenly
      ceased to enjoy the misery of the storm out-of-doors, or the purring
      content of the fire on the hearth of the stove at her feet; the book she
      had taken down to read fell unopened into her lap, and she gave herself up
      to a half-hour of such piercing self-question as only a high-minded woman
      can endure when the flattering promises of youth have grown vague and few.
    </p>
    <p>
      There is no condition of life that is wholly acceptable, but none that is
      not tolerable when once it establishes itself; and while Annie Kilburn had
      never consented to be an old maid, she had become one without great
      suffering. At thirty-one she could not call herself anything else; she
      often called herself an old maid, with the mental reservation that she was
      not one. She was merely unmarried; she might marry any time. Now, when she
      assured herself of this, as she had done many times before, she suddenly
      wondered if she should ever marry; she wondered if she had seemed to her
      friends yesterday like a person who would never marry. Did one carry such
      a thing in one's looks? Perhaps they idealised her; they had not seen her
      since she was twenty, and perhaps they still thought of her as a young
      girl. It now seemed to her as if she had left her youth in Rome, as in
      Rome it had seemed to her that she should find it again in Hatboro'. A
      pang of aimless, unlocalised homesickness passed through her; she realised
      that she was alone in the world. She rose to escape the pang, and went to
      the window of the parlour which looked toward the street, where she saw
      the figure of a young man draped in a long indiarubber gossamer coat
      fluttering in the wind that pushed him along as he tacked on a southerly
      course; he bowed and twisted his head to escape the lash of the rain. She
      watched him till he turned into the lane leading to the house, and then,
      at a discreeter distance, she watched him through the window at the other
      corner, making his way up to the front door in the teeth of the gale. He
      seemed to have a bundle under his arm, and as he stepped into the shelter
      of the portico, and freed his arm to ring, she discovered that it was a
      bundle of books. Whether Mrs. Bolton did not hear the bell, or whether she
      heard it and decided that it would be absurd to leave her work for it,
      when Miss Kilburn, who was so much nearer, could answer it, she did not
      come, even at a second ring, and Annie was forced to go to the door
      herself, or leave the poor man dripping in the cold wind outside.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had made up her mind, at sight of the books, that he was a canvasser
      for some subscription book, such as used to come in her father's time, but
      when she opened to him he took off his hat with a great deal of manner,
      and said &ldquo;Miss Kilburn?&rdquo; with so much insinuation of gentle
      disinterestedness, that it flashed upon her that it might be Mr. Peck.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she said, with confusion, while the flash of conjecture faded away.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Brandreth,&rdquo; said her visitor, whom she now saw to be much younger
      than Mr. Peck could be. He looked not much more than twenty-two or
      twenty-three; his damp hair waved and curled upon his temples and
      forehead, and his blue eyes lightened from a beardless and freshly shaven
      face. &ldquo;I called this morning because I felt sure of finding you at home.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He smiled at his reference to the weather, and Annie smiled too as she
      again answered, &ldquo;Yes?&rdquo; She did not want his books, but she liked something
      that was cheerful and enthusiastic in him; she added, &ldquo;Won't you step into
      the study?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thanks, yes,&rdquo; said the young man, flinging off his gossamer, and hanging
      it up to drip into the pan of the hat rack. He gathered up his books from
      the chair where he had laid them, and held them at his waist with both
      hands, while he bowed her precedence beside the study door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know,&rdquo; he began, &ldquo;but I ought to apologise for coming on a day
      like this, when you were not expecting to be interrupted.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh no; I'm not at all busy. But you must have had courage to brave a
      storm like this.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. The truth is, Miss Kilburn, I was very anxious to see you about a
      matter I have at heart&mdash;that I desire your help with.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He wants me,&rdquo; Annie thought, &ldquo;to give him the use of my name as a
      subscriber to his book&rdquo;&mdash;there seemed really to be a half-dozen books
      in his bundle&mdash;&ldquo;and he's come to me first.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I had expected to come with Mrs. Munger&mdash;she's a great friend of
      mine; you haven't met her yet, but you'll like her; she's the leading
      spirit in South Hatboro'&mdash;and we were coming together this morning;
      but she was unexpectedly called away yesterday, and so I ventured to call
      alone.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm very glad to see you, Mr. Brandreth,&rdquo; Annie said. &ldquo;Then Mrs. Munger
      has subscribed already, and I'm only second fiddle, after all,&rdquo; she
      thought.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The truth is,&rdquo; said Mr. Brandreth, &ldquo;I'm the factotum, or teetotum, of the
      South Hatboro' ladies' book club, and I've been deputed to come and see if
      you wouldn't like to join it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; said Annie, and with a thrill of dismay she asked herself how much
      she had let her manner betray that she had supposed he was a book agent.
      &ldquo;I shall be very glad indeed, Mr. Brandreth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mrs. Munger was sure you would,&rdquo; said Mr. Brandreth joyously. &ldquo;I've
      brought some of the books with me&mdash;the last,&rdquo; he said; and Annie had
      time to get into a new social attitude toward him during their discussion
      of the books. She chose one, and Mr. Brandreth took her subscription, and
      wrote her name in the club book.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One of the reasons,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;why I would have preferred to come with
      Mrs. Munger is that she is so heart and soul with me in my little scheme.
      She could have put it before you in so much better light than I can. But
      she was called away so suddenly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hope for no serious cause,&rdquo; said Annie.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh no! It's just to Cambridge. Her son is one of the Freshman Nine, and
      he's been hit by a ball.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; said Annie.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; it's a great pity for Mrs. Munger. But I come to you for advice as
      well as co-operation, Miss Kilburn. You must have met a great many English
      people in Rome, and heard some of them talk about it. We're thinking, some
      of the young people here, about getting up some outdoor theatricals, like
      Lady Archibald Campbell's, don't you know. You know about them?&rdquo; he added,
      at the blankness in her face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I read accounts of them in the English papers. They must have been very&mdash;original.
      But do you think that in a community like Hatboro'&mdash;Are there enough
      who could&mdash;enter into the spirit?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh yes, indeed!&rdquo; cried Mr. Brandreth ardently. &ldquo;You've no idea what a
      place Hatboro' has got to be. You've not been about much yet, Miss
      Kilburn?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Annie; &ldquo;I haven't really been off our own place since I came.
      I've seen nobody but two or three old friends, and we naturally talked
      more about old times than anything else. But I hear that there are great
      changes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Mr. Brandreth. &ldquo;The social growth has been even greater than
      the business growth. You've no idea! People have come in for the winter as
      well as the summer. South Hatboro', where we live&mdash;you must see South
      Hatboro', Miss Kilburn!&mdash;is quite a famous health resort. A great
      many Boston doctors send their patients to us now, instead of Colorado or
      the Adirondacks. In fact, that's what brought <i>us</i> to Hatboro'. My
      mother couldn't have lived, if she had tried to stay in Melrose. One lung
      all gone, and the other seriously affected. And people have found out what
      a charming place it is for the summer. It's cool; and it's so near, you
      know; the gentlemen can run out every night&mdash;only an hour and a
      quarter from town, and expresses both ways. All very agreeable people,
      too; and cultivated. Mr. Fellows, the painter, makes a long summer; he
      bought an old farm-house, and built a studio; Miss Jennings, the
      flower-painter, has a little box there, too; Mr. Chapley, the publisher,
      of New York, has built; the Misses Clevinger, and Mrs. Valence, are all
      near us. There's one family from Chicago&mdash;quite nice&mdash;New
      England by birth, you know; and Mrs. Munger, of course; so that there's a
      very pleasant variety.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I certainly had no idea of it,&rdquo; said Annie.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I knew you couldn't have,&rdquo; said Mr. Brandreth, &ldquo;or you wouldn't have felt
      any doubt about our having the material for the theatricals. You see, I
      want to interest all the nice people in it, and make it a whole-town
      affair. I think it's a great pity for some of the old village families and
      the summer folks, as they call us, not to mingle more than they do, and
      Mrs. Munger thinks so too; and we've been talking you over, Miss Kilburn,
      and we've decided that you could do more than anybody else to help on a
      scheme that's meant to bring them together.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because I'm neither summer folks nor old village families?&rdquo; asked Annie.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because you're both,&rdquo; retorted Mr. Brandreth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't see that,&rdquo; said Annie; &ldquo;but we'll suppose the case, for the sake
      of argument. What do you expect me to do in theatricals, in-doors or out?
      I never took part in anything of the kind; I can't see an inch beyond the
      end of my nose without glasses; I never could learn the simplest thing by
      heart; I'm clumsy and awkward; I get confused.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, my dear Miss Kilburn, spare yourself! We don't expect you to take
      part in the play. I don't admit that you're what you say at all; but we
      only want you to lend us your countenance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, is that all? And what do you expect to do with my countenance?&rdquo; Annie
      said, with a laugh of misgiving.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Everything. We know how much influence your name has&mdash;one of the old
      Hatboro' names&mdash;in the community, and all that; and we do want to
      interest the whole community in our scheme. We want to establish a Social
      Union for the work-people, don't you know, and we think it would be much
      nicer if it seemed to originate with the old village people.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Annie could not resist an impression in favour of the scheme. It gave
      definition to the vague intentions with which she had returned to
      Hatboro'; it might afford her a chance to make reparation for the figure
      on the soldiers' monument.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm not sure,&rdquo; she began. &ldquo;If I knew just what a Social Union is&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, at first,&rdquo; Mr. Brandreth interposed, &ldquo;it will only be a
      reading-room, supplied with the magazines and papers, and well lighted and
      heated, where the work-people&mdash;those who have no families especially&mdash;could
      spend their evenings. Afterward we should hope to have a kitchen, and
      supply tea and coffee&mdash;and oysters, perhaps&mdash;at a nominal cost;
      and ice-cream in the summer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what have your outdoor theatricals to do&mdash;But of course. You
      intend to give the proceeds&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Exactly. And we want the proceeds to be as large as possible. We propose
      to give our time and money to getting the thing up in the best shape, and
      then we want all the villagers to give their half-dollars and make it a
      success every way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I see,&rdquo; said Annie.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We want it to be successful, and we want it to be distinguished; we want
      to make it unique. Mrs. Munger is going to give her grounds and the
      decorations, and there will be a supper afterward, and a little dance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Such things are a great deal of trouble,&rdquo; said Annie, with a smile, from
      the vantage-ground of her larger experience. &ldquo;What do you propose to do&mdash;what
      play?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, we've about decided upon some scenes from <i>Romeo and Juliet</i>.
      They would be very easy to set, outdoors, don't you know, and everybody
      knows them, and they wouldn't be hard to do. The ballroom in the house of
      the Capulets could be made to open on a kind of garden terrace&mdash;Mrs.
      Munger has a lovely terrace in her grounds for lawn-tennis&mdash;and then
      we could have a minuet on the grass. You know Miss Mather introduces a
      minuet in that scene, and makes a great deal of it. Or, I forgot. She's
      come up since you went away.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; I hadn't heard of her. Isn't a minuet at Verona in the time of the
      Scaligeri rather&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, yes, it is, rather. But you've no idea how pretty it is. And then,
      you know, we could have the whole of the balcony scene, and other bits
      that we choose to work in&mdash;perhaps parts of other acts that would
      suit the scene.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, it would be charming; I can see how very charming it could be made.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then we may count upon you?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;but I don't really know what I'm to do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Brandreth had risen; but he sat down again, as if glad to afford her
      any light he could throw upon the subject.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How am I to 'influence people,' as you say?&rdquo; she continued. &ldquo;I'm quite a
      stranger in Hatboro'; I hardly know anybody.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But a great many people know <i>you</i>, Miss Kilburn. Your name is
      associated with the history of the place, and you could do everything for
      us. You <i>won't</i> refuse!&rdquo; cried Mr. Brandreth winningly. &ldquo;For
      instance, you know Mrs. Wilmington.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh yes; she's an old girl-friend of mine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then you know how enormously clever she is. She can do anything. We want
      her to take an active part&mdash;the part of the Nurse. She's delightfully
      funny. But you know her peculiar temperament&mdash;how she hates
      initiative of all kinds; and we want somebody to bring Mr. Wilmington
      round. If we could get them committed to the scheme, and a man like Mr.
      Putney&mdash;he'd make a capital Mercutio&mdash;it would go like wildfire.
      We want to interest the churches, too. The object is so worthy, and the
      theatricals will be so entirely unobjectionable in every respect. We have
      the Unitarians and Universalists, of course. The Baptists and Methodists
      will be hard to manage; but the Orthodox are of so many different shades;
      and I understand the new minister, Mr. Peck, is very liberal. He was here
      in your house, I believe.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; but I never saw him,&rdquo; said Annie. &ldquo;He boarded with the farmer. I'm a
      Unitarian myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course. It would be a great point gained if we could interest him.
      Every care will be taken to have the affair unobjectionable. You see, the
      design is to let everybody come to the theatricals, and only those remain
      to the supper and dance whom we invite. That will keep out the socially
      objectionable element&mdash;the shoe-shop hands and the straw-shop girls.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh,&rdquo; said Annie. &ldquo;But isn't the&mdash;the Social Union for just that
      class?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, it's <i>expressly</i> for them, and we intend to organise a system
      of entertainments&mdash;lectures, concerts, readings&mdash;for the winter,
      and keep them interested the whole year round in it. The object is to show
      them that the best people in the community have their interests at heart,
      and wish to get on common ground with them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Annie, &ldquo;the object is certainly very good.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Brandreth rose again, and put out his hand. &ldquo;Then you will help us?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I don't know about that yet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At least you won't hinder us?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly not.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then I consider you in a very hopeful condition, Miss Kilburn, and I feel
      that I can safely leave you to Mrs. Munger. She is coming to see you as
      soon as she gets back.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Annie found herself sadder when he was gone, and she threw herself upon
      the old feather-cushioned lounge to enjoy a reverie in keeping with the
      dreary storm outside. Was it for this that she had left Rome? She had
      felt, as every American of conscience feels abroad, the drawings of a
      duty, obscure and indefinable, toward her country, the duty to come home
      and do something for it, be something in it. This is the impulse of no
      common patriotism; it is perhaps a sense of the opportunity which America
      supremely affords for the race to help itself, and for each member of it
      to help all the rest.
    </p>
    <p>
      But from the moment Annie arrived in Hatboro' the difficulty of being
      helpful to anything or any one had increased upon her with every new fact
      that she had learned about it and the people in it. To her they seemed
      terribly self-sufficing. They seemed occupied and prosperous, from her
      front parlour window; she did not see anybody going by who appeared to be
      in need of her; and she shrank from a more thorough exploration of the
      place. She found she had fancied necessity coming to her and taking away
      her good works, as it were, in a basket; but till Mr. Brandreth appeared
      with his scheme, nothing had applied for her help. She had always hated
      theatricals; they bored her; and yet the Social Union was a good object,
      and if this scheme would bring her acquainted in Hatboro' it might be the
      stepping-stone to something better, something really or more ideally
      useful. She wondered what South Hatboro' was like; she would get Mrs.
      Bolton's opinion, which, if severe, would be just. She would ask Mrs.
      Bolton about Mrs. Munger, too. She would tell Mrs. Bolton to tell Mr. Peck
      to call to dine. Would it be thought patronising to Mr. Peck?
    </p>
    <p>
      The fire from the Franklin-stove diffused a drowsy comfort through the
      room, the rain lashed the window-panes, and the wind shrilled in the
      gable. Annie fell off to sleep. When she woke up she heard Mrs. Bolton
      laying the table for her one o'clock dinner, and she knew it was half-past
      twelve, because Mrs. Bolton always laid the table just half an hour
      beforehand. She went out to speak to Mrs. Bolton.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was no want of distinctness in Mrs. Bolton's opinion, but Annie felt
      that there was a want of perspective and proportion in it, arising from
      the narrowness of Mrs. Bolton's experience and her ignorance of the world;
      she was farm-bred, and she had always lived upon the outskirts of
      Hatboro', even when it was a much smaller place than now. But Mrs. Bolton
      had her criterions, and she believed in them firmly; in a time when
      agnosticism extends among cultivated people to every region of conjecture,
      the social convictions of Mrs. Bolton were untainted by misgiving. In the
      first place, she despised laziness, and as South Hatboro' was the summer
      home of open and avowed disoccupation, of an idleness so entire that it
      had to seek refuge from itself in all manner of pastimes, she held its
      population in a contempt to which her meagre phrase did imperfect justice.
      From time to time she had to stop altogether, and vent it in &ldquo;Wells!&rdquo; of
      varying accents and inflections, but all expressive of aversion, and in
      snorts and sniffs still more intense in purport.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then she held that people who had nothing else to do ought at least to be
      exemplary in their lives, and she was merciless to the goings-on in South
      Hatboro', which had penetrated on the breath of scandal to the elder
      village. When Annie came to find out what these were, she did not think
      them dreadful; they were small flirtations and harmless intimacies between
      the members of the summer community, which in the imagination of the
      village blackened into guilty intrigue. On the tongues of some, South
      Hatboro' was another Gomorrah; Mrs. Bolton believed the worst, especially
      of the women.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hear,&rdquo; said Mrs. Bolton, &ldquo;that them women come up here for <i>rest</i>.
      I don't know what they want to rest <i>from</i>; but if it's from doin'
      nothin' all winter long, I guess they go back to the city poot' near's
      tired's they come.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Perhaps Annie felt that it was useless to try to enlighten her in regard
      to the fatigues from which the summer sojourner in the country escapes so
      eagerly; the cares of giving and going to lunches and dinners; the labour
      of afternoon teas; the late hours and the heavy suppers of evening
      receptions; the drain of charity-doing and play-going; the slavery of
      amateur art study, and parlour readings, and musicales; the writing of
      invitations and acceptances and refusals; the trying on of dresses; the
      calls made and received. She let her talk on, and tried to figure, as well
      as she could from her talk, the form and magnitude of the task laid upon
      her by Mr. Brandreth, of reconciling Old Hatboro' to South Hatboro', and
      uniting them in a common enterprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mrs. Bolton,&rdquo; she said, abruptly leaving the subject at last, &ldquo;I've been
      thinking whether I oughtn't to do something about Mr. Peck. I don't want
      him to feel that he was unwelcome to me in my house; I should like him to
      feel that I approved of his having been here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As this was not a question, Mrs. Bolton, after the fashion of country
      people, held her peace, and Annie went on&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Does he never come to see you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, he was here last night,&rdquo; said Mrs. Bolton.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Last <i>night</i>!&rdquo; cried Annie. &ldquo;Why in the world didn't you let me
      know?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I didn't know as you wanted to know,&rdquo; began Mrs. Bolton, with a sullen
      defiance mixed with pleasure in Annie's reproach. &ldquo;He was out there in my
      settin'-room with his little girl.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But don't you see that if you didn't let me know he was here it would
      look to him as if I didn't wish to meet him&mdash;as if I had told you
      that you were not to introduce him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Probably Mrs. Bolton believed too that a man's mind was agile enough for
      these conjectures; but she said she did not suppose he would take it in
      that way; she added that he stayed longer than she expected, because the
      little girl seemed to like it so much; she always cried when she had to go
      away.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you mean that she's attached to the place?&rdquo; demanded Annie.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, yes, she is,&rdquo; Mrs. Bolton admitted. &ldquo;And the cat.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Annie had a great desire to tell Mrs. Bolton that she had behaved very
      stupidly. But she knew Mrs. Bolton would not stand that, and she had to
      content herself with saying, severely, &ldquo;The next time he comes, let me
      know without fail, please. What is the child like?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I guess it must favour the mother, if anything. It don't seem to
      take after him any.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why don't you have it here often, then,&rdquo; asked Annie, &ldquo;if it's so much
      attached to the place?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well I didn't know as you wanted to have it round,&rdquo; replied Mrs. Bolton
      bluntly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Annie made a &ldquo;Tchk!&rdquo; of impatience with her obtuseness, and asked, &ldquo;Where
      is Mr. Peck staying?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, he's staying at Mis' Warner's till he can get settled.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it far from here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's down in the north part of the village&mdash;Over the Track.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is Mr. Bolton at home?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, he is,&rdquo; said Mrs. Bolton, with the effect of not intending to deny
      it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then I want him to hitch up&mdash;now&mdash;at once&mdash;right away&mdash;and
      go and get the child and bring her here to dinner with me.&rdquo; Annie got so
      far with her severity, feeling that it was needed to mask a proceeding so
      romantic, perhaps so silly. She added timidly, &ldquo;Can he do it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I d'know but what he can,&rdquo; said Mrs. Bolton, dryly, and whatever her
      feeling really was in regard to the matter, her manner gave no hint of it.
      Annie did not know whether Bolton was going on her errand or not, from
      Mrs. Bolton, but in ten or twelve minutes she saw him emerge from the
      avenue into the street, in the carry-all, tightly curtained against the
      storm. Half an hour later he returned, and his wife set down in the
      library a shabbily dressed little girl, with her cheeks bright and her
      hair curling from the weather, and staring at Annie, and rather disposed
      to cry. She said hastily, &ldquo;Bring in the cat, Mrs. Bolton; we're going to
      have the cat to dinner with us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This inspiration seemed to decide the little girl against crying. The cat
      was equipped with a doily, and actually provided with dinner at a small
      table apart; the child did not look at it as Annie had expected she would,
      but remained with her eyes fastened on Annie herself: She did not stir
      from the spot where Mrs. Bolton had put her down, but she let Annie take
      her up and arrange her in a chair, with large books graduated to the
      desired height under her, and made no sign of satisfaction or disapproval.
      Once she looked round, when Mrs. Bolton finally went out after bringing in
      the last dish for dinner, and then fastened her eyes on Annie again,
      twisting her head shyly round to follow her in every gesture and
      expression as Annie fitted on a napkin under her chin, cut up her meat,
      poured her milk, and buttered her bread. She answered nothing to the
      chatter which Annie tried to make lively and entertaining, and made no
      sound but that of a broken and suppressed breathing. Annie had forgotten
      to ask her name of Mrs. Bolton, and she asked it in vain of the child
      herself, with a great variety of circumlocution; she was so unused to
      children that she was ashamed to invent any pet name for her; she called
      her, in what she felt to be a stiff and school-mistressly fashion, &ldquo;Little
      Girl,&rdquo; and talked on at her, growing more and more nervous herself without
      perceiving that the child's condition was approaching a climax. She had
      taken off her glasses, from the notion that they embarrassed her guest,
      and she did not see the pretty lips beginning to curl, nor the searching
      eyes clouding with tears; the storm of sobs that suddenly burst upon her
      astounded her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mrs. Bolton! Mrs. Bolton!&rdquo; she screamed, in hysterical helplessness. Mrs.
      Bolton rushed in, and with an instant perception of the situation, caught
      the child to her bony breast, and fled with it to her own room, where
      Annie heard its wails die gradually away amid murmurs of comfort and
      reassurance from Mrs. Bolton.
    </p>
    <p>
      She felt like a great criminal and a great fool; at the same time she was
      vexed with the stupid child which she had meant so well by, and indignant
      with Mrs. Bolton, whose flight with it had somehow implied a reproach of
      her behaviour. When she could govern herself, she went out to Mrs.
      Bolton's room, where she found the little one quiet enough, and Mrs.
      Bolton tying on the long apron in which she cleared up the dinner and
      washed the dishes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I guess she'll get along now,&rdquo; she said, without the critical tone which
      Annie was prepared to resent. &ldquo;She was scared some, and she felt kind of
      strange, I presume.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, and I behaved like a simpleton, dressing up the cat, I suppose,&rdquo;
       answered Annie. &ldquo;But I thought it would amuse her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You can't tell how children will take a thing. I don't believe they like
      anything that's out of the common&mdash;well, not a great deal.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was a leniency in Mrs. Bolton's manner which encouraged Annie to go
      on and accuse herself more and more, and then an unresponsive blankness
      that silenced her. She went back to her own rooms; and to get away from
      her shame, she began to write a letter.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was to a friend in Rome, and from the sense we all have that a letter
      which is to go such a great distance ought to be a long letter, and from
      finding that she had really a good deal to say, she let it grow so that
      she began apologising for its length half a dozen pages before the end. It
      took her nearly the whole afternoon, and she regained a little of her
      self-respect by ridiculing the people she had met.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      VI.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Toward five o'clock Annie was interrupted by a knock at her door, which
      ought to have prepared her for something unusual, for it was Mrs. Bolton's
      habit to come and go without knocking. But she called &ldquo;Come in!&rdquo; without
      rising from her letter, and Mrs. Bolton entered with a stranger. The
      little girl clung to his forefinger, pressing her head against his leg,
      and glancing shyly up at Annie. She sprang up, and, &ldquo;This is Mr. Peck,
      Miss Kilburn,&rdquo; said Mrs. Bolton.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How do you do?&rdquo; said Mr. Peck, taking the hand she gave him.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was gaunt, without being tall, and his clothes hung loosely about him,
      as if he had fallen away in them since they were made. His face was almost
      the face of the caricature American: deep, slightly curved vertical lines
      enclosed his mouth in their parenthesis; a thin, dust-coloured beard fell
      from his cheeks and chin; his upper lip was shaven. But instead of the
      slight frown of challenge and self-assertion which marks this face in the
      type, his large blue eyes, set near together, gazed sadly from under a
      smooth forehead, extending itself well up toward the crown, where his dry
      hair dropped over it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am very glad to see you, Mr. Peck,&rdquo; said Annie; &ldquo;I've wanted to tell
      you how pleased I am that you found shelter in my old home when you first
      came to Hatboro'.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Peck's trousers were short and badly kneed, and his long coat hung
      formlessly from his shoulders; she involuntarily took a patronising tone
      toward him which was not habitual with her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you,&rdquo; he said, with the dry, serious voice which seemed the fit
      vocal expression of his presence; &ldquo;I have been afraid that it seemed like
      an intrusion to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, not the least,&rdquo; retorted Annie. &ldquo;You were very welcome. I hope you're
      comfortably placed where you are now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quite so,&rdquo; said the minister.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'd heard so much of your little girl from Mrs. Bolton, and her
      attachment to the house, that I ventured to send for her to-day. But I
      believe I gave her rather a bad quarter of an hour, and that she liked the
      place better under Mrs. Bolton's <i>régime</i>.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She expected some deprecatory expression of gratitude from him, which
      would relieve her of the lingering shame she felt for having managed so
      badly, but he made none.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was my fault. I'm not used to children, and I hadn't taken the
      precaution to ask her name&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Her name is Idella,&rdquo; said the minister.
    </p>
    <p>
      Annie thought it very ugly, but, with the intention of saying something
      kind, she said, &ldquo;What a quaint name!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was her mother's choice,&rdquo; returned the minister. &ldquo;Her own name was
      Ella, and my mother's name was Ida; she combined the two.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; said Annie. She abhorred those made-up names in which the New
      England country people sometimes indulge their fancy, and Idella struck
      her as a particularly repulsive invention; but she felt that she must not
      visit the fault upon the little creature. &ldquo;Don't you think you could give
      me another trial some time, Idella?&rdquo; She stooped down and took the child's
      unoccupied hand, which she let her keep, only twisting her face away to
      hide it in her father's pantaloon leg. &ldquo;Come now, won't you give me a
      forgiving little kiss?&rdquo; Idella looked round, and Annie made bold to gather
      her up.
    </p>
    <p>
      Idella broke into a laugh, and took Annie's cheeks between her hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I declare!&rdquo; said Mrs. Bolton. &ldquo;You never can tell what that child
      will do next.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I never can tell what I will do next myself,&rdquo; said Annie. She liked the
      feeling of the little, warm, soft body in her arms, against her breast,
      and it was flattering to have triumphed where she had seemed to fail so
      desperately. They had all been standing, and she now said, &ldquo;Won't you sit
      down, Mr. Peck?&rdquo; She added, by an impulse which she instantly thought
      ill-advised, &ldquo;There is something I would like to speak to you about.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you,&rdquo; said Mr. Peck, seating himself beyond the stove. &ldquo;We must be
      getting home before a great while. It is nearly tea-time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I won't detain you unduly,&rdquo; said Annie.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bolton left them at her hint of something special to say to the
      minister. Annie could not have had the face to speak of Mr. Brandreth's
      theatricals in that grim presence; and as it was, she resolved to put
      forward their serious object. She began abruptly: &ldquo;Mr. Peck, I've been
      asked to interest myself for a Social Union which the ladies of South
      Hatboro' are trying to establish for the operatives. I suppose you haven't
      heard anything of the scheme?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I hadn't,&rdquo; said Mr. Peck.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was one of those people who sit very high, and he now seemed taller and
      more impressive than when he stood.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is certainly a very good object,&rdquo; Annie resumed; and she went on to
      explain it at second-hand from Mr. Brandreth as well as she could. The
      little girl was standing in her lap, and got between her and Mr. Peck, so
      that she had to look first around one side of her and then another to see
      how he was taking it.
    </p>
    <p>
      He nodded his head, and said gravely, &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; and &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; and &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; at each
      significant point of her statement. At the end he asked: &ldquo;And are the
      means forthcoming? Have they raised the money for renting and furnishing
      the rooms?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, no, they haven't yet, or not quite, as I understand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have they tried to interest the working people themselves in it? If they
      are to value its benefits, it ought to cost them something&mdash;self-denial,
      privation even.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I know,&rdquo; Annie began.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm not satisfied,&rdquo; the minister pursued, &ldquo;that it is wise to provide
      people with even harmless amusements that take them much away from their
      homes. These things are invented by well-to-do people who have no
      occupation, and think that others want pastimes as much as themselves. But
      what working people want is rest, and what they need are decent homes
      where they can take it. Besides, unless they help to support this union
      out of their own means, the better sort among them will feel wounded by
      its existence, as a sort of superfluous charity.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I see,&rdquo; said Annie. She saw this side of the affair with surprise.
      The minister seemed to have thought more about such matters than she had,
      and she insensibly receded from her first hasty generalisation of him, and
      paused to reapproach him on another level. The little girl began to play
      with her glasses, and accidentally knocked them from her nose. The
      minister's face and figure became a blur, and in the purblindness to which
      she was reduced she had a moment of clouded volition in which she was
      tempted to renounce, and even oppose, the scheme for a Social Union, in
      spite of her promise to Mr. Brandreth. But she remembered that she was a
      consistent and faithful person, and she said: &ldquo;The ladies have a plan for
      raising the money, and they've applied to me to second it&mdash;to use my
      influence somehow among the villagers to get them interested; and the
      working people can help too if they choose. But I'm quite a stranger
      amongst those I'm expected to influence, and I don't at all know how they
      will take it.&rdquo; The minister listened, neither prompting nor interrupting.
      &ldquo;The ladies' plan is to have an entertainment at one of the cottages, and
      charge an admission, and devote the proceeds to the union.&rdquo; She paused.
      Mr. Peck still remained silent, but she knew he was attentive. She pushed
      on. &ldquo;They intend to have a&mdash;a representation, in the open air, of one
      of Shakespeare's plays, or scenes from one&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you wish me,&rdquo; interrupted the minister, &ldquo;to promote the establishment
      of this union? Is that why you speak to me of it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, I don't know <i>why</i> I speak to you of it,&rdquo; she replied with a
      laugh of embarrassment, to which he was cold, apparently. &ldquo;I certainly
      couldn't ask you to take part in an affair that you didn't approve.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know that I disapprove of it. Properly managed, it might be a
      good thing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, of course. But I understand why you might not sympathise with that
      part of it, and that is why I told you of it,&rdquo; said Annie.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What part?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The&mdash;the&mdash;theatricals.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why not?&rdquo; asked the minister.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know&mdash;Mrs. Bolton told me you were very liberal,&rdquo; Annie faltered
      on; &ldquo;but I didn't expect you as a&mdash;But of course&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I read Shakespeare a great deal,&rdquo; said Mr. Peck. &ldquo;I have never been in
      the theatre; but I should like to see one of his plays represented where
      it could cause no one to offend.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Annie, &ldquo;and this would be by amateurs, and there could be no
      <i>possible</i> 'offence in it.' I wished to know how the general idea
      would strike you. Of course the ladies would be only too glad of your
      advice and co-operation. Their plan is to sell tickets to every one for
      the theatricals, and to a certain number of invited persons for a supper,
      and a little dance afterward on the lawn.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know if I understand exactly,&rdquo; said the minister.
    </p>
    <p>
      Annie repeated her statement more definitely, and explained, from Mr.
      Brandreth, as before, that the invitations were to be given so as to
      eliminate the shop-hand element from the supper and dance.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Peck listened quietly. &ldquo;That would prevent my taking part in the
      affair,&rdquo; he said, as quietly as he had listened.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course&mdash;dancing,&rdquo; Annie began.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is not that. Many people who hold strictly to the old opinions now
      allow their children to learn dancing. But I could not join at all with
      those who were willing to lay the foundations of a Social Union in a
      social disunion&mdash;in the exclusion of its beneficiaries from the
      society of their benefactors.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was not sarcastic, but the grotesqueness of the situation as he had
      sketched it was apparent. She remembered now that she had felt something
      incongruous in it when Mr. Brandreth exposed it, but not deeply.
    </p>
    <p>
      The minister continued gently: &ldquo;The ladies who are trying to get up this
      Social Union proceed upon the assumption that working people can neither
      see nor feel a slight; but it is a great mistake to do so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Annie had the obtuseness about those she fancied below her which is one of
      the consequences of being brought up in a superior station. She believed
      that there was something to say on the other side, and she attempted to
      say it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know that you could call it a slight exactly. People can ask
      those they prefer to a social entertainment.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes&mdash;if it is for their own pleasure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But even in a public affair like this the work-people would feel
      uncomfortable and out of place, wouldn't they, if they stayed to the
      supper and the dance? They might be exposed to greater suffering among
      those whose manners and breeding were different, and it might be very
      embarrassing all round. Isn't there that side to be regarded?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You beg the question,&rdquo; said the minister, as unsparingly as if she were a
      man. &ldquo;The point is whether a Social Union beginning in social exclusion
      could ever do any good. What part do these ladies expect to take in
      maintaining it? Do they intend to spend their evenings there, to associate
      on equal terms with the shoe-shop and straw-shop hands?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't suppose they do, but I don't know,&rdquo; said Annie dryly; and she
      replied by helplessly quoting Mr. Brandreth: &ldquo;They intend to organise a
      system of lectures, concerts, and readings. They wish to get on common
      ground with them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They can never get on common ground with them in that way,&rdquo; said the
      minister. &ldquo;No doubt they think they want to do them good; but good is from
      the heart, and there is no heart in what they propose. The working people
      would know that at once.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then you mean to say,&rdquo; Annie asked, half alarmed and half amused, &ldquo;that
      there can be no friendly intercourse with the poor and the well-to-do
      unless it is based upon social equality?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will answer your question by asking another. Suppose you were one of
      the poor, and the well-to-do offered to be friendly with you on such terms
      as you have mentioned, how should you feel toward them?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you make it a personal question&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It makes itself a personal question,&rdquo; said the minister dispassionately.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, I trust I should have the good sense to see that social
      equality between people who were better dressed, better taught, and better
      bred than myself was impossible, and that for me to force myself into
      their company was not only bad taste, but it was foolish, I have often
      heard my father say that the great superiority of the American practice of
      democracy over the French ideal was that it didn't involve any assumption
      of social equality. He said that equality before the law and in politics
      was sacred, but that the principle could never govern society, and that
      Americans all instinctively recognised it. And I believe that to try to
      mix the different classes would be un-American.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Peck smiled, and this was the first break in his seriousness. &ldquo;We
      don't know what is or will be American yet. But we will suppose you are
      quite right. The question is, how would you feel toward the people whose
      company you wouldn't force yourself into?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, of course,&rdquo; Annie was surprised into saying, &ldquo;I suppose I shouldn't
      feel very kindly toward them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Even if you knew that they felt kindly toward you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm afraid that would only make the matter worse,&rdquo; she said, with an
      uneasy laugh.
    </p>
    <p>
      The minister was silent on his side of the stove.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But do I understand you to say,&rdquo; she demanded, &ldquo;that there can be no love
      at all, no kindness, between the rich and the poor? God tells us all to
      love one another.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Surely,&rdquo; said the minister. &ldquo;Would you suffer such a slight as your
      friends propose, to be offered to any one you loved?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She did not answer, and he continued, thoughtfully: &ldquo;I suppose that if a
      poor person could do a rich person a kindness which cost him some
      sacrifice, he might love him. In that case there could be love between the
      rich and the poor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And there could be no love if a rich man did the same?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh yes,&rdquo; the minister said&mdash;&ldquo;upon the same ground. Only, the rich
      man would have to make a sacrifice first that he would really feel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then you mean to say that people can't do any good at all with their
      money?&rdquo; Annie asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Money is a palliative, but it can't cure. It can sometimes create a bond
      of gratitude perhaps, but it can't create sympathy between rich and poor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But <i>why</i> can't it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because sympathy&mdash;common feeling&mdash;the sense of fraternity&mdash;can
      spring only from like experiences, like hopes, like fears. And money
      cannot buy these.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He rose, and looked a moment about him, as if trying to recall something.
      Then, with a stiff obeisance, he said, &ldquo;Good evening,&rdquo; and went out, while
      she remained daunted and bewildered, with the child in her arms, as
      unconscious of having kept it as he of having left it with her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bolton must have reminded him of his oversight, for after being gone
      so long as it would have taken him to walk to her parlour and back, he
      returned, and said simply, &ldquo;I forgot Idella.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He put out his hands to take her, but she turned perversely from him, and
      hid her face in Annie's neck, pushing his hands away with a backward reach
      of her little arm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, Idella!&rdquo; he said. Idella only snuggled the closer.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bolton came in with the little girl's wraps; they were very common
      and poor, and the thought of getting her something prettier went through
      Annie's mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      At sight of Mrs. Bolton the child turned from Annie to her older friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm afraid you have a woman-child for your daughter, Mr. Peck,&rdquo; said
      Annie, remotely hurt at the little one's fickleness.
    </p>
    <p>
      Neither Mr. Peck nor Mrs. Bolton smiled, and with some vague intention of
      showing him that she could meet the poor on common ground by sharing their
      labours, she knelt down and helped Mrs. Bolton tie on and button on
      Idella's things.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      VII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Next morning the day broke clear after the long storm, and Annie woke in
      revolt against the sort of subjection in which she had parted from Mr.
      Peck. She felt the need of showing Mrs. Bolton that, although she had been
      civil to him, she had no sympathy with his ideas; but she could not think
      of any way to formulate her opposition, and all she could say in offence
      was, &ldquo;Does Mr. Peck usually forget his child when he starts home?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know as he does,&rdquo; answered Mrs. Bolton simply. &ldquo;He's rather of an
      absent-minded man, and I suppose he's like other men when he gets
      talking.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The child's clothes were disgracefully shabby!&rdquo; said Annie, vexed that
      her attack could come to no more than this.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I presume,&rdquo; said Mrs. Bolton, &ldquo;that if he kept more of his money for
      himself, he could dress her better.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, that's the way with these philanthropists,&rdquo; said Annie, thinking of
      Hollingsworth, in <i>The Blithedale Romance</i>, the only philanthropist
      whom she had really ever known, &ldquo;They are always ready to sacrifice the
      happiness and comfort of any one to the general good.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bolton stood a moment, and then went out without replying; but she
      looked as offended as Annie could have wished. About ten o'clock the bell
      rang, and she came gloomily into the study, and announced that Mrs. Munger
      was in the parlour.
    </p>
    <p>
      Annie had already heard an authoritative rustling of skirts, and she was
      instinctively prepared for the large, vigorous woman who turned upon her
      from the picture she had been looking at on the wall, and came toward her
      with the confident air of one sure they must be friends. Mrs. Munger was
      dressed in a dark, firm woollen stuff, which communicated its colour, if
      not its material, to the matter-of-fact bonnet which she wore on her
      plainly dressed hair. In one of her hands, which were cased in driving
      gloves of somewhat insistent evidence, she carried a robust black silk
      sun-umbrella, and the effect of her dress otherwise might be summarised in
      the statement that where other women would have worn lace, she seemed to
      wear leather. She had not only leather gloves, and a broad leather belt at
      her waist, but a leather collar; her watch was secured by a leather cord,
      passing round her neck, and the stubby tassel of her umbrella stick was
      leather: she might be said to be in harness. She had a large, handsome
      face, no longer fresh, but with an effect of exemplary cleanness, and a
      pair of large grey eyes that suggested the notion of being newly washed,
      and that now looked at Annie with the assumption of fully understanding
      her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, Miss Kilburn!&rdquo; she said, without any of the wonted preliminaries of
      introduction and greeting. &ldquo;I should have come long ago to see you, but
      I've been dispersed over the four quarters of the globe ever since you
      came, my dear. I got home last night on the nine o'clock train, in the
      last agonies of that howling tempest. Did you ever know anything like it?
      I see your trees have escaped. I wonder they weren't torn to shreds.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Annie took her on her own ground of ignoring their past non-acquaintance.
      &ldquo;Yes, it was awful. And your son&mdash;how did you leave him? Mr.
      Brandreth&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh yes, poor little man! I found him waiting for me at home last night,
      and he told me he had been here. He was blowing about in the storm all
      day. Such a spirit! There was nothing serious the matter; the bridge of
      the nose was all right; merely the cartilage pushed aside by the ball.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She had passed so lightly from Mr. Brandreth's heroic spirit to her son's
      nose that Annie, woman as she was, and born to these bold bounds over
      sequence, was not sure where they had arrived, till Mrs. Munger added:
      &ldquo;Jim's used to these things. I'm thankful it wasn't a finger, or an eye.
      What is <i>that</i>?&rdquo; She jumped from her chair, and swooped upon the
      Spanish-Roman water-colour Annie had stood against some books on the
      table, pending its final disposition.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's only a Guerra,&rdquo; said Annie. &ldquo;My things are all scattered about
      still; I have scarcely tried to get into shape yet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Munger would not let her interpose any idea of there being a past
      between them. She merely said: &ldquo;You knew the Herricks at Rome, of course.
      I'm in hopes I shall get them here when they come back. I want you to help
      me colonise Hatboro' with the right sort of people: it's so easy to get
      the wrong sort! But, so far, I think we've succeeded beyond our wildest
      dreams. It's easy enough to get nice people together at the seaside; but
      inland! No; it's only a very few nice people who will come into the
      country for the summer; and we propose to make Hatboro' a winter colony
      too; that gives us agreeable invalids, you know; it gave us the
      Brandreths. He told you of our projected theatricals, I suppose?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Annie non-committally, &ldquo;he did.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know just how you feel about it, my dear,&rdquo; said Mrs. Munger. &ldquo;'Been
      there myself,' as Jim says. But it grows upon you. I'm glad you didn't
      refuse outright;&rdquo; and Mrs. Munger looked at her with eyes of large
      expectance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I didn't,&rdquo; said Annie, obliged by this expectance to say something.
      &ldquo;But to tell you the truth, Mrs. Munger, I don't see how I'm to be of any
      use to you or to Mr. Brandreth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, take a cab and go about, like Boots and Brewer, you know, for the
      Veneerings.&rdquo; She said this as if she knew about the humour rather than
      felt it. &ldquo;We are placing all our hopes of bringing round the Old
      Hatborians in you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm afraid you're mistaken about my influence,&rdquo; said Annie. &ldquo;Mr.
      Brandreth spoke of it, and I had an opportunity of trying it last night,
      and seeing just what it amounted to.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes?&rdquo; Mrs. Munger prompted, with an increase of expectance in her large
      clear eyes, and of impartiality in her whole face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Peck was here,&rdquo; said Annie reluctantly, &ldquo;and I tried it on him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes?&rdquo; repeated Mrs. Munger, as immutably as if she were sitting for her
      photograph and keeping the expression.
    </p>
    <p>
      Annie broke from her reluctance with a sort of violence which carried her
      further than she would have gone otherwise. She ridiculed Mr. Peck's
      appearance and manner, and laughed at his ideas to Mrs. Munger. She had
      not a good conscience in it, but the perverse impulse persisted in her.
      There seemed no other way in which she could assert herself against him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Munger listened judicially, but she seemed to take in only what Mr.
      Peck had thought of the dance and supper; at the end she said, rather
      vacantly, &ldquo;What nonsense!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; but I'm afraid he thinks it's wisdom, and for all practical purposes
      it amounts to that. You see what my 'influence' has done at the outset,
      Mrs. Munger. He'll never give way on such a point.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, very well, then,&rdquo; said Mrs. Munger, with the utmost lightness and
      indifference, &ldquo;we'll drop the idea of the invited supper and dance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you think that would be well?&rdquo; asked Annie.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; why not? It's only an idea. I don't think you've made at all a bad
      beginning. It was very well to try the idea on some one who would be frank
      about it, and wouldn't go away and talk against it,&rdquo; said Mrs. Munger,
      rising. &ldquo;I want you to come with me, my dear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To see Mr. Peck? Excuse me. I don't think I could,&rdquo; said Annie.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; to see some of his parishioners,&rdquo; said Mrs. Munger. &ldquo;His deacons, to
      begin with, or his deacons' wives.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This seemed so much less than calling on Mr. Peck that Annie looked out at
      Mrs. Munger's basket-phaeton at her gate, and knew that she would go with
      very little more urgence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;After all, you know, you're not one of his congregation; he may yield to
      them,&rdquo; said Mrs. Munger. &ldquo;We must <i>have</i> him&mdash;if only because
      he's hard to get. It'll give us an idea of what we've got to contend
      with.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It had a very practical sound; it was really like meeting the difficulties
      on their own ground, and it overcame the question of taste which was
      rising in Annie's mind. She demurred a little more upon the theory of her
      uselessness; but Mrs. Munger insisted, and carried her off down the
      village street.
    </p>
    <p>
      The air sparkled full of sun, and a breeze from the south-west frolicked
      with the twinkling leaves of the overarching elms, and made their shadows
      dance on the crisp roadway, packed hard by the rain, and faced with clean
      sand, which crackled pleasantly under Mrs. Munger's phaeton wheels. She
      talked incessantly. &ldquo;I think we'll go first to Mrs. Gerrish's, and then to
      Mrs. Wilmington's. You know them?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh yes; they were old girl friends.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then you know why I go to Mrs. Gerrish's first. She'll care a great deal,
      and Mrs. Wilmington won't care at all. She's a delicious creature, Mrs.
      Wilmington&mdash;don't you think? That large, indolent nature; Mr.
      Brandreth says she makes him think of 'the land in which it seemed always
      afternoon.'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Annie remembered Lyra Goodman as a long, lazy, red-haired girl who laughed
      easily; and she could not readily realise her in the character of a
      Titian-esque beauty with a gift for humorous dramatics, which she had
      filled out into during the years of her absence from Hatboro'; but she
      said &ldquo;Oh yes,&rdquo; in the necessity of polite acquiescence, and Mrs. Munger
      went on talking&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She's the only one of the Old Hatboro' people, so far as I know them, who
      has any breadth of view. Whoa!&rdquo; She pulled up suddenly beside a stout,
      short lady in a fashionable walking dress, who was pushing an elegant
      perambulator with one hand, and shielding her complexion with a crimson
      sun-umbrella in the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mrs. Gerrish!&rdquo; Mrs. Munger called; and Mrs. Gerrish, who had already
      looked around at the approaching phaeton, and then looked away, so as not
      to have seemed to look, stopped abruptly, and after some exploration of
      the vicinity, discovered where the voice came from.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Mrs. Munger!&rdquo; she called back, bridling with pleasure at being
      greeted in that way by the chief lady of South Hatboro', and struggling to
      keep up a dignified indifference at the same time. &ldquo;Why, Annie!&rdquo; she
      added.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good morning, Emmeline,&rdquo; said Annie; she annexed some irrelevancies about
      the weather, which Mrs. Munger swept away with business-like robustness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We were driving down to your house to find you. I want to see the
      principal ladies of your church, and talk with them about our Social
      Union. You've heard about it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, nothing very particular,&rdquo; said Mrs. Gerrish; she had probably heard
      nothing at all. After a moment she asked, &ldquo;Have you seen Mrs. Wilmington
      yet?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I haven't,&rdquo; cried Mrs. Munger. &ldquo;The fact is, I wanted to talk it over
      with you and Mr. Gerrish first.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; said Mrs. Gerrish, brightening. &ldquo;Well, I was just going right there.
      I guess he's in.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, we shall meet there, then. Sorry I can't offer you a <i>seat</i>.
      But there's nothing but the rumble, and that wouldn't hold you <i>all</i>.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Munger called this back after starting her pony. Mrs. Gerrish did not
      understand, and screamed, &ldquo;<i>What</i>?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Munger repeated her joke at the top of her voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I can walk!&rdquo; Mrs. Gerrish yelled at the top of hers. Both the ladies
      laughed at their repartee.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She's as jealous of Mrs. Wilmington as a cat,&rdquo; Mrs. Munger confided to
      Annie as they drove away; &ldquo;and she's just as pleased as Punch that I've
      spoken to her first. Mrs. Wilmington won't mind. She's so delightfully
      indifferent, it really renders her almost superior; you might forget that
      she was a village person. But this has been an immense stroke. I don't
      know,&rdquo; she mused, &ldquo;whether I'd better let her get there first and prepare
      her husband, or do it myself. No; I'll let <i>her</i>. I'll stop here at
      Gates's.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She stopped at the pavement in front of a provision store, and a pale,
      stout man, in the long over-shirt of his business, came out to receive her
      orders. He stood, passing his hand through the top of a barrel of beans,
      and listened to Mrs. Munger with a humorous, patient smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Gates, I want you to send me up a leg of lamb for dinner&mdash;a
      large one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Last year's, then,&rdquo; suggested Gates.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; <i>this</i> year's,&rdquo; insisted Mrs. Munger; and Gates gave way with
      the air of pacifying a wilful child, which would get, after all, only what
      he chose to allow it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All right, ma'am; a large leg of this year's lamb&mdash;grown to order.
      Any peas, spinnage, cucumbers, sparrowgrass?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Southern, I suppose?&rdquo; said Mrs. Munger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, not if you want to call 'em native,&rdquo; said Gates.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I'll take two bunches of asparagus, and some peas.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Any strawberries?&mdash;natives?&rdquo; suggested Gates.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nonsense!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Same thing; natives of Norfolk.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You had better be honest with <i>me</i>, Mr. Gates,&rdquo; said Mrs. Munger.
      &ldquo;Yes, I'll take a couple of boxes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All right! Want 'em nice, and the biggest ones at the bottom of the box?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's what I thought. Some customers wants the big ones on top; but I
      tell 'em it's all foolishness; just vanity.&rdquo; Gates laughed a dry, hacking
      little laugh at his drollery, and kept his eyes on Annie. She smiled at
      last, with permissive recognition, and Gates came forward. &ldquo;Used to know
      your father pretty well; but I can't keep up with the young folks any
      more.&rdquo; He was really not many years older than Annie; he rubbed his right
      hand on the inside of his long shirt, and gave it her to shake. &ldquo;Well, you
      haven't been about much for the last nine or ten years, that's a fact.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eleven,&rdquo; said Annie, trying to be gay with the hand-shaking, and
      wondering if this were meeting the lower classes on common ground, and
      what Mr. Peck would think of it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That so?&rdquo; queried Gates. &ldquo;Well, I declare! No wonder you've grown!&rdquo; He
      hacked out another laugh, and stood on the curb-stone looking at Annie a
      moment. Then he asked, &ldquo;Anything else, Mrs. Munger?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; that's all. Tell me, Mr. Gates, how <i>do</i> Mr. Peck and Mr.
      Gerrish get on?&rdquo; asked Mrs. Munger in a lower tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said Gates, &ldquo;he's workin' round&mdash;the deacon's workin' round
      gradually, I guess. I guess if Mr. Peck was to put in a little more
      brimstone, the deacon'd be all right. He's a great hand for brimstone, you
      know, the deacon is.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Munger laughed again, and then she said, with a proselyting sigh,
      &ldquo;It's a pity you couldn't all find your way into the Church.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, may be it <i>would</i> be a good thing,&rdquo; said Gates, as Mrs. Munger
      gathered up her reins and chirped to her pony.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He isn't a member of Mr. Peck's church,&rdquo; she explained to Annie; &ldquo;but
      he's one of the society, and his wife's very devout Orthodox. He's a great
      character, we think, and he'll treat you very well, if you keep on the
      right side of him. They say he cheats awfully in the weight, though.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      VIII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Mrs. Munger drove across the street, and drew up before a large,
      handsomely ugly brick dry-goods store, whose showy windows had caught
      Annie's eye the day she arrived in Hatboro'.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I see Mrs. Gerrish has got here first,&rdquo; Mrs. Munger said, indicating the
      perambulator at the door, and she dismounted and fastened her pony with a
      weight, which she took from the front of the phaeton. On either door jamb
      of the store was a curved plate of polished metal, with the name GERRISH
      cut into it in black letters; the sills of the wide windows were of metal,
      and bore the same legend. At the threshold a very prim, ceremonious little
      man, spare and straight, met Mrs. Munger with a ceremonious bow, and a
      solemn &ldquo;How do you do, ma'am? how do you do? I hope I see you well,&rdquo; and
      he put a small dry hand into the ample clasp of Mrs. Munger's gauntlet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well indeed, Mr. Gerrish. Isn't it a lovely morning? You know Miss
      Kilburn, Mr. Gerrish.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He took Annie's hand into his right and covered it with his left, lifting
      his eyes to look her in the face with an old-merchant-like cordiality.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, yes, indeed! Delighted to see her. Her father was one of my best
      friends. I may say that I owe everything that I am to Squire Kilburn; he
      advised me to stick to commerce when I once thought of studying law. Glad
      to welcome you back to Hatboro', Miss Kilburn. You see changes on the
      surface, no doubt, but you'll find the genuine old feeling here. Walk
      right back, ladies,&rdquo; he continued, releasing Annie's hand to waft them
      before him toward the rear of the store. &ldquo;You'll find Mrs. Gerrish in my
      room there&mdash;my Growlery, as I call it.&rdquo; He seemed to think he had
      invented the name. &ldquo;And Mrs. Gerrish tells me that you've really come
      back,&rdquo; he said, leaning decorously toward Annie as they walked, &ldquo;with the
      intention of taking up your residence permanently among us. You will find
      very few places like Hatboro'.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As he spoke, walking with his hands clasped behind him, he glanced to
      right and left at the shop-girls on foot behind the counter, who dropped
      their eyes under their different bangs as they caught his glance, and
      bridled nervously. He denied them the use of chewing-gum; he permitted no
      conversation, as he called it, among them; and he addressed no jokes or
      idle speeches to them himself. A system of grooves overhead brought to his
      counting-room the cash from the clerks in wooden balls, and he returned
      the change, and kept the accounts, with a pitiless eye for errors. The
      women were afraid of him, and hated him with bitterness, which exploded at
      crises in excesses of hysterical impudence.
    </p>
    <p>
      His store was an example of variety, punctuality, and quality. Upon the
      theory, for which he deserved the credit, of giving to a country place the
      advantages of one of the great city establishments, he was gradually
      gathering, in their fashion, the small commerce into his hands. He had
      already opened his bazaar through into the adjoining store, which he had
      bought out, and he kept every sort of thing desired or needed in a country
      town, with a tempting stock of articles before unknown to the shopkeepers
      of Hatboro'. Everything was of the very quality represented; the prices
      were low, but inflexible, and cash payments, except in the case of some
      rich customers of unimpeachable credit, were invariably exacted; at the
      same time every reasonable facility for the exchange or return of goods
      was afforded. Nothing could exceed the justice and fidelity of his dealing
      with the public. He had even some effects of generosity in his dealing
      with his dependants; he furnished them free seats in the churches of their
      different persuasions, and he closed every night at six o'clock, except
      Saturday, when the shop hands were paid off, and made their purchases for
      the coming week.
    </p>
    <p>
      He stepped lightly before Annie and Mrs. Munger, and pushed open the
      ground-glass door of his office for them. It was like a bank parlour,
      except for Mrs. Gerrish sitting in her husband's leather-cushioned swivel
      chair, with her last-born in her lap; she greeted the others noisily,
      without trying to rise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You see we are quite at home here,&rdquo; said Mr. Gerrish.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, and very snug you are, too,&rdquo; said Mrs. Munger, taking one half of
      the leather lounge, and leaving the other half to Annie. &ldquo;I don't wonder
      Mrs. Gerrish likes to visit you here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Gerrish laughed, and said to his wife, who moved provisionally in her
      chair, seeing he had none, &ldquo;Sit still, my dear; I prefer my usual perch.&rdquo;
       He took a high stool beside a desk, and gathered a ruler in his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I may as well begin at the beginning,&rdquo; said Mrs. Munger, &ldquo;and I'll
      try to be short, for I know that these are business hours.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take all the time you want, Mrs. Munger,&rdquo; said Mr. Gerrish affably. &ldquo;It's
      my idea that a good business man's business can go on without him, when
      necessary.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course!&rdquo; Mrs. Munger sighed. &ldquo;If everybody had your <i>system</i>, Mr.
      Gerrish!&rdquo; She went on and succinctly expounded the scheme of the Social
      Union. &ldquo;I suppose I can't deny that the idea occurred to <i>me</i>,&rdquo; she
      concluded, &ldquo;but we can't hope to develop it without the co-operation of
      the ladies of Old Hatboro', and I've come, first of all, to Mrs. Gerrish.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Gerrish bowed his acknowledgments of the honour done his wife, with a
      gravity which she misinterpreted.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think,&rdquo; she began, with her censorious manner and accent, &ldquo;that these
      people have too much done for them <i>now</i>. They're perfectly spoiled.
      Don't you, Annie?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Gerrish did not give Annie time to answer. &ldquo;I differ with you, my
      dear,&rdquo; he cut in. &ldquo;It is my opinion&mdash;Or I don't know but you wish to
      confine this matter entirely to the ladies?&rdquo; he suggested to Mrs. Munger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I'm only too proud and glad that you feel interested in the matter!&rdquo;
       cried Mrs. Munger. &ldquo;Without the gentlemen's practical views, we ladies are
      such feeble folk&mdash;mere conies in the rocks.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am as much opposed as Mrs. Gerrish&mdash;or any one&mdash;to acceding
      to unjust demands on the part of my clerks or other employees,&rdquo; Mr.
      Gerrish began.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, that's what I mean,&rdquo; said his wife, and broke down with a giggle.
    </p>
    <p>
      He went on, without regarding her: &ldquo;I have always made it a rule, as far
      as business went, to keep my own affairs entirely in my own hands. I fix
      the hours, and I fix the wages, and I fix all the other conditions, and I
      say plainly, 'If you don't like them, 'don't come,' or 'don't stay,' and I
      never have any difficulty.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm sure,&rdquo; said Mrs. Munger, &ldquo;that if all the employers in the country
      would take such a stand, there would soon be an end of labour troubles. I
      think we're too concessive.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I do too, Mrs. Munger!&rdquo; cried Mrs. Gerrish, glad of the occasion to
      be censorious and of the finer lady's opinion at the same time. &ldquo;That's
      what I meant. Don't you, Annie?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm afraid I don't understand exactly,&rdquo; Annie replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Gerrish kept his eye on Mrs. Munger's face, now arranged for
      indefinite photography, as he went on. &ldquo;That is exactly what I say to
      them. That is what I said to Mr. Marvin one year ago, when he had that
      trouble in his shoe shop. I said, 'You're too concessive.' I said, 'Mr.
      Marvin, if you give those fellows an inch, they'll take an ell. Mr.
      Marvin,' said I, 'you've got to begin by being your own master, if you
      want to be master of anybody else. You've got to put your foot down, as
      Mr. Lincoln said; and as <i>I</i> say, you've got to <i>keep</i> it
      down.'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Gerrish looked at the other ladies for admiration, and Mrs. Munger
      said, rapidly, without disarranging her face&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh yes. And how much <i>misery</i> could be saved in such cases by a
      little firmness at the outset!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Marvin differed with me,&rdquo; said Mr. Gerrish sorrowfully. &ldquo;He agreed
      with me on the main point, but he said that too many of his hands had been
      in his regiment, and he couldn't lock them out. He submitted to
      arbitration. And what is arbitration?&rdquo; asked Mr. Gerrish, levelling his
      ruler at Mrs. Munger. &ldquo;It is postponing the evil day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Exactly,&rdquo; said Mrs. Munger, without winking.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Marvin,&rdquo; Mr. Gerrish proceeded, &ldquo;may be running very smoothly now,
      and sailing before the wind all&mdash;all&mdash;nicely; but I tell <i>you</i>
      his house is built upon the <i>sand</i>,&rdquo; He put his ruler by on the desk
      very softly, and resumed with impressive quiet: &ldquo;I never had any trouble
      but once. I had a porter in this store who wanted his pay raised. I simply
      said that I made it a rule to propose all advances of salary myself, and I
      should submit to no dictation from any one. He told me to go to&mdash;a
      place that I will not repeat, and I told him to walk out of my store. He
      was under the influence of liquor at the time, I suppose. I understand
      that he is drinking very hard. He does nothing to support his family
      whatever, and from all that I can gather, he bids fair to fill a
      drunkard's grave inside of six months.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Munger seized her opportunity. &ldquo;Yes; and it is just such cases as
      this that the Social Union is designed to meet. If this man had some such
      place to spend his evenings&mdash;and bring his family if he chose&mdash;where
      he could get a cup of good coffee for the same price as a glass of rum&mdash;Don't
      you see?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She looked round at the different faces, and Mr. Gerrish slightly frowned,
      as if the vision of the Social Union interposing between his late porter
      and a drunkard's grave, with a cup of good coffee, were not to his taste
      altogether; but he said: &ldquo;Precisely so! And I was about to make the remark
      that while I am very strict&mdash;and obliged to be&mdash;with those under
      me in business, <i>no</i> one is more disposed to promote such objects as
      this of yours.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was <i>sure</i> you would approve of it,&rdquo; said Mrs. Munger. &ldquo;That is
      why I came to you&mdash;to you and Mrs. Gerrish&mdash;first,&rdquo; said Mrs.
      Munger. &ldquo;I was sure you would see it in the right light.&rdquo; She looked round
      at Annie for corroboration, and Annie was in the social necessity of
      making a confirmatory murmur.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Gerrish ignored them both in the more interesting work of celebrating
      himself. &ldquo;I may say that there is not an institution in this town which I
      have not contributed my humble efforts to&mdash;to&mdash;establish, from
      the drinking fountain in front of this store, to the soldiers' monument on
      the village green.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Annie turned red; Mrs. Munger said shamelessly, &ldquo;That beautiful monument!&rdquo;
       and looked at Annie with eyes full of gratitude to Mr. Gerrish.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The schools, the sidewalks, the water-works, the free library, the
      introduction of electricity, the projected system of drainage, and <i>all</i>
      the various religious enterprises at various times, I am proud&mdash;I am
      humbly proud&mdash;that I have been allowed to be the means of doing&mdash;sustaining&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He lost himself in the labyrinths of his sentence, and Mrs. Munger came to
      his rescue: &ldquo;I fancy Hatboro' wouldn't be Hatboro' without <i>you</i>, Mr.
      Gerrish! And you <i>don't</i> think that Mr. Peck's objection will be
      seriously felt by other leading citizens?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>What</i> is Mr. Peck's objection?&rdquo; demanded Mr. Gerrish, perceptibly
      bristling up at the name of his pastor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, he talked it over with Miss Kilburn last night, and he objected to
      an entertainment which wouldn't be open to all&mdash;to the shop hands and
      everybody.&rdquo; Mrs. Munger explained the point fully. She repeated some
      things that Annie had said in ridicule of Mr. Peck's position regarding
      it. &ldquo;If you <i>do</i> think that part would be bad or impolitic,&rdquo; Mrs.
      Munger concluded, &ldquo;we could drop the invited supper and the dance, and
      simply have the theatricals.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She bent upon Mr. Gerrish a face of candid deference that filled him with
      self-importance almost to bursting.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No!&rdquo; he said, shaking his head, and &ldquo;No!&rdquo; closing his lips abruptly, and
      opening them again to emit a final &ldquo;No!&rdquo; with an explosive force which
      alone seemed to save him. &ldquo;Not at all, Mrs. Munger; not on any account! I
      am surprised at Mr. Peck, or rather I am <i>not</i> surprised. He is not a
      practical man&mdash;not a man of the world; and I should have much
      preferred to hear that he objected to the dancing and the play; I could
      have understood that; I could have gone with him in that to a certain
      extent, though I can see no harm in such things when properly conducted. I
      have a great respect for Mr. Peck; I was largely instrumental in getting
      him here; but he is altogether wrong in this matter. We are not obliged to
      go out into the highways and the hedges until the bidden guests have&mdash;er&mdash;declined.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Exactly,&rdquo; said Mrs. Munger. &ldquo;I never thought of that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Gerrish shifted her baby to another knee, and followed her husband
      with her eyes, as he dismounted from his stool and began to pace the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I came into this town a poor boy, without a penny in my pocket, and I
      have made my own way, every inch of it, unaided and alone. I am a thorough
      believer in giving every one an equal chance to rise and to&mdash;get
      along; I would not throw an obstacle in anybody's way; but I do not
      believe&mdash;I do <i>not</i> believe&mdash;in pampering those who have
      not risen, or have made no effort to rise.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's their wastefulness, in nine cases out of ten, that keeps them down,&rdquo;
       said Mrs. Gerrish.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't care <i>what</i> it is, I don't <i>ask</i> what it is, that keeps
      them down. I don't expect to invite my clerks or Mrs. Gerrish's servants
      into my parlour. I will meet them at the polls, or the communion table, or
      on any proper occasion; but a man's home is <i>sacred</i>. I will not
      allow my wife or my children to associate with those whose&mdash;whose&mdash;whose
      idleness, or vice, or whatever, has kept them down in a country where&mdash;where
      everybody stands on an equality; and what I will not do myself, I will not
      ask others to do. I make it a rule to do unto others as I would have them
      do unto me. It is all nonsense to attempt to introduce those one-ideaed
      notions into&mdash;put them in practice.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Mrs. Munger, with deep conviction, &ldquo;that is my own feeling,
      Mr. Gerrish, and I'm glad to have it corroborated by your experience. Then
      you <i>wouldn't</i> drop the little invited dance and supper?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will tell you how I feel about it, Mrs. Munger,&rdquo; said Mr. Gerrish,
      pausing in his walk, and putting on a fine, patronising,
      gentleman-of-the-old-school smile. &ldquo;You may put me down for any number of
      tickets&mdash;five, ten, fifteen&mdash;and you may command me in anything
      I can do to further the objects of your enterprise, if you will <i>keep</i>
      the invited supper and dance. But I should not be prepared to do anything
      if they are dropped.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a comfort it is to meet a person who knows his own mind!&rdquo; exclaimed
      Mrs. Munger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Got company, Billy?&rdquo; asked a voice at the door; and it added, &ldquo;Glad to
      see <i>you</i> here, Mrs. Gerrish.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, Mr. Putney! Come in. Hope I see you well, sir!&rdquo; cried Mr. Gerrish.
      &ldquo;Come in!&rdquo; he repeated, with jovial frankness. &ldquo;Nobody but friends here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know about that,&rdquo; said Mr. Putney, with whimsical perversity,
      holding the door ajar. &ldquo;I see that arch-conspirator from South Hatboro',&rdquo;
       he said, looking at Mrs. Munger.
    </p>
    <p>
      He showed himself, as he stood holding the door ajar, a lank little
      figure, dressed with reckless slovenliness in a suit of old-fashioned
      black; a loose neck-cloth fell stringing down his shirt front, which his
      unbuttoned waistcoat exposed, with its stains from the tobacco upon which
      his thin little jaws worked mechanically, as he stared into the room with
      flamy blue eyes; his silk hat was pushed back from a high, clear forehead;
      he had yesterday's stubble on his beardless cheeks; a heavy moustache and
      imperial gave dash to a cast of countenance that might otherwise have
      seemed slight and effeminate.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; but I'm in charge of Miss Kilburn, and you needn't be afraid of me.
      Come in. We wish to consult you,&rdquo; cried Mrs. Munger. Mrs. Gerrish cackled
      some applausive incoherencies.
    </p>
    <p>
      Putney advanced into the room, and dropped his burlesque air as he
      approached Annie.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss Kilburn, I must apologise for not having called with Mrs. Putney to
      pay my respects. I have been away; when I got back I found she had stolen
      a march on me. But I'm going to make Ellen bring me at once. I don't think
      I've been in your house since the old Judge's time. Well, he was an able
      man, and a good man; I was awfully fond of the old Judge, in a boy's way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you,&rdquo; said Annie, touched by something gentle and honest in his
      words.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He was a Christian gentleman,&rdquo; said Mr. Gerrish with authority.
    </p>
    <p>
      Putney said, without noticing Mr. Gerrish, &ldquo;Well, I'm glad you've come
      back to the old place, Miss Kilburn&mdash;I almost said Annie.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shouldn't have minded, Ralph,&rdquo; she retorted.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shouldn't you? Well, that's right.&rdquo; Putney continued, ignoring the laugh
      of the others at Annie's sally: &ldquo;You'll find Hatboro' pretty exciting,
      after Rome, for a while, I suppose. But you'll get used to it. It's got
      more of the modern improvements, I'm told, and it's more public-spirited&mdash;more
      snap to it. I'm told that there's more enterprise in Hatboro', more real
      <i>crowd</i> in South Hatboro' alone, than there is in the Quirinal and
      the Vatican put together.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You had better come and live at South Hatboro', Mr. Putney; that would be
      just the atmosphere for you,&rdquo; said Mrs. Munger, with aimless hospitality.
      She said this to every one.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it about coming to South Hatboro' you want to consult me?&rdquo; asked
      Putney.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, it is, and it isn't,&rdquo; she began.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Better be honest, Mrs. Munger,&rdquo; said Putney. &ldquo;You can't do anything for a
      client who won't be honest with his attorney. That's what I have to
      continually impress upon the reprobates who come to me. I say, 'It don't
      matter what you've done; if you expect me to get you off, you've got to
      make a clean breast of it.' They generally do; they see the sense of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They all laughed, and Mr. Gerrish said, &ldquo;Mr. Putney is one of Hatboro's
      privileged characters, Miss Kilburn.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you, Billy,&rdquo; returned the lawyer, with mock-tenderness. &ldquo;Now, Mrs.
      Munger, out with it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You'll have to tell him sooner or later, Mrs. Munger!&rdquo; said Mrs. Gerrish,
      with overweening pleasure in her acquaintance with both of these superior
      people. &ldquo;He'll get it out of you anyway.&rdquo; Her husband looked at her, and
      she fell silent.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Munger swept her with a tolerant smile as she looked up at Putney.
      &ldquo;Why, it's really Miss Kilburn's affair,&rdquo; she began; and she laid the case
      before the lawyer with a fulness that made Annie wince.
    </p>
    <p>
      Putney took a piece of tobacco from his pocket, and tore off a morsel with
      his teeth. &ldquo;Excuse me, Annie! It's a beastly habit. But it's saved me from
      something worse. <i>You</i> don't know what I've been; but anybody in
      Hatboro' can tell you. I made my shame so public that it's no use trying
      to blink the past. You don't have to be a hypocrite in a place where
      everybody's seen you in the gutter; that's the only advantage I've got
      over my fellow-citizens, and of course I abuse it; that's nature, you
      know. When I began to pull up I found that tobacco helped me; I smoked and
      chewed both; now I only chew. Well,&rdquo; he said, dropping the pathetic
      simplicity with which he had spoken, and turning with a fierce jocularity
      from the shocked and pitying look in Annie's face to Mrs. Munger, &ldquo;what do
      you propose to do? Brother Peck's head seems to be pretty level, in the
      abstract.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Mrs. Munger, willing to put the case impartially; &ldquo;and I
      should be perfectly willing to drop the invited dance and supper, if it
      was thought best, though I must say I don't at all agree with Mr. Peck in
      principle. I don't see what would become of society.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You ought to be in politics, Mrs. Munger,&rdquo; said Putney. &ldquo;Your readiness
      to sacrifice principle to expediency shows what a reform will be wrought
      when you ladies get the suffrage. What does Brother Gerrish think?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no,&rdquo; said Mrs. Munger. &ldquo;We want an impartial opinion.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I always think as Brother Gerrish thinks,&rdquo; said Putney. &ldquo;I guess you
      better give up the fandango; hey, Billy?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, sir; no, Mr. Putney,&rdquo; answered the merchant nervously. &ldquo;I can't agree
      with you. And I will tell you why, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He gave his reasons, with some abatement of pomp and detail, and with the
      tremulous eagerness of a solemn man who expects a sarcastic rejoinder. &ldquo;It
      would be a bad precedent. This town is full now of a class of persons who
      are using every opportunity to&mdash;to abuse their privileges. And this
      would be simply adding fuel to the flame.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you really think so, Billy?&rdquo; asked the lawyer, with cool derision.
      &ldquo;Well, we all abuse our privileges at every opportunity, of course; I was
      just saying that I abused mine; and I suppose those fellows would abuse
      theirs if you happened to hurt their wives' and daughters' feelings. And
      how are you going to manage? Aren't you afraid that they will hang around,
      after the show, indefinitely, unless you ask all those who have not
      received invitations to the dance and supper to clear the grounds, as they
      do in the circus when the minstrels are going to give a performance not
      included in the price of admission? Mind, I don't care anything about your
      Social Union.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, but <i>surely</i>!&rdquo; cried Mrs. Munger, &ldquo;you <i>must</i> allow that
      it's a good object.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, perhaps it is, if it will keep the men away from the rum-holes.
      Yes, I guess it is. You won't sell liquor?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We expect to furnish coffee at cost price,&rdquo; said Mrs. Munger, smiling at
      Putney's joke.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And good navy-plug too, I hope. But you see it would be rather awkward,
      don't you? You see, Annie?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I see,&rdquo; said Annie. &ldquo;I hadn't thought of that part before.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you didn't agree with Brother Peck on general principles? There we
      see the effect of residence abroad,&rdquo; said Putney. &ldquo;The uncorrupted&mdash;or
      I will say the uninterrupted&mdash;Hatborian has none of those
      aristocratic predilections of yours, Annie. He grows up in a community
      where there is neither poverty nor richness, and where political economy
      can show by the figures that the profligate shop hands get nine-tenths of
      the profits, and starve on 'em, while the good little company rolls in
      luxury on the other tenth. But you've got used to something different over
      there, and of course Brother Peck's ideas startled you. Well, I suppose I
      should have been just so myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Putney has never felt just right about the working-men since he lost
      the boycotters' case,&rdquo; said Mr. Gerrish, with a snicker.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, come now, Billy, why did you give me away?&rdquo; said Putney, with mock
      suffering. &ldquo;Well, I suppose I might as well own up, Mrs. Munger; it's no
      use trying to keep it from <i>you</i>; you know it already. Yes, Annie, I
      defended some poor devils here for combining to injure a non-union man&mdash;for
      doing once just what the big manufacturing Trusts do every day of the year
      with impunity; and I lost the case. I expected to. I told 'em they were
      wrong, but I did my best for 'em. 'Why, you fools,' said I&mdash;that's
      the way I talk to 'em, Annie; I call 'em pet names; they like it; they're
      used to 'em; they get 'em every day in the newspapers&mdash;'you fools,'
      said I, 'what do you want to boycott for, when you can <i>vote</i>? What
      do you want to break the laws for, when you can <i>make</i> 'em? You
      idiots, you,' said I, 'what do you putter round for, persecuting non-union
      men, that have as good a right to earn their bread as you, when you might
      make the whole United States of America a Labour Union?' Of course I
      didn't say that in court.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, how delicious you are, Mr. Putney!&rdquo; said Mrs. Munger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Glad you like me, Mrs. Munger,&rdquo; Putney replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, you're delightful,&rdquo; said the lady, recovering from the effects of
      the drollery which they had all pretended to enjoy, Mr. Gerrish, and Mrs.
      Gerrish by his leave, even more than the others. &ldquo;But you're not candid.
      All this doesn't help us to a conclusion. Would you give up the invited
      dance and supper, or wouldn't you? That's the question.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And no shirking, hey?&rdquo; asked Putney.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No shirking.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Putney glanced through a little transparent space in the ground-glass
      windows framing the room, which Mr. Gerrish used for keeping an eye on his
      sales-ladies to see that they did not sit down.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hello!&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;There's Dr. Morrell. Let's put the case to him.&rdquo;
       He opened the door and called down the store, &ldquo;Come in here, Doc!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What?&rdquo; called back an amused voice; and after a moment steps approached,
      and Dr. Morrell hesitated at the open door. He was a tall man, with a
      slight stoop; well dressed; full bearded; with kind, boyish blue eyes that
      twinkled in fascinating friendliness upon the group. &ldquo;Nobody sick here, I
      hope?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Walk right in, sir! come in, Dr. Morrell,&rdquo; said Mr. Gerrish. &ldquo;Mrs. Munger
      and Mrs. Gerrish you know. Present you to Miss Kilburn, who has come to
      make her home among us after a prolonged residence abroad. Dr. Morrell,
      Miss Kilburn.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, there's nobody sick here, in one sense,&rdquo; said Putney, when the doctor
      had greeted the ladies. &ldquo;But we want your advice all the same. Mrs. Munger
      is in a pretty bad way morally, Doc.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't you mind Mr. Putney, doctor!&rdquo; screamed Mrs. Gerrish.
    </p>
    <p>
      Putney said, with respectful recognition of the poor woman's attempt to be
      arch, &ldquo;I'll try to keep within the bounds of truth in stating the case,
      Mrs. Gerrish.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He went on to state it, with so much gravity and scrupulosity, and with so
      many appeals to Mrs. Munger to correct him if he were wrong, that the
      doctor was shaking with laughter when Putney came to an end with unbroken
      seriousness. At each repetition of the facts, Annie's relation to them
      grew more intolerable; and she suspected Putney of an intention to punish
      her. &ldquo;Well, what do you say?&rdquo; he demanded of the doctor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ha, ha, ha! ah, ha, ha.&rdquo; laughed the doctor, shutting his eyes and
      throwing back his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Seems to consider it a <i>laughing</i> matter,&rdquo; said Putney to Mrs.
      Munger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; and that is all your fault,&rdquo; said Mrs. Munger, trying, with the
      ineffectiveness of a large woman, to pout.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no, I'm not laughing.&rdquo; began the doctor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Smiling, perhaps,&rdquo; suggested Putney.
    </p>
    <p>
      The doctor went off again. Then, &ldquo;I beg&mdash;I <i>beg</i> your pardon,
      Mrs. Munger,&rdquo; he resumed. &ldquo;But it isn't a professional question, you know;
      and I&mdash;I really couldn't judge&mdash;have any opinion on such a
      matter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No shirking,&rdquo; said Putney. &ldquo;That's what Mrs. Munger said to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course not,&rdquo; gurgled the doctor. &ldquo;You ladies will know what to do. I'm
      sure <i>I</i> shouldn't,&rdquo; he added.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I must be going,&rdquo; said Putney. &ldquo;Sorry to leave you in this fix,
      Doc.&rdquo; He flashed out of the door, and suddenly came back to offer Annie
      his hand. &ldquo;I beg your pardon, Annie. I'm going to make Ellen bring me
      round. Good morning.&rdquo; He bowed cursorily to the rest.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wait&mdash;I'll go with you, Putney,&rdquo; said the doctor.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Munger rose, and Annie with her. &ldquo;We must go too,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;We've
      taken up Mr. Gerrish's time most unconscionably,&rdquo; and now Mr. Gerrish did
      not urge her to remain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, good-bye,&rdquo; said Mrs. Gerrish, with a genteel prolongation of the
      last syllable.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Gerrish followed his guests down the store, and even out upon the
      sidewalk, where he presided with unheeded hospitality over the superfluous
      politeness of Putney and Dr. Morrell in putting Mrs. Munger and Annie into
      the phaeton. Mrs. Munger attempted to drive away without having taken up
      her hitching weight.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I suppose that there isn't a post in this town that my wife hasn't tried
      to pull up in that way,&rdquo; said Putney gravely.
    </p>
    <p>
      The doctor doubled himself down with another fit of laughing.
    </p>
    <p>
      Annie wanted to laugh too, but she did not like his laughing. She
      questioned if it were not undignified. She felt that it might be
      disrespectful. Then she asked herself why he should respect her.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      IX.
    </h2>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That was a great success,&rdquo; said Mrs. Munger, as they drove away. Annie
      said nothing, and she added, &ldquo;Don't you think so?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I confess,&rdquo; said Annie, &ldquo;I don't see how, exactly. Do you mean with
      regard to Mr. Gerrish?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh no; I don't care anything about him,&rdquo; said Mrs. Munger, touching her
      pony with the tip of her whip-lash. &ldquo;He's an odious little creature, and I
      knew that he would go for the dance and supper because Mr. Peck was
      opposed to them. He's one of the anti-Peck party in his church, and that
      is the reason I spoke to him. But I meant the other gentlemen. You saw how
      they took it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I saw that they both made fun of it,&rdquo; said Annie.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; that's just the point. It's so fortunate they were frank about it.
      It throws a new light on it; and if that's the way nice people are going
      to look at it, why, we must give up the idea. I'm quite prepared to do so.
      But I want to see Mrs. Wilmington first.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mrs. Munger,&rdquo; said Annie uneasily, &ldquo;I would rather not see Mrs.
      Wilmington with you on this subject; I should be of no use.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear, you would be of the <i>greatest</i> use,&rdquo; persisted Munger, and
      she laid her arm across Annie's lap, as if to prevent her jumping out of
      the phaeton. &ldquo;As Mrs. Wilmington's old friend, you will have the greatest
      influence with her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I don't know that I wish to influence her in favour of the supper and
      dance; I don't know that I believe in them,&rdquo; said Annie, cowed and
      troubled by the affair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That doesn't make the slightest difference,&rdquo; said Mrs. Munger
      impartially. &ldquo;All you will have to do is to keep still. I will put the
      case to her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She checked the pony before the bar which the flagman at the railroad
      crossing had let down, while a long freight train clattered deafeningly
      by, and then drove bumping and jouncing across the tracks. &ldquo;I suppose you
      remember what 'Over the Track' means in Hatboro'?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh yes,&rdquo; said Annie, with a smile. &ldquo;Social perdition at the least. You
      don't mean that Mrs. Wilmington lives 'Over the Track'?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. It isn't so bad as it used to be, socially. Mr. Wilmington has built
      a very fine house on this side, and there are several pretty Queen Anne
      cottages going up.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They drove along under the elms which here stood somewhat at random about
      the wide, grassless street, between the high, windowy bulks of the shoe
      shops and hat shops. The dust gradually freed itself from the cinders
      about the tracks, and it hardened into a handsome, newly made road beyond
      the houses of the shop hands. They passed some open lots, and then, on a
      pleasant rise of ground, they came to a stately residence, lifted still
      higher on its underpinning of granite blocks. It was built in a Boston
      suburban taste of twenty years ago, with a lofty mansard-roof, and it was
      painted the stone-grey colour which was once esteemed for being so quiet.
      The lawn before it sloped down to the road, where it ended smoothly at the
      brink of a neat stone wall. A black asphalt path curved from the steps by
      which you mounted from the street to the steps by which you mounted to the
      heavy portico before the massive black walnut doors.
    </p>
    <p>
      The ladies were shown into the music-room, from which the notes of a piano
      were sounding when they rang, and Mrs. Wilmington rose from the instrument
      to meet them. A young man who had been standing beside her turned away.
      Mrs. Wilmington was dressed in a light morning dress with a Watteau fall,
      whose delicate russets and faded reds and yellows heightened the richness
      of her complexion and hair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Annie,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;how glad I am to see you! And you too, Mrs.
      Munger. How <i>vurry</i> nice!&rdquo; Her words took value from the thick mellow
      tones of her voice, and passed for much more than they were worth
      intrinsically. She moved lazily about and got them into chairs, and was
      not resentful when Mrs. Munger broke out with &ldquo;How hot you have it!&rdquo; &ldquo;Have
      we? We had the furnace lighted yesterday, and we've been in all the
      morning, and so we hadn't noticed. Jack, won't you shut the register?&rdquo; she
      drawled over her shoulder. &ldquo;This is my nephew, Mr. Jack Wilmington, Miss
      Kilburn. Mr. Wilmington and Mrs. Munger are old friends.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The young fellow bowed silently, and Annie instantly took a dislike to
      him, his heavy jaw, long eyes, and low forehead almost hidden under a
      thick bang. He sat down cornerwise on a chair, and listened, with a
      scornful thrust of his thick lips, to their talk.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Munger was not abashed by him. She opened her budget with all her
      robust authority, and once more put Annie to shame. When she came to the
      question of the invited supper and dance, and having previously committed
      Mrs. Wilmington in favour of the general scheme, asked her what she
      thought of that part, Mr. Jack Wilmington answered for her&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should think you had a right to do what you please about it. It's none
      of the hands' business if you don't choose to ask them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, that's what any one would think&mdash;in the abstract,&rdquo; said Mrs.
      Munger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, little boy,&rdquo; said Mrs. Wilmington, with indolent amusement, putting
      out a silencing hand in the direction of the young man, &ldquo;don't you be so
      fast. You let your aunty speak for herself. I don't know about not letting
      the hands stay to the dance and supper, Mrs. Munger. You know I might feel
      'put upon.' I used to be one of the hands myself. Yes, Annie, there was a
      time after you went away, and after father died, when I actually fell so
      low as to work for an honest living.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think I heard, Lyra,&rdquo; said Annie; &ldquo;but I had forgotten.&rdquo; The fact, in
      connection with what had been said, made her still more uncomfortable.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I didn't work very hard, and I didn't have to work long. But I was
      a hand, and there's no use trying to deny it. As Mr. Putney says, he and I
      have our record, and we don't have to make any pretences. And the question
      is, whether I ought to go back on my fellow-hands.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, but Mrs. <i>Wilmington</i>!&rdquo; said Mrs. Munger, with intense
      deprecation, &ldquo;that's such a very different thing. You were not brought up
      to it; it was just temporary; and besides&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And besides, there was Mr. Wilmington, I know. He was very opportune. I
      might have been a hand at this moment if Mr. Wilmington had not come along
      and invited me to be a head&mdash;the head of his house. But I don't know,
      Annie, whether I oughtn't to remember my low beginnings.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I suppose we all like to be consistent,&rdquo; answered Annie aimlessly,
      uneasily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; Mrs. Munger broke in; &ldquo;but they were not your beginnings, Mrs.
      Wilmington; they were your incidents&mdash;your accidents.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's very pretty of you to say so, Mrs. Munger,&rdquo; drawled Mrs. Wilmington.
      &ldquo;But I guess I must oppose the little invited dance and supper, on
      principle. We all like to be consistent, as Annie says&mdash;even if we're
      inconsistent in the attempt,&rdquo; she added, with a laugh.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well, then,&rdquo; exclaimed Mrs. Munger, &ldquo;we'll <i>drop</i> them. As I
      said to Miss Kilburn on our way here, 'if Mrs. Wilmington is opposed to
      them, we'll drop them.'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, am I such an influential person?&rdquo; said Mrs. Wilmington, with a shrug.
      &ldquo;It's rather awful&mdash;isn't it, Annie?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not at all!&rdquo; Mrs. Munger answered for Annie. &ldquo;We've just been talking the
      matter over with Mr. Putney and Dr. Morrell, and they're both opposed.
      You're merely the straw that breaks the camel's back, Mrs. Wilmington.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, <i>thank</i> you! That's a great relief.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well&mdash;and now the question is, will you take the part of the Nurse
      or not in the dramatics?&rdquo; asked Mrs. Munger, returning to business.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I must think about that, and I must ask Mr. Wilmington. Jack,&rdquo; she
      called over her shoulder to the young man at the window, &ldquo;do you think
      your uncle would approve of me as Juliet's Nurse?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You'd better ask him,&rdquo; growled the young fellow.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said Mrs. Wilmington, with another laugh, &ldquo;I'll think it over,
      Mrs. Munger.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you,&rdquo; said Mrs. Munger. &ldquo;And now we must really be going,&rdquo; she
      added, pulling out her watch by its leathern guard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not till you've had lunch,&rdquo; said Mrs. Wilmington, rising with the ladies.
      &ldquo;You must stay. Annie, I shall not excuse you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said Mrs. Munger, complying without regard to Annie, &ldquo;all this
      diplomacy is certainly very exhausting.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lunch will be on the table in one moment,&rdquo; returned Mrs. Wilmington, as
      the ladies sat down again provisionally. &ldquo;Will you join us, Jack?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; I'm going to the office,&rdquo; said the nephew, bowing himself out of the
      room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jack's learning to be superintendent,&rdquo; said Mrs. Wilmington, lifting her
      teasing voice to make him hear her in the hall, &ldquo;and he's been spending
      the whole morning here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In the richly appointed dining-room&mdash;a glitter of china and glass and
      a mass of carven oak&mdash;the table was laid for two.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Put another plate, Norah,&rdquo; said Mrs. Wilmington carelessly.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was bouillon in teacups, chicken cutlets in white sauce, and
      luscious strawberries.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>What</i> a cook!&rdquo; cried Mrs. Munger, over the cutlets.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, she's a treasure; I don't deny it,&rdquo; said Mrs. Wilmington.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      X.
    </h2>
    <p>
      By the end of May most of the summer folk had come to their cottages in
      South Hatboro'. One after another the ladies called upon Annie. They all
      talked to her of the Social Union, and it seemed to be agreed that it was
      fully in train, though what was really in train was the entertainment to
      be given at Mrs. Munger's for the benefit of the Union; the Union always
      dropped out of the talk as soon as the theatricals were mentioned.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Annie went to return these visits she scarcely recognised even the
      shape of the country, once so familiar to her, of which the summer
      settlement had possessed itself. She found herself in a strange world&mdash;a
      world of colonial and Queen Anne architecture, where conscious lines and
      insistent colours contributed to an effect of posing which she had never
      seen off the stage. But it was not a very large world, and after the young
      trees and hedges should have grown up and helped to hide it, she felt sure
      that it would be a better world. In detail it was not so bad now, but the
      whole was a violent effect of porches, gables, chimneys, galleries,
      loggias, balconies, and jalousies, which nature had not yet had time to
      palliate.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Munger was at home, and wanted her to spend the day, to drive out
      with her, to stay to lunch. When Annie would not do any of these things,
      she invited herself to go with her to call at the Brandreths'. But first
      she ordered her to go out with her to see the place where they intended to
      have the theatricals: a pretty bit of natural boscage&mdash;white birches,
      pines, and oaks&mdash;faced by a stretch of smooth turf, where a young man
      in a flannel blazer was painting a tennis-court in the grass. Mrs. Munger
      introduced him as her Jim, and the young fellow paused from his work long
      enough to bow to her: his nose now seemed in perfect repair.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Brandreth met them at the door of his mother's cottage. It was a very
      small cottage on the outside, with a good deal of stained glass <i>en
      évidence</i> in leaded sashes; where the sashes were not leaded and the
      glass not stained, the panes were cut up into very large ones, with little
      ones round them. Everything was very old-fashioned inside. The door opened
      directly into a wainscoted square hall, which had a large fireplace with
      gleaming brass andirons, and a carved mantel carried to the ceiling. It
      was both baronial and colonial in its decoration; there was part of a suit
      of imitation armour under a pair of moose antlers on one wall, and at one
      side of the fireplace there was a spinning-wheel, with a tuft of flax
      ready to be spun. There were Japanese swords on the lowest mantel-shelf,
      together with fans and vases; a long old flint-lock musket stretched
      across the panel above. Mr. Brandreth began to show things to Annie, and
      to tell how little they cost, as soon as the ladies entered. His mother's
      voice called from above, &ldquo;Now, Percy, you stop till <i>I</i> get there!&rdquo;
       and in a moment or two she appeared from behind a <i>portière</i> in one
      corner. Before she shook hands with the ladies, or allowed any kind of
      greeting, she pulled the <i>portière</i> aside, and made Annie admire the
      snug concealment of the staircase. Then she made her go upstairs and see
      the chambers, and the second-hand colonial bedsteads, and the andirons
      everywhere, and the old chests of drawers and their brasses; and she told
      her some story about each, and how Percy picked it up and had it repaired.
      When they came down, the son took Annie in hand again and walked her over
      the ground-floor, ending with the kitchen, which was in the taste of an
      old New England kitchen, with hard-seated high-backed chairs, and a
      kitchen table with curiously turned legs, which he had picked up in the
      hen-house of a neighbouring farmer for a song. There was an authentic
      crane in the dining-room fireplace, which he had found in a heap of
      scrap-iron at a blacksmith's shop, and had got for next to nothing. The
      sideboard he had got at an old second-hand shop in the North End; and he
      believed it was an heirloom from the house of one of the old ministers of
      the North End Church. Everything, nearly, in the Brandreth cottage was an
      heirloom, though Annie could not remember afterward any object that had
      been an heirloom in the Brandreth family.
    </p>
    <p>
      When she went back with Mr. Brandreth to the hall, which seemed to be also
      the drawing-room, she found that Mrs. Brandreth had lighted the fire on
      the hearth, though it was rather a warm day without, for the sake of the
      effect. She was sitting in the chimney-seat, and shielding her face from
      the blaze with an old-fashioned feather hand-screen.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now don't you think we have a lovely little home?&rdquo; she demanded.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Munger began to break out in its praise, but she shook the screen
      silencingly at her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no! I want Miss Kilburn's unbiassed opinion. Don't you speak, Mrs.
      Munger! Now haven't we?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Brandreth made Annie assent to the superiority of her cottage in
      detail. She recapitulated the different facts of the architecture and
      furnishing, from each of which she seemed to acquire personal merit, and
      she insisted that Percy should show some of them again. &ldquo;We think it's a
      little picture,&rdquo; she concluded, and once more Annie felt obliged to murmur
      her acquiescence.
    </p>
    <p>
      At last Mrs. Munger said that she must go to lunch, and was going to take
      Annie with her; Annie said she must lunch at home; and then Mrs. Brandreth
      pressed them both to stay to lunch with her. &ldquo;You shall have a cup of tea
      out of a piece of real Satsuma,&rdquo; she said; but they resisted. &ldquo;I don't
      believe,&rdquo; she added, apparently relieved by their persistence, and losing
      a little anxiety of manner, &ldquo;that Percy's had any chance to consult you on
      a very important point about your theatricals, Miss Kilburn.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, that will do some other time, mother,&rdquo; said Mr. Brandreth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no! Now! And you can have Mrs. Munger's opinion too. You know Miss
      Sue Northwick is going to be Juliet?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No!&rdquo; shouted Mrs. Munger. &ldquo;I thought she had refused positively. When did
      she change her mind?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She's just sent Percy a note. We were talking it over when you came, and
      Percy was going over to tell you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then it is <i>sure</i> to be a success,&rdquo; said Mrs. Munger, with a
      solemnity of triumph.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, but Percy feels that it complicates one point more than ever&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's a question that always comes up in amateur dramatics,&rdquo; said Mr.
      Brandreth, with reluctance, &ldquo;and it always will; and of course it's
      particularly embarrassing in <i>Romeo and Juliet</i>. If they don't show
      any affection&mdash;it's very awkward and stiff; and if&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I never approved of those liberties on the stage,&rdquo; said Mrs. Brandreth.
      &ldquo;I tell Percy that it's my principal objection to it. I can't make it seem
      nice. But he says that it's essential to the effect. Now <i>I</i> say that
      they might just incline their heads toward each other without <i>actually</i>,
      you know. But Percy is afraid that it won't do, especially in the parting
      scene on the balcony&mdash;so passionate, you know&mdash;it won't do
      simply to&mdash;They must <i>act</i> like lovers. And it's such a great
      point to get Miss Sue Northwick to take the part, that he mustn't risk
      losing her by anything that might seem&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Mrs. Munger, with deep concern.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Brandreth looked very unhappy. &ldquo;It's an embarrassing point. We can't
      change the play, and so the difficulty must be met and disposed of at
      once.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He did not look at either of the ladies, but Mrs. Munger referred the
      matter to Annie with a glance of impartiality. His mother also turned her
      eyes upon Annie. &ldquo;Percy thought that you must have seen so much of amateur
      dramatics in Europe that you could tell him just how to do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps you could consult Miss Northwick herself,&rdquo; said Annie dryly,
      after a moment of indignation, and another of amusement.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thought of that,&rdquo; said Mrs. Brandreth; &ldquo;but as Percy's to be Romeo&mdash;You
      see he wishes the play to be a success artistically; but if it's to
      succeed socially, he must have Miss Northwick, and she might resign at the
      first suggestion of&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bessie Chapley would certainly have been better. She's so outspoken you
      could have put the case right to her,&rdquo; said Mrs. Munger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Mr. Brandreth gloomily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But we shall find out a way. Why, you can settle it at rehearsal!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps at rehearsal,&rdquo; said Mr. Brandreth, with a pensive absence of
      mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Munger crushed his hand and his mother's in her leathern grasp, and
      took Annie away with her. &ldquo;It isn't lunch-time yet,&rdquo; she explained, when
      they were out of earshot, &ldquo;but I saw she was simply killing you, and so I
      made the excuse. She has no mercy. There's time enough for you to make
      your calls before lunch, and then you can come home with me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Annie suggested that this would not do after refusing Mrs. Brandreth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, it would never have done to <i>accept</i>!&rdquo; Mrs. Munger cried. &ldquo;They
      didn't dream of it!&rdquo; At the next place she said: &ldquo;This is the Clevingers'.
      <i>They're</i> some of our all-the-year-round people too.&rdquo; She opened the
      door without ringing, and let herself noisily in. &ldquo;This is the way we run
      in, without ceremony, everywhere. It's quite one family. That's the charm
      of the place. We expect to take each other as we find them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her freedom did not find the ladies off their guard anywhere. At all the
      houses there was a skurrying of feet and a flashing of skirts out of the
      room or up the stairs, and there was an interval for a thorough study of
      the features of the room before the hostess came in, with the effect of
      coming in just as she was. She had naturally always made some change in
      her dress, and Annie felt that she had not really liked being run in upon.
      Everywhere they talked to her about the theatricals; and they talked
      across her to Mrs. Munger, about one another, pretty freely.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, that's all there is of us at present,&rdquo; said Mrs. Munger, coming
      down the main road with her from the last place, &ldquo;and you see just what we
      are. It's a neighbourhood where everybody's just adapted to everybody
      else. It's not a mere mush of concession, as Emerson says; people are
      perfectly outspoken; but there's the greatest good feeling, and no vulgar
      display, or lavish expenditure, or&mdash;anything.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Annie walked slowly homeward. She was tired, and she was now aware of
      having been extremely bored by the South Hatboro' people. She was very
      censorious of them, as we are of other people when we have reason to be
      discontented with ourselves. They were making a pretence of simplicity and
      unconventionality; but they had brought each her full complement of
      servants with her, and each was apparently giving herself in the summer to
      the unrealities that occupied her during the winter. Everywhere Annie had
      found the affectation of intellectual interests, and the assumption that
      these were the highest interests of life: there could be no doubt that
      culture was the ideal of South Hatboro', and several of the ladies
      complained that in the summer they got behind with their reading, or their
      art, or their music. They said it was even more trouble to keep house in
      the country than it was in town; sometimes your servants would not come
      with you; or, if they did, they were always discontented, and you did not
      know what moment they would leave you.
    </p>
    <p>
      Annie asked herself how her own life was in any wise different from that
      of these people. It had received a little more light into it, but as yet
      it had not conformed itself to any ideal of duty. She too was idle and
      vapid, like the society of which her whole past had made her a part, and
      she owned to herself, groaning in spirit, that it was no easier to escape
      from her tradition at Hatboro' than it was at Rome.
    </p>
    <p>
      When she reached her own house again, Mrs. Bolton called to her from the
      kitchen threshold as she was passing the corner on her way to the front
      door: &ldquo;Mis' Putney's b'en here. I guess you'll find a note from her on the
      parlour table.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Annie fired in resentment of the uncouthness. It was Mrs. Bolton's
      business to come into the parlour and give her the note, with a respectful
      statement of the facts. But she did not tell her so; it would have been
      useless.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Putney's note was an invitation to a family tea for the next evening.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      XI.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Putney met Annie at the door, and led her into the parlour beside the
      hall. He had a little crippled boy on his right arm, and he gave her his
      left hand. In the parlour he set his burden down in a chair, and the child
      drew up under his thin arms a pair of crutches that stood beside it. His
      white face had the eager purity and the waxen translucence which we see in
      sufferers from hip-disease.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is our Winthrop,&rdquo; said his father, beginning to talk at once. &ldquo;We
      receive the company and do the honours while mother's looking after the
      tea. We only keep one undersized girl,&rdquo; he explained more directly to
      Annie, &ldquo;and Ellen has to be chief cook and bottlewasher herself. She'll be
      in directly. Just lay off your bonnet anywhere.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She was taking in the humility of the house and its belongings while she
      received the impression of an unimagined simplicity in its life from his
      easy explanations. The furniture was in green terry, the carpet a harsh,
      brilliant tapestry; on the marble-topped centre table was a big clasp
      Bible and a basket with a stereoscope and views; the marbleised iron shelf
      above the stove-pipe hole supported two glass vases and a French clock
      under a glass bell; through the open door, across the oil-cloth of the
      hallway, she saw the white-painted pine balusters of the steep, cramped
      stairs. It was clear that neither Putney nor his wife had been touched by
      the aesthetic craze; the parlour was in the tastelessness of fifteen years
      before; but after the decoration of South Hatboro', she found a delicious
      repose in it. Her eyes dwelt with relief on the wall-paper of French grey,
      sprigged with small gilt flowers, and broken by a few cold engravings and
      framed photographs.
    </p>
    <p>
      Putney himself was as little decorated as the parlour. He had put on a
      clean shirt, but the bulging bosom had broken away from its single button,
      and showed two serrated edges of ragged linen; his collar lost itself from
      time to time under the rise of his plastron scarf band, which kept
      escaping from the stud that ought to have held it down behind. His hair
      was brushed smoothly across a forehead which looked as innocent and gentle
      as the little boy's.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We don't often give these festivities,&rdquo; he went on, &ldquo;but you don't come
      home once in twelve years every day, Annie. I can't tell you how glad I am
      to see you in our house; and Ellen's just as excited as the rest of us;
      she was sorry to miss you when she called.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You're very kind, Ralph. I can't tell <i>you</i> what a pleasure it was
      to come, and I'm not going to let the trouble I'm giving spoil my
      pleasure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, that's right,&rdquo; said Putney. &ldquo;<i>We</i> sha'n't either.&rdquo; He took out
      a cigar and put it into his mouth. &ldquo;It's only a dry smoke. Ellen makes me
      let up on my chewing when we have company, and I must have something in my
      mouth, so I get a cigar. It's a sort of compromise. I'm a terribly nervous
      man, Annie; you can't imagine. If it wasn't for the grace of God, I think
      I should fly to pieces sometimes. But I guess that's what holds me
      together&mdash;that and Winthy here. I dropped him on the stairs out
      there, when I was drunk, one night. I saw you looking at them; I suppose
      you've been told; it's all right. I presume the Almighty knows what He's
      about; but sometimes He appears to save at the spigot and waste at the
      bung-hole, like the rest of us. He let me cripple my boy to reform me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't, Ralph!&rdquo; said Annie, with a voice of low entreaty. She turned and
      spoke to the child, and asked him if he would not come to see her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What?&rdquo; he asked, breaking with a sort of absent-minded start from his
      intentness upon his father's words.
    </p>
    <p>
      She repeated her invitation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thanks!&rdquo; he said, in the prompt, clear little pipe which startles by its
      distinctness and decision on the lips of crippled children. &ldquo;I guess
      father'll bring me some day. Don't you want I should go out and tell
      mother she's here?&rdquo; he asked his father.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, if you want to, Winthrop,&rdquo; said his father.
    </p>
    <p>
      The boy swung himself lightly out of the room on his crutches, and his
      father turned to her. &ldquo;Well, how does Hatboro' strike you, anyway, Annie?
      You needn't mind being honest with me, you know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He did not give her a chance to say, and she was willing to let him talk
      on, and tell her what he thought of Hatboro' himself. &ldquo;Well, it's like
      every other place in the world, at every moment of history&mdash;it's in a
      transition state. The theory is, you know, that most places are at a
      standstill the greatest part of the time; they haven't begun to move, or
      they've stopped moving; but I guess that's a mistake; they're moving all
      the while. I suppose Rome itself was in a transition state when you left?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, very decidedly. It had ceased to be old and was becoming new.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, that's just the way with Hatboro'. There is no old Hatboro' any
      more; and there never was, as your father and mine could tell us if they
      were here. They lived in a painfully transitional period, poor old
      fellows! But, for all that, there is a difference. They lived in what was
      really a New England village, and we live now in a sprawling American
      town; and by American of course I mean a town where at least one-third of
      the people are raw foreigners or rawly extracted natives. The old New
      England ideal characterises them all, up to a certain point, socially; it
      puts a decent outside on most of 'em; it makes 'em keep Sunday, and drink
      on the sly. We got in the Irish long ago, and now they're part of the
      conservative element. We got in the French Canadians, and some of them are
      our best mechanics and citizens. We're getting in the Italians, and as
      soon as they want something better than bread and vinegar to eat, they'll
      begin going to Congress and boycotting and striking and forming pools and
      trusts just like any other class of law-abiding Americans. There used to
      be some talk of the Chinese, but I guess they've pretty much blown over.
      We've got Ah Lee and Sam Lung here, just as they have everywhere, but
      their laundries don't seem to increase. The Irish are spreading out into
      the country and scooping in the farms that are not picturesque enough for
      the summer folks. You can buy a farm anywhere round Hatboro' for less than
      the buildings on it cost. I'd rather the Irish would have the land than
      the summer folks. They make an honest living off it, and the other fellows
      that come out to roost here from June till October simply keep somebody
      else from making a living off it, and corrupt all the poor people in sight
      by their idleness and luxury. That's what I tell 'em at South Hatboro'.
      They don't like it, but I guess they believe it; anyhow they have to hear
      it. They'll tell you in self-defence that J. Milton Northwick is a
      practical farmer, and sells his butter for a dollar a pound. He's done
      more than anybody else to improve the breeds of cattle and horses; and he
      spends fifteen thousand a year on his place. It can't return him five; and
      that's the reason he's a curse and a fraud.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who <i>is</i> Mr. Northwick, Ralph?&rdquo; Annie interposed. &ldquo;Everybody at
      South Hatboro' asked me if I'd met the Northwicks.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He's a very great and good man,&rdquo; said Putney. &ldquo;He's worth a million, and
      he runs a big manufacturing company at Ponkwasset Falls, and he owns a
      fancy farm just beyond South Hatboro'. He lives in Boston, but he comes
      out here early enough to dodge his tax there, and let poorer people pay
      it. He's got miles of cut stone wall round his place, and conservatories
      and gardens and villas and drives inside of it, and he keeps up the town
      roads outside at his own expense. Yes, we feel it such an honour and
      advantage to have J. Milton in Hatboro' that our assessors practically
      allow him to fix the amount of tax here himself. People who can pay only a
      little at the highest valuation are assessed to the last dollar of their
      property and income; but the assessors know that this wouldn't do with Mr.
      Northwick. They make a guess at his income, and he always pays their bills
      without asking for abatement; they think themselves wise and
      public-spirited men for doing it, and most of their fellow-citizens think
      so too. You see it's not only difficult for a rich man to get into the
      kingdom of heaven, Annie, but he makes it hard for other people.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, as I was saying, socially, the old New England element is at the
      top of the heap here. That's so everywhere. The people that are on the
      ground first, it don't matter much who they are, have to manage pretty
      badly not to leave their descendants in social ascendency over all newer
      comers for ever. Why, I can see it in my own case. I can see that I was a
      sort of fetich to the bedevilled fancy of the people here when I was seen
      drunk in the streets every day, just because I was one of the old Hatboro'
      Putneys; and when I began to hold up, there wasn't a man in the community
      that wasn't proud and flattered to help me. Curious, isn't it? It made me
      sick of myself and ashamed of them, and I just made up my mind, as soon as
      I got straight again, I'd give all my help to the men that hadn't a
      tradition. That's what I've done, Annie. There isn't any low, friendless
      rapscallion in this town that hasn't got me for his friend&mdash;and
      Ellen. We've been in all the strikes with the men, and all their fool
      boycottings and kicking over the traces generally. Anybody else would have
      been turned out of respectable society for one-half that I've done, but it
      tolerates me because I'm one of the old Hatboro' Putneys. You're one of
      the old Hatboro' Kilburns, and if you want to have a mind of your own and
      a heart of your own, all you've got to do is to have it. They'll like it;
      they'll think it's original. That's the reason South Hatboro' got after
      you with that Social Union scheme. They were right in thinking you would
      have a great deal of influence. I was sorry you had to throw it against
      Brother Peck.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Annie felt herself jump at this climax, as if she had been touched on an
      exposed nerve. She grew red, and tried to be angry, but she was only
      ashamed and tempted to lie out of the part she had taken. &ldquo;Mrs. Munger,&rdquo;
       she said, &ldquo;gave that a very unfair turn. I didn't mean to ridicule Mr.
      Peck. I think he was perfectly sincere. The scheme of the invited dance
      and supper has been entirely given up. And I don't care for the project of
      the Social Union at all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I'm glad to hear it,&rdquo; said Putney, indifferently, and he resumed
      his analysis of Hatboro'&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We've got all the modern improvements here, Annie. I suppose you'd find
      the modern improvements, most of 'em, in Sheol: electric light, Bell
      telephone, asphalt sidewalks, and city water&mdash;though I don't know
      about the water; and I presume they haven't got a public library or an
      opera-house&mdash;perhaps they <i>have</i> got an opera-house in Sheol:
      you see I use the Revised Version, it don't sound so much like swearing.
      But, as I was saying&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Putney came in, and he stopped with the laugh of a man who knows that
      his wife will find it necessary to account for him and apologise for him.
    </p>
    <p>
      The ladies kissed each other. Mrs. Putney was dressed in the black silk of
      a woman who has one silk; she was red from the kitchen, but all was neat
      and orderly in the hasty toilet which she must have made since leaving the
      cook-stove. A faint, mixed perfume of violet sachet and fricasseed chicken
      attended her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, as you were saying, Ralph?&rdquo; she suggested.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I was just tracing a little parallel between Hatboro' and Sheol,&rdquo;
       replied her husband.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Putney made a <i>tchk</i> of humorous patience, and laughed toward
      Annie for sympathy. &ldquo;Well, then, I guess you needn't go on. Tea's ready.
      Shall we wait for the doctor?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; doctors are too uncertain. We'll wait for him while we're eating.
      That's what fetches him the soonest. I'm hungry. Ain't you, Win?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not so very,&rdquo; said the boy, with his queer promptness. He stood resting
      himself on his crutches at the door, and he now wheeled about, and led the
      way out to the living-room, swinging himself actively forward. It seemed
      that his haste was to get to the dumb-waiter in the little china closet
      opening off the dining-room, which was like the papered inside of a square
      box. He called to the girl below, and helped pull it up, as Annie could
      tell by the creaking of the rope, and the light jar of the finally
      arriving crockery. A half-grown girl then appeared, and put the dishes on
      at the places indicated with nods and looks by Mrs. Putney, who had taken
      her place at the table. There was a platter of stewed fowl, and a plate of
      high-piled waffles, sweltering in successive courses of butter and sugar.
      In cut-glass dishes, one at each end of the table, there were canned
      cherries and pine-apple. There was a square of old-fashioned soda biscuit,
      not broken apart, which sent up a pleasant smell; in the centre of the
      table was a shallow vase of strawberries.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was all very good and appetising; but to Annie it was pathetically
      old-fashioned, and helped her to realise how wholly out of the world was
      the life which her friends led.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Winthrop,&rdquo; said Putney, and the father and mother bowed their heads.
    </p>
    <p>
      The boy dropped his over his folded hands, and piped up clearly: &ldquo;Our
      Father, which art in heaven, help us to remember those who have nothing to
      eat. Amen!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's a grace that Win got up himself,&rdquo; his father explained, beginning
      to heap a plate with chicken and mashed potato, which he then handed to
      Annie, passing her the biscuit and the butter. &ldquo;We think it suits the
      Almighty about as well as anything.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I suppose you know Ralph of old, Annie?&rdquo; said Mrs. Putney. &ldquo;The only way
      he keeps within bounds at all is by letting himself perfectly loose.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Putney laughed out his acquiescence, and they began to talk together about
      old times. Mrs. Putney and Annie recalled the childish plays and
      adventures they had together, and one dreadful quarrel. Putney told of the
      first time he saw Annie, when his father took him one day for a call on
      the old judge, and how the old judge put him through his paces in American
      history, and would not admit the theory that the battle of Bunker's Hill
      could have been fought on Breed's Hill. Putney said that it was years
      before it occurred to him that the judge must have been joking: he had
      always thought he was simply ignorant.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I used to set a good deal by the battle of Bunker's Hill,&rdquo; he continued.
      &ldquo;I thought the whole Revolution and subsequent history revolved round it,
      and that it gave us all liberty, equality, and fraternity at a clip. But
      the Lord always finds some odd jobs to look after next day, and I guess He
      didn't clear 'em all up at Bunker's Hill.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Putney's irony and piety were very much of a piece apparently, and Annie
      was not quite sure which this conclusion was. She glanced at his wife, who
      seemed satisfied with it in either case. She was waiting patiently for him
      to wake up to the fact that he had not yet given her anything to eat;
      after helping Annie and the boy, he helped himself, and pending his wife's
      pre-occupation with the tea, he forgot her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why didn't you throw something at me,&rdquo; he roared, in grief and
      self-reproach. &ldquo;There wouldn't have been a loose piece of crockery on this
      side of the table if I hadn't got my tea in time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I was listening to Annie's share in the conversation,&rdquo; said Mrs.
      Putney; and her husband was about to say something in retort of her thrust
      when a tap on the front door was heard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come in, come in, Doc!&rdquo; he shouted. &ldquo;Mrs. Putney's just been helped, and
      the tea is going to begin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dr. Morrell's chuckle made answer for him, and after time enough to put
      down his hat, he came in, rubbing his hands and smiling, and making short
      nods round the table. &ldquo;How d'ye do, Mrs. Putney? How d'ye do, Miss
      Kilburn? Winthrop?&rdquo; He passed his hand over the boy's smooth hair and
      slipped into the chair beside him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You see, the reason why we always wait for the doctor in this formal
      way,&rdquo; said Putney, &ldquo;is that he isn't in here more than seven nights of the
      week, and he rather stands on his dignity. Hand round the doctor's plate,
      my son,&rdquo; he added to the boy, and he took it from Annie, to whom the boy
      gave it, and began to heap it from the various dishes. &ldquo;Think you can lift
      that much back to the doctor, Win?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I guess so,&rdquo; said the boy coolly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is flooring Win at present,&rdquo; said his father, &ldquo;and getting him down
      and rolling him over, is that problem of the robin that eats half a pint
      of grasshoppers and then doesn't weigh a bit more than he did before.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When he gets a little older,&rdquo; said the doctor, shaking over his plateful,
      &ldquo;he'll be interested to trace the processes of his father's thought from a
      guest and half a peck of stewed chicken, to a robin and half a pint of&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't, doctor!&rdquo; pleaded Mrs. Putney. &ldquo;He won't have the least trouble if
      he'll keep to the surface.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Putney laughed impartially, and said: &ldquo;Well, we'll take the doctor out and
      weigh him when he gets done. We expected Brother Peck here this evening,&rdquo;
       he explained to Dr. Morrell. &ldquo;You're our sober second thought&mdash;Well,&rdquo;
       he broke off, looking across the table at his wife with mock anxiety.
      &ldquo;Anything wrong about that, Ellen?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not as far as I'm concerned, Mrs. Putney,&rdquo; interposed the doctor. &ldquo;I'm
      glad to be here on any terms. Go on, Putney.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, there isn't anything more. You know how Miss Kilburn here has been
      round throwing ridicule on Brother Peck, because he wants the shop-hands
      treated with common decency, and my idea was to get the two together and
      see how she would feel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dr. Morrell laughed at this with what Annie thought was unnecessary
      malice; but he stopped suddenly, after a glance at her, and Putney went on&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Brother Peck pleaded another engagement. Said he had to go off into the
      country to see a sick woman that wasn't expected to live. You don't
      remember the Merrifields, do you, Annie? Well, it doesn't matter. One of
      'em married West, and her husband left her, and she came home here and got
      a divorce; I got it for her. She's the one. As a consumptive, she had
      superior attractions for Brother Peck. It isn't a case that admits of
      jealousy exactly, but it wouldn't matter to Brother Peck anyway. If he saw
      a chance to do a good action, he'd wade through blood.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now look here, Ralph,&rdquo; said Mrs. Putney, &ldquo;there's such a thing as letting
      yourself <i>too</i> loose.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, <i>gore</i>, then,&rdquo; said Putney, buttering himself a biscuit.
    </p>
    <p>
      The boy, who had kept quiet till now, seemed reached by this last touch,
      and broke into a high, crowing laugh, in which they all joined except his
      father.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gore suits Winthy, anyway,&rdquo; he said, beginning to eat his biscuit. &ldquo;I met
      one of the deacons from Brother Peck's last parish, in Boston, yesterday.
      He asked me if we considered Brother Peck anyways peculiar in Hatboro',
      and when I said we thought he was a little too luxurious, the deacon came
      out with a lot of things. The way Brother Peck behaved toward the needy in
      that last parish of his made it simply uninhabitable to the standard
      Christian. They had to get rid of him somehow&mdash;send him away or kill
      him. Of course the deacon said they didn't want to <i>kill</i> him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where was his last parish?&rdquo; asked the doctor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Down on the Maine coast somewhere. Penobscotport, I believe.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And was he indigenous there?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I believe not; he's from Massachusetts. Farm-boy and then mill-hand,
      I understand. Self-helped to an education; divinity student with summer
      intervals of waiting at table in the mountain hotels probably. Drifted
      down Maine way on his first call and stuck; but I guess he won't stick
      here very long. Annie's friend Mr. Gerrish is going to look after Brother
      Peck before a great while.&rdquo; He laughed, to see her blush, and went on.
      &ldquo;You see, Brother Gerrish has got a high ideal of what a Christian
      minister ought to be; he hasn't said much about it, but I can see that
      Brother Peck doesn't come up to it. Well, Brother Gerrish has got a good
      many ideals. He likes to get anybody he can by the throat, and squeeze the
      difference of opinion out of 'em.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There, now, Ralph,&rdquo; his wife interposed, &ldquo;you let Mr. Gerrish alone. <i>You</i>
      don't like people to differ with you, either. Is your cup out, doctor?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you,&rdquo; said the doctor, handing it up to her. &ldquo;And you mean Mr.
      Gerrish doesn't like Mr. Peck's doctrine?&rdquo; he asked of Putney.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I don't know that he objects to his doctrine; he can't very well;
      it's 'between the leds of the Bible,' as the Hard-shell Baptist said. But
      he objects to Brother Peck's walk and conversation. He thinks he walks too
      much with the poor, and converses too much with the lowly. He says he
      thinks that the pew-owners in Mr. Peck's church and the people who pay his
      salary have some rights to his company that he's bound to respect.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The doctor relished the irony, but he asked, &ldquo;Isn't there something to say
      on that side?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh yes, a good deal. There's always something to say on both sides, even
      when one's a wrong side. That's what makes it all so tiresome&mdash;makes
      you wish you were dead.&rdquo; He looked up, and caught his boy's eye fixed with
      melancholy intensity upon him. &ldquo;I hope you'll never look at both sides
      when you grow up, Win. It's mighty uncomfortable. You take the right side,
      and stick to that. Brother Gerrish,&rdquo; he resumed, to the doctor, &ldquo;goes
      round taking the credit of Brother Peck's call here; but the fact is he
      opposed it. He didn't like his being so indifferent about the salary.
      Brother Gerrish held that the labourer was worthy of his hire, and if he
      didn't inquire what his wages were going to be, it was a pretty good sign
      that he wasn't going to earn them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, there was some logic in that,&rdquo; said the doctor, smiling as before.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Plenty. And now it worries Brother Gerrish to see Brother Peck going
      round in the same old suit of clothes he came here in, and dressing his
      child like a shabby little Irish girl. He says that he who provideth not
      for those of his own household is worse than a heathen. That's perfectly
      true. And he would like to know what Brother Peck does with his money,
      anyway. He would like to insinuate that he loses it at poker, I guess; at
      any rate, he can't find out whom he gives it to, and he certainly doesn't
      spend it on himself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;From your account of Mr. Peck.&rdquo; said the doctor, &ldquo;I should think Brother
      Gerrish might safely object to him as a certain kind of sentimentalist.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, yes, he might, looking at him from the outside. But when you come
      to talk with Brother Peck, you find yourself sort of frozen out with a
      most unexpected, hard-headed cold-bloodedness. Brother Peck is plain
      common-sense itself. He seems to be a man without an illusion, without an
      emotion.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, not so bad as that!&rdquo; laughed the doctor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ask Miss Kilburn. She's talked with him, and she hates him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I don't, Ralph,&rdquo; Annie began.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, well, then, perhaps he only made you hate yourself,&rdquo; said Putney.
      There was something charming in his mockery, like the teasing of a brother
      with a sister; and Annie did not find the atonement to which he brought
      her altogether painful. It seemed to her really that she was getting off
      pretty easily, and she laughed with hearty consent at last.
    </p>
    <p>
      Winthrop asked solemnly, &ldquo;How did he do that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I can't tell exactly, Winthrop,&rdquo; she said, touched by the boy's
      simple interest in this abstruse point. &ldquo;He made me feel that I had been
      rather mean and cruel when I thought I had only been practical. I can't
      explain; but it wasn't a comfortable feeling, my dear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I guess that's the trouble with Brother Peck,&rdquo; said Putney. &ldquo;He doesn't
      make you feel comfortable. He doesn't flatter you up worth a cent. There
      was Annie expecting him to take the most fervent interest in her
      theatricals, and her Social Union, and coo round, and tell her what a
      noble woman she was, and beg her to consider her health, and not overwork
      herself in doing good; but instead of that he simply showed her that she
      was a moral Cave-Dweller, and that she was living in a Stone Age of social
      brutalities; and of course she hated him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, that was the way, Winthrop,&rdquo; said Annie; and they all laughed with
      her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now you take them into the parlour, Ralph,&rdquo; said his wife, rising, &ldquo;and
      tell them how he made <i>you</i> hate him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shouldn't like anything better,&rdquo; replied Putney. He lifted the large
      ugly kerosene lamp that had been set on the table when it grew dark during
      tea, and carried it into the parlour with him. His wife remained to speak
      with her little helper, but she sent Annie with the gentlemen.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, there isn't a great deal of it&mdash;more spirit than letter, so to
      speak,&rdquo; said Putney, when he put down the lamp in the parlour. &ldquo;You know
      how I like to go on about other people's sins, and the world's wickedness
      generally; but one day Brother Peck, in that cool, impersonal way of his,
      suggested that it was not a wholly meritorious thing to hate evil. He went
      so far as to say that perhaps we could not love them that despitefully
      used us if we hated their evil so furiously. He said it was a good deal
      more desirable to understand evil than to hate it, for then we could begin
      to cure it. Yes, Brother Peck let in a good deal of light on me. He rather
      insinuated that I must be possessed by the very evils I hated, and that
      was the reason I was so violent about them. I had always supposed that I
      hated other people's cruelty because I was merciful, and their meanness
      because I was magnanimous, and their intolerance because I was generous,
      and their conceit because I was modest, and their selfishness because I
      was disinterested; but after listening to Brother Peck a while I came to
      the conclusion that I hated these things in others because I was cruel
      myself, and mean, and bigoted, and conceited, and piggish; and that's why
      I've hated Brother Peck ever since&mdash;just like you, Annie. But he
      didn't reform me, I'm thankful to say, any more than he did you. I've gone
      on just the same, and I suppose I hate more infernal scoundrels and loathe
      more infernal idiots to-day than ever; but I perceive that I'm no part of
      the power that makes for righteousness as long as I work that racket; and
      now I sin with light and knowledge, anyway. No, Annie,&rdquo; he went on, &ldquo;I can
      understand why Brother Peck is not the success with women, and feminine
      temperaments like me, that his virtues entitle him to be. What we feminine
      temperaments want is a prophet, and Brother Peck doesn't prophesy worth a
      cent. He doesn't pretend to be authorised in any sort of way; he has a
      sneaking style of being no better than you are, and of being rather
      stumped by some of the truths he finds out. No, women like a good prophet
      about as well as they do a good doctor. Now if you, if you could unite the
      two functions, Doc&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sort of medicine-man?&rdquo; suggested Morrell.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Exactly! The aborigines understood the thing. Why, I suppose that a real
      live medicine-man could go through a community like this and not leave a
      sinful soul nor a sore body in it among the ladies&mdash;perfect faith
      cure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what did you say to Mr. Peck, Ralph?&rdquo; asked Annie. &ldquo;Didn't you
      attempt any defence?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Putney. &ldquo;He had the advantage of me. You can't talk back at a
      man in the pulpit.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, it was a sermon?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I suppose the other people thought so. But I knew it was a private
      conversation that he was publicly holding with me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Putney and the doctor began to talk of the nature and origin of evil, and
      Annie and the boy listened. Putney took high ground, and attributed it to
      Adam. &ldquo;You know, Annie,&rdquo; he explained, &ldquo;I don't believe this; but I like
      to get a scientific man that won't quite deny Scripture or the good old
      Bible premises, and see him suffer. Hello! you up yet, Winthrop? I guess
      I'll go through the form of carrying you to bed, my son.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When Mrs. Putney rejoined them, Annie said she must go, and Mrs. Putney
      went upstairs with her, apparently to help her put on her things, but
      really to have that talk before parting which guest and hostess value
      above the whole evening's pleasure. She showed Annie the pictures of the
      little girls that had died, and talked a great deal about their sickness
      and their loveliness in death. Then they spoke of others, and Mrs. Putney
      asked Annie if she had seen Lyra Wilmington lately. Annie told of her call
      with Mrs. Munger, and Mrs. Putney said: &ldquo;I <i>like</i> Lyra, and I always
      did. I presume she isn't very happily married; he's too old; there
      couldn't have been any love on her part. But she would be a better woman
      than she is if she had children. Ralph says,&rdquo; added Mrs. Putney, smiling,
      &ldquo;that he knows she would be a good mother, she's such a good aunt.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Annie put her two hands impressively on the hands of her friend folded at
      her waist. &ldquo;Ellen, what <i>does</i> it mean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing more than what you saw, Annie. She must have&mdash;or she <i>will</i>
      have&mdash;some one to amuse her; to be at her beck and call; and it's
      best to have it all in the family, Ralph says.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But isn't it&mdash;doesn't he think it's&mdash;odd?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It makes talk.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They moved a little toward the door, holding each other's hands. &ldquo;Ellen,
      I've had a <i>lovely</i> time!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And so have I, Annie. I thought you'd like to meet Dr. Morrell.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh yes, indeed!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I can't tell you what a night this has been for Ralph. He likes you
      so much, and it isn't often that he has a chance to talk to two such
      people as you and Dr. Morrell.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How brilliant he is!&rdquo; Annie sighed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, he's a very able man. It's very fortunate for Hatboro' to have such
      a doctor. He and Ralph are great cronies. I never feel uneasy now when
      Ralph's out late&mdash;I know he's been up at the doctor's office,
      talking. I&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Annie broke in with a laugh. &ldquo;I've no doubt Dr. Morrell is all you say,
      Ellen, but I meant Ralph when I spoke of brilliancy. He has a great
      future, I'm sure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Putney was silent for a moment. &ldquo;I'm satisfied with the present, so
      long as Ralph&mdash;&rdquo; The tears suddenly gushed out of her eyes, and ran
      down over the fine wrinkles of her plump little cheeks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not quite so much loud talking, please,&rdquo; piped a thin, high voice from a
      room across the stairs landing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, dear little soul!&rdquo; cried Annie. &ldquo;I forgot he'd gone to bed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Would you like to see him?&rdquo; asked his mother.
    </p>
    <p>
      She led the way into the room where the boy lay in a low bed near a larger
      one. His crutches lay beside it. &ldquo;Win sleeps in our room yet. He can take
      care of himself quite well. But when he wakes in the night he likes to
      reach out and touch his father's hand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The child looked mortified.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wish I could reach out and touch <i>my</i> father's hand when I wake in
      the night,&rdquo; said Annie.
    </p>
    <p>
      The cloud left the boy's face. &ldquo;I can't remember whether I said my
      prayers, mother, I've been thinking so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, say them over again, to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The men's voices sounded in the hall below, and the ladies found them
      there. Dr. Morrell had his hat in his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look here, Annie,&rdquo; said Putney, &ldquo;<i>I</i> expected to walk home with you,
      but Doc Morrell says he's going to cut me out. It looks like a put-up job.
      I don't know whether you're in it or not, but there's no doubt about
      Morrell.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Putney gave a sort of gasp, and then they all shouted with laughter,
      and Annie and the doctor went out into the night. In the imperfect light
      which the electrics of the main street flung afar into the little avenue
      where Putney lived, and the moon sent through the sidewalk trees, they
      struck against each other as they walked, and the doctor said, &ldquo;Hadn't you
      better take my arm, Miss Kilburn, till we get used to the dark?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I think I had, decidedly,&rdquo; she answered; and she hurried to add:
      &ldquo;Dr. Morrell, there is something I want to ask you. You're their
      physician, aren't you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Putneys? Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, you can tell me&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh no, I can't, if you ask me as their physician,&rdquo; he interrupted.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, as their friend. Mrs. Putney said something to me that makes
      me very unhappy. I thought Mr. Putney was out of all danger of his&mdash;trouble.
      Hasn't he perfectly reformed? Does he ever&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She stopped, and Dr. Morrell did not answer at once. Then he said
      seriously: &ldquo;It's a continual fight with a man of Putney's temperament, and
      sometimes he gets beaten. Yes, I guess you'd better know it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor Ellen!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They don't allow themselves to be discouraged. As soon as he's on his
      feet they begin the fight again. But of course it prevents his success in
      his profession, and he'll always be a second-rate country lawyer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor Ralph! And so brilliant as he is! He could be anything.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We must be glad if he can be something, as it is.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, and how happy they seem together, all three of them! That child
      worships his father; and how tender Ralph is of him! How good he is to his
      wife; and how proud she is of him! And that awful shadow over them all the
      time! I don't see how they live!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The doctor was silent for a moment, and finally said: &ldquo;They have the peace
      that seems to come to people from the presence of a common peril, and they
      have the comfort of people who never blink the facts.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think Ralph is terrible. I wish he'd let other people blink the facts a
      little.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course,&rdquo; said the doctor, &ldquo;it's become a habit with him now, or a
      mania. He seems to speak of his trouble as if mentioning it were a sort of
      conjuration to prevent it. I wouldn't venture to check him in his way of
      talking. He may find strength in it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's all terrible!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But it isn't by any means hopeless.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm so glad to hear you say so. You see a great deal of them, I believe?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said the doctor, getting back from their seriousness, with apparent
      relief. &ldquo;Pretty nearly every day. Putney and I consider the ways of God to
      man a good deal together. You can imagine that in a place like Hatboro'
      one would make the most of such a friend. In fact, anywhere.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, of course,&rdquo; Annie assented. &ldquo;Dr. Morrell,&rdquo; she added, in that effect
      of continuing the subject with which one breaks away from it, &ldquo;do you know
      much about South Hatboro'?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have some patients there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was there this morning&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I heard of you. They all take a great interest in your theatricals.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In <i>my</i> theatricals? Really this is too much! Who has made them my
      theatricals, I should like to know? Everybody at South Hatboro' talked as
      if I had got them up.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And haven't you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. I've had nothing to do with them. Mr. Brandreth spoke to me about
      them a week ago, and I was foolish enough to go round with Mrs. Munger to
      collect public opinion about her invited dance and supper; and now it
      appears that I have invented the whole affair.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I certainly got that impression,&rdquo; said the doctor, with a laugh lurking
      under his gravity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, it's simply atrocious,&rdquo; said Annie. &ldquo;I've nothing at all to do with
      either. I don't even know that I approve of their object.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Their object?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. The Social Union.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! Oh yes. I had forgot about the object,&rdquo; and now the doctor laughed
      outright.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It seems to have dropped into the background with everybody,&rdquo; said Annie,
      laughing too.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You like the unconventionality of South Hatboro'?&rdquo; suggested the doctor,
      after a little silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, very much,&rdquo; said Annie. &ldquo;I was used to the same thing abroad. It
      might be an American colony anywhere on the Continent.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I suppose,&rdquo; said the doctor musingly, &ldquo;that the same conditions of
      sojourn and disoccupation <i>would</i> produce the same social effects
      anywhere. Then you must feel quite at home in South Hatboro'!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quite! It's what I came back to avoid. I was sick of the life over there,
      and I wanted to be of some use here, instead of wasting all my days.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She stopped, resolved not to go on if he took this lightly, but the doctor
      answered her with sufficient gravity: &ldquo;Well?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It seemed to me that if I could be of any use in the world anywhere, I
      could in the place where I was born, and where my whole childhood was
      spent. I've been at home a month now, the most useless person in Hatboro'.
      I did catch at the first thing that offered&mdash;at Mr. Brandreth and his
      ridiculous Social Union and theatricals, and brought all this trouble on
      myself. I talked to Mr. Peck about them. You know what his views are?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Only from Putney's talk,&rdquo; said the doctor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He didn't merely disapprove of the dance and supper, but he had some very
      peculiar notions about the relations of the different classes in general,&rdquo;
       said Annie; and this was the point she had meant circuitously to lead up
      to when she began to speak of South Hatboro', though she theoretically
      despised all sorts of feminine indirectness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes?&rdquo; said the doctor. &ldquo;What notions?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, he thinks that if you have money, you <i>can't</i> do good with
      it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's rather odd,&rdquo; said Dr. Morrell.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't state it quite fairly. He meant that you can't make any kindness
      with it between yourself and the&mdash;the poor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's odd too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Annie anxiously. &ldquo;You can impose an obligation, he says, but
      you can't create sympathy. Of course Ralph exaggerates what I said about
      him in connection with the invited dance and supper, though I don't
      justify what I did say; and if I'd known then, as I do now, what his
      history had been, I should have been more careful in my talk with him. I
      should be very sorry to have hurt his feelings, and I suppose people
      who've come up in that way are sensitive?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She suggested this, and it was not the reassurance she was seeking to have
      Dr. Morrell say, &ldquo;Naturally.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She continued with an effort: &ldquo;I'm afraid I didn't respect his sincerity,
      and I ought to have done that, though I don't at all agree with him on the
      other points. It seems to me that what he said was shocking, and perfectly&mdash;impossible.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, what was it?&rdquo; asked the doctor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He said there could be no real kindness between the rich and poor,
      because all their experiences of life were different. It amounted to
      saying that there ought not to <i>be</i> any wealth. Don't you think so?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Really, I've never thought about it,&rdquo; returned Dr. Morrell. After a
      moment he asked, &ldquo;Isn't it rather an abstraction?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't say that!&rdquo; said Annie nervously. &ldquo;It's the <i>most</i> concrete
      thing in the world!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The doctor laughed with enjoyment of her convulsive emphasis; but she went
      on: &ldquo;I don't think life's worth living if you're to be shut up all your
      days to the intelligence merely of your own class.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who said you were?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Peck.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what was your inference from the fact? That there oughtn't to be any
      classes?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course it won't do to say that. There <i>must</i> be social
      differences. Don't you think so?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know,&rdquo; said Dr. Morrell. &ldquo;I never thought of it in that light
      before. It's a very curious question.&rdquo; He asked, brightening gaily after a
      moment of sober pause, &ldquo;Is that the whole trouble?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Isn't it enough?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; I don't think it is. Why didn't you tell him that you didn't want any
      gratitude?&rdquo;.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not <i>want</i> any?&rdquo; she demanded.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; said Dr. Morrell, &ldquo;I didn't know but you thought it was enough to <i>give.&rdquo;</i>
    </p>
    <p>
      Annie believed that he was making fun of her, and she tried to make her
      resentful silence dignified; but she only answered sadly: &ldquo;No; it isn't
      enough for me. Besides, he made me see that you can't give sympathy where
      you can't receive it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, that <i>is</i> bad,&rdquo; said the doctor, and he laughed again. &ldquo;Excuse
      me,&rdquo; he added. &ldquo;I see the point. But why don't you forget it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Forget it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. If you can't help it, why need you worry about it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She gave a kind of gasp of astonishment. &ldquo;Do you really think that would
      be right?&rdquo; She edged a little away from Dr. Morrell, as if with distrust.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, no; I can't say that I do,&rdquo; he returned thoughtfully, without
      seeming to have noticed her withdrawal. &ldquo;I don't suppose I was looking at
      the moral side. It's rather out of my way to do that. If a physician let
      himself get into the habit of doing that, he might regard nine-tenths of
      the diseases he has to treat as just penalties, and decline to interfere.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She fancied that he was amused again, rather than deeply concerned, and
      she determined to make him own his personal complicity in the matter if
      she could. &ldquo;Then you <i>do</i> feel sympathy with your patients? You find
      it necessary to do so?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The doctor thought a moment. &ldquo;I take an interest in their diseases.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you want them to get well?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, certainly. I'm bound to do all I can for them as a physician.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing more?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; I'm sorry for them&mdash;for their families, if it seems to be going
      badly with them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And&mdash;and as&mdash;as&mdash;Don't you care at all for your work as a
      part of what every one ought to do for others&mdash;as humanity, philan&mdash;&rdquo;
       She stopped the offensive word.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I can't say that I've looked at it in that light exactly,&rdquo; he
      answered. &ldquo;I suspect I'm not very good at generalising my own relations to
      others, though I like well enough to speculate in the abstract. But don't
      you think Mr. Peck has overlooked one important fact in his theory? What
      about the people who have grown rich from being poor, as most Americans
      have? They have the same experiences, and why can't they sympathise with
      those who have remained poor?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I never thought of that. Why didn't I ask him that?&rdquo; She lamented so
      sincerely that the doctor laughed again. &ldquo;I think that Mr. Peck&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh no! oh no!&rdquo; said the doctor, in an entreating, coaxing tone,
      expressive of a satiety with the subject that he might very well have
      felt; and he ended with another laugh, in which, after a moment of
      indignant self-question, she joined him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Isn't that delicious?&rdquo; he exclaimed; and she involuntarily slowed her
      pace with his.
    </p>
    <p>
      The spicy scent of sweet-currant blossoms hung in the dewy air that
      wrapped one of the darkened village houses. From a syringa bush before
      another, as they moved on, a denser perfume stole out with the wild song
      of a cat-bird hidden in it; the music and the odour seemed braided
      together. The shadows of the trees cast by the electrics on the walks were
      so thick and black that they looked palpable; it seemed as if she could
      stoop down and lift them from the ground. A broad bath of moonlight washed
      one of the house fronts, and the white-painted clapboards looked wet with
      it.
    </p>
    <p>
      They talked of these things, of themselves, and of their own traits and
      peculiarities; and at her door they ended far from Mr. Peck and all the
      perplexities he had suggested.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had told Dr. Morrell of some things she had brought home with her, and
      had said she hoped he would find time to come and see them. It would have
      been stiff not to do it, and she believed she had done it in a very
      off-hand, business-like way. But she continued to question whether she
      had.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      XII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Miss Northwick called upon Annie during the week, with excuses for her
      delay and for coming alone. She seemed to have intentions of being polite;
      but she constantly betrayed her want of interest in Annie, and
      disappointed an expectation of refinement which her physical delicacy
      awakened. She asked her how she ever came to take up the Social Union, and
      answered for her that of course it had the attraction of the theatricals,
      and went on to talk of her sister's part in them. The relation of the
      Northwick family to the coming entertainment, and an impression of frail
      mottled wrists and high thin cheeks, and an absence of modelling under
      affluent drapery, was the main effect of Miss Northwick's visit.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Annie returned it, she met the younger sister, whom she found a great
      beauty. She seemed very cold, and of a <i>hauteur</i> which she subdued
      with difficulty; but she was more consecutively polite than her sister,
      and Annie watched with fascination her turns of the head, her movements of
      leopard swiftness and elasticity, the changing lights of her complexion,
      the curves of her fine lips, the fluttering of her thin nostrils.
    </p>
    <p>
      A very new basket phaeton stood glittering at Annie's door when she got
      home, and Mrs. Wilmington put her head out of the open parlour window.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How d'ye do, Annie?&rdquo; she drawled, in her tender voice. &ldquo;Won't you come
      in? You see I'm in possession. I've just got my new phaeton, and I drove
      up at once to crush you with it. Isn't it a beauty?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You're too late, Lyra,&rdquo; said Annie. &ldquo;I've just come from the Northwicks,
      and another crushing beauty has got in ahead of your phaeton.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, <i>poor</i> Annie!&rdquo; Lyra began to laugh with agreeable intelligence.
      &ldquo;<i>Do</i> come in and tell me about it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why is that girl going to take part in the theatricals? She doesn't care
      to please any one, does she?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I didn't know that people took part in theatricals for that, Annie. I
      thought they wanted to please themselves and mortify others. <i>I</i> do.
      But then I may be different. Perhaps Miss Northwick wants to please Mr.
      Brandreth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you mean it, Lyra?&rdquo; demanded Annie, arrested on her threshold by the
      charm of this improbability.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I don't know; they're opposites. But, upon second thoughts, you
      needn't come in, Annie. I want you to take a drive with me, and try my new
      phaeton,&rdquo; said Lyra, coming out.
    </p>
    <p>
      Annie now looked at it with that irresolution of hers, and Lyra commanded:
      &ldquo;Get right in. We'll go down to the Works. You've never met my husband
      yet; have you, Annie?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I haven't, Lyra. I've always just missed him somehow. He seems to
      have been perpetually just gone to town, or not got back.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, he's really at home now. And I don't mean at the house, which isn't
      home to him, but the Works. You've never seen the Works either, have you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I haven't.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, we'll just go round there, and kill two birds with one stone.
      I ought to show off my new phaeton to Mr. Wilmington first of all; he gave
      it to me. It would be kind of conjugal, or filial, or something. You know
      Mr. Wilmington and I are not exactly contemporaries, Annie?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I heard he was somewhat your senior,&rdquo; said Annie reluctantly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lyra laughed. &ldquo;Well, I always say we were born in the same century, <i>any</i>way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They came round into the region of the shops, and Lyra checked her pony in
      front of her husband's factory. It was not imposingly large, but, as Mrs.
      Wilmington caused Annie to observe, it was as big as the hat shops and as
      ugly as the shoe shops.
    </p>
    <p>
      The structure trembled with the operation of its industry, and as they
      mounted the wooden steps to the open outside door, an inner door swung
      ajar for a moment, and let out a roar mingled of the hum and whirl and
      clash of machinery and fragments of voice, borne to them on a whiff of
      warm, greasy air. &ldquo;Of course it doesn't smell very nice,&rdquo; said Lyra.
    </p>
    <p>
      She pushed open the door of the office, and finding its first apartment
      empty, led the way with Annie to the inner room, where her husband sat
      writing at a table.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;George, I want to introduce you to Miss Kilburn.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh yes, yes, yes,&rdquo; said her husband, scrambling to his feet, and coming
      round to greet Annie. He was a small man, very bald, with a serious and
      wrinkled forehead, and rather austere brows; but his mouth had a furtive
      curl at one corner, which, with the habit he had of touching it there with
      the tip of his tongue, made Annie think of a cat that had been at the
      cream. &ldquo;I've been hoping to call with Mrs. Wilmington to pay my respects;
      but I've been away a great deal this season, and&mdash;and&mdash;We're all
      very happy to have you home again, Miss Kilburn. I've often heard my wife
      speak of your old days together at Hatboro'.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They fenced with some polite feints of interest in each other, the old man
      standing beside his writing-table, and staying himself with a shaking hand
      upon it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lyra interrupted them. &ldquo;Well, I think now that Annie is here, we'd better
      not let her get away without showing her the Works.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh&mdash;oh&mdash;decidedly! I'll go with you, with great pleasure. Ah!&rdquo;
       He bustled about, putting the things together on his table, and then
      reaching for the Panama hat on a hook behind it. There was something
      pathetic in his eagerness to do what Lyra bade him, and Annie fancied in
      him the uneasy consciousness which an elderly husband might feel in the
      presence of those who met him for the first time with his young wife. At
      the outer office door they encountered Jack Wilmington.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll show them through,&rdquo; he said to his uncle; and the old man assented
      with, &ldquo;Well, perhaps you'd better, Jack,&rdquo; and went back to his room.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Wilmington Stocking-Mills spun their own threads, and the first room
      was like what Annie had seen before in cotton factories, with a faint
      smell of oil from the machinery, and a fine snow of fluff in the air, and
      catching to the white-washed walls and the foul window sashes. The
      tireless machines marched back and forth across the floor, and the men who
      watched them with suicidal intensity ran after them barefooted when they
      made off with a broken thread, spliced it, and then escaped from them to
      their stations again. In other rooms, where there was a stunning whir of
      spindles, girls and women were at work; they looked after Lyra and her
      nephew from under cotton-frowsed bangs; they all seemed to know her, and
      returned her easy, kindly greetings with an effect of liking. From time to
      time, at Lyra's bidding, the young fellow explained to Annie some curious
      feature of the processes; in the room where the stockings were knitted she
      tried to understand the machinery that wrought and seemed to live before
      her eyes. But her mind wandered to the men and women who were operating
      it, and who seemed no more a voluntary part of it than all the rest,
      except when Jack Wilmington curtly ordered them to do this or that in
      illustration of some point he was explaining. She wearied herself, as
      people do in such places, in expressing her wonder at the ingenuity of the
      machinery; it was a relief to get away from it all into the room, cool and
      quiet, where half a dozen neat girls were counting and stamping the
      stockings with different numbers. &ldquo;Here's where <i>I</i> used to work,&rdquo;
       said Lyra, &ldquo;and here's where I first met Mr. Wilmington. The place is <i>full</i>
      of romantic associations. The stockings are all one <i>size</i>, Annie;
      but people like to wear different numbers, and so we try to gratify them.
      Which number do <i>you</i> wear? Or don't you wear the Wilmington
      machine-knit? <i>I</i> don't. Well, they're not <i>dreams</i> exactly,
      Annie, when all's said and done for them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When they left the mill she asked Annie to come home to tea with her,
      saying, as if from a perception of her dislike for the young fellow, that
      Jack was going to Boston.
    </p>
    <p>
      They had a long evening together, after Mr. Wilmington took himself off
      after tea to his study, as he called it, and remained shut in there. Annie
      was uneasily aware of him from time to time, but Lyra had apparently no
      more disturbance from his absence than from his presence, which she had
      managed with a frank acceptance of everything it suggested. She talked
      freely of her marriage, not as if it were like others, but for what it
      was. She showed Annie over the house, and she ended with a display of the
      rich dresses which he was always buying her, and which she never wore,
      because she never went anywhere.
    </p>
    <p>
      Annie said she thought she would at least like to go to the seaside
      somewhere during the summer, but &ldquo;No,&rdquo; Lyra said; &ldquo;it would be too much
      trouble, and you know, Annie, I always did hate <i>trouble</i>. I don't
      want the care of a cottage, and I don't want to be poked into a hotel, so
      I stay in Hatboro'.&rdquo; She said that she had always been a village girl, and
      did not miss the interests of a larger life, as she caught glimpses of
      them in South Hatboro', or want the bother of them. She said she studied
      music a little, and confessed that she read a good deal, novels mostly,
      though the library was handsomely equipped with well-bound general
      literature.
    </p>
    <p>
      At moments it all seemed no harm; at others, the luxury in which this life
      was so contentedly sunk oppressed Annie like a thick, close air. Yet she
      knew that Lyra was kind to many of the poor people about her, and did a
      great deal of good, as the phrase is, with the superfluity which it
      involved no self-denial to give from. But Mr. Peck had given her a point
      of view, and though she believed she did not agree with him, she could not
      escape from it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lyra told her much about people in Hatboro', and characterised them all so
      humorously, and she seemed so good-natured, in her ridicule which spared
      nobody.
    </p>
    <p>
      She shrieked with laughter about Mr. Brandreth when Annie told her of his
      mother's doubt whether his love-making with Miss Northwick ought to be
      tacit or explicit in the kissing and embracing between Romeo and Juliet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't you think, Annie, we'd better refer him to Mr. Peck? I <i>should</i>
      like to hear Mr. Brandreth and Mr. Peek discussing it. I must tell Jack
      about it. I might get him to ask Sue Northwick, and get her ideas.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Has Mr. Wilmington known the Northwicks long?&rdquo; Annie asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He used to go to their Boston house when he was at Harvard.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, then,&rdquo; said Annie, &ldquo;perhaps <i>he</i> accounts for her playing
      Juliet; though, as Tybalt, I don't see exactly how he&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, it's at the rehearsals, you know, that the fun is, and then it don't
      matter what part you have.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Annie lay awake a long time that night. She was sure that she ought not to
      like Lyra if she did not approve of her, and that she ought not to have
      gone home to tea with her and spent the evening with her unless she fully
      respected her. But she had to own to herself that she did like her, and
      enjoyed hearing her soft drawl. She tried to think how Jack Wilmington's
      having gone to Boston for the evening made it somehow less censurable for
      her to spend it with Lyra, even if she did not approve of her. As she
      drowsed, this became perfectly clear.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      XIII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      In the process of that expansion from a New England village to an American
      town of which Putney spoke, Hatboro' had suffered one kind of
      deterioration which Annie could not help noticing. She remembered a
      distinctly intellectual life, which might still exist in its elements, but
      which certainly no longer had as definite expression. There used to be
      houses in which people, maiden aunts and hale grandmothers, took a keen
      interest in literature, and read the new books and discussed them, some
      time after they had ceased to be new in the publishing centres, but whilst
      they were still not old. But now the grandmothers had died out, and the
      maiden aunts had faded in, and she could not find just such houses
      anywhere in Hatboro'. The decay of the Unitarians as a sect perhaps had
      something to do with the literary lapse of the place: their highly
      intellectualised belief had favoured taste in a direction where the more
      ritualistic and emotional religions did not promote it: and it is certain
      that they were no longer the leading people.
    </p>
    <p>
      It would have been hard to say just who these leading people were. The old
      political and juristic pre-eminence which the lawyers had once enjoyed was
      a tradition; the learned professions yielded in distinction to the growing
      wealth and plutocratic influence of the prosperous manufacturers; the
      situation might be summed up in the fact that Colonel Marvin of the shoe
      interest and Mr. Wilmington now filled the place once held by Judge
      Kilburn and Squire Putney. The social life in private houses had
      undoubtedly shrunk; but it had expanded in the direction of church
      sociables, and it had become much more ecclesiastical in every way,
      without becoming more religious. As formerly, some people were acceptable,
      and some were not; but it was, as everywhere else, more a question of
      money; there was an aristocracy and a commonalty, but there was a
      confusion and a more ready convertibility in the materials of each.
    </p>
    <p>
      The social authority of such a person as Mrs. Gerrish was not the only
      change that bewildered Annie, and the effort to extend her relations with
      the village people was one from which she shrank till her consciousness
      had more perfectly adjusted itself to the new conditions. Meanwhile Dr.
      Morrell came to call the night after their tea at the Putneys', and he
      fell into the habit of coming several nights in the week, and staying
      late. Sometimes he was sent for at her house by sick people, and he must
      have left word at his office where he was to be found.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had spent part of his student life in Europe, and he looked back to his
      travel there with a fondness that the Old World inspires less and less in
      Americans. This, with his derivation from one of the unliterary Boston
      suburbs, and his unambitious residence in a place like Hatboro', gave her
      a sense of provinciality in him. On his part, he apparently found it droll
      that a woman of her acquaintance with a larger life should be willing to
      live in Hatboro' at all, and he seemed incredulous about her staying after
      summer was over. She felt that she mystified him, and sometimes she felt
      the pursuit of a curiosity which was a little too like a psychical
      diagnosis. He had a way of sitting beside her table and playing with her
      paper-cutter, while he submitted with a quizzical smile to her endeavours
      to turn him to account. She did not mind his laughing at her eagerness (a
      woman is willing enough to join a man in making fun of her femininity if
      she believes that he respects her), and she tried to make him talk about
      Hatboro', and tell her how she could be of use among the working people.
      She would have liked very much to know whether he gave his medical service
      gratis among them, and whether he found it a pleasure and a privilege to
      do so. There was one moment when she would have liked to ask him to let
      her be at the charges of his more indigent patients, but with the words
      behind her lips she perceived that it would not do. At the best, it would
      be taking his opportunity from him and making it hers. She began to see
      that one ought to have a conscience about doing good.
    </p>
    <p>
      She let the chance of proposing this impossibility go by; and after a
      little silence Dr. Morrell seemed to revert, in her interest, to the
      economical situation in Hatboro'.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know that most of the hands in the hat-shops are from the farms
      around; and some of them own property here in the village. I know the
      owner of three small houses who's always worked in the shops. You couldn't
      very well offer help to a landed proprietor like that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Annie, abashed in view of him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I suppose you ought to go to a factory town like Fall River, if you
      really wanted to deal with overwork and squalor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm beginning to think there's no such thing anywhere,&rdquo; she said
      desperately.
    </p>
    <p>
      The doctor's eyes twinkled sympathetically. &ldquo;I don't know whether Benson
      earned his three houses altogether in the hat-shops. He 'likes a good
      horse,' as he says; and he likes to trade it for a better; I know that
      from experience. But he's a great friend of mine. Well, then, there are
      more women than men in the shops, and they earn more. I suppose that's
      rather disappointing too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is, rather.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, on the other hand, the work only lasts eight months of the year, and
      that cuts wages down to an average of a dollar a day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; cried Annie. &ldquo;There's some hope in <i>that</i>! What do they do when
      the work stops?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, they go back to their country-seats.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps not all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I <i>thought</i> so!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, you'd better look round among those that stay.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Even among these she looked in vain for destitution; she could find that
      in satisfactory degree only in straggling veterans of the great army of
      tramps which once overran country places in the summer.
    </p>
    <p>
      She would have preferred not to see or know the objects of her charity,
      and because she preferred this she forced herself to face their
      distasteful misery. Mrs. Bolton had orders to send no one from the door
      who asked for food or work, but to call Annie and let her judge the case.
      She knew that it was folly, and she was afraid it was worse, but she could
      not send the homeless creatures away as hungry or poor as they came. They
      filled her gentlewoman's soul with loathing; but if she kept beyond the
      range of the powerful corporeal odour that enveloped them, she could
      experience the luxury of pity for them. The filthy rags that caricatured
      them, their sick or sodden faces, always frowsed with a week's beard,
      represented typical poverty to her, and accused her comfortable state with
      a poignant contrast; and she consoled herself as far as she could with the
      superstition that in meeting them she was fulfilling a duty sacred in
      proportion to the disgust she felt in the encounter.
    </p>
    <p>
      The work at the hat-shops fell off after the spring orders, and did not
      revive till the beginning of August. If there was less money among the
      hands and their families who remained than there was in time of full work,
      the weather made less demand upon their resources. The children lived
      mostly out-of-doors, and seemed to have always what they wanted of the
      season's fruit and vegetables. They got these too late from the decaying
      lots at the provision stores, and too early from the nearest orchards; and
      Dr. Morrell admitted that there was a good deal of sickness, especially
      among the little ones, from this diet. Annie wondered whether she ought
      not to offer herself as a nurse among them; she asked him whether she
      could not be of use in that way, and had to confess that she knew nothing
      about the prevailing disease.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then, I don't think you'd better undertake it,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;There are too
      many nurses there already, such as they are. It's the dull time in most of
      the shops, you know, and the women have plenty of leisure. There are about
      five volunteer nurses for every patient, not counting the grandmothers on
      both sides. I think they would resent any outside aid.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, I'm always on the outside! But can't I send&mdash;I mean carry&mdash;them
      anything nourishing, any little dishes&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Arrowroot is about all the convalescents can manage.&rdquo; She made a note of
      it. &ldquo;But jelly and chicken broth are always relished by their friends.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dr. Morrell, I must ask you not to turn me into ridicule, if you please.
      I cannot permit it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I beg your pardon&mdash;I do indeed, Miss Kilburn. I didn't mean to
      ridicule you. I began seriously, but I was led astray by remembering what
      becomes of most of the good things sent to sick people.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know,&rdquo; she said, breaking into a laugh. &ldquo;I have eaten lots of them for
      my father. And is arrowroot the only thing?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The doctor reflected gravely. &ldquo;Why, no. There's a poor little life now and
      then that might be saved by the sea-air. Yes, if you care to send some of
      my patients, with a mother and a grandmother apiece, to the seaside&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't say another word, doctor,&rdquo; cried Annie. &ldquo;You make me <i>so</i>
      happy! I will&mdash;I will send their whole families. And you won't, you
      <i>won't</i> let a case escape, will you, doctor?&rdquo; It was a break in the
      iron wall of uselessness which had closed her in; she behaved like a young
      girl with an invitation to a ball.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the first patient came back well from the seaside her rejoicing
      overflowed in exultation before the friends to whom she confessed her
      agency in the affair. Putney pretended that he could not see what pleasure
      she could reasonably take in restoring the child to the sort of life it
      had been born to; but that was a matter she would not consider,
      theoretically or practically.
    </p>
    <p>
      She began to go outside of Dr. Morrell's authority; she looked up two
      cases herself, and, upon advising with their grandmothers, sent them to
      the seaside, and she was at the station when the train came in with the
      young mother and the still younger aunt of one of the sick children. She
      did not see the baby, and the mother passed her with a stare of
      impassioned reproach, and fell sobbing on the neck of her husband, waiting
      for her on the platform. Annie felt the blood drop back upon her heart.
      She caught at the girlish aunt, who was looking about her with a sense of
      the interest which attached to herself as a party to the spectacle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Rebecca, where is the child?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, there, Miss Kilburn, I'm <i>ril</i> sorry to tell you, but I guess
      the sea-air didn't do it a great deal of good, if any. I tell Maria she'll
      see it in the right light after a while, but of course she can't, first
      off. Well, there! <i>Somebody's</i> got to look after it. You'll excuse <i>me</i>,
      Miss Kilburn.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Annie saw her run off to the baggage-car, from which the baggage-man was
      handing out a narrow box. The ground reeled under her feet; she got the
      public depot carriage and drove home.
    </p>
    <p>
      She sent for Dr. Morrell, and poured out the confession of her error upon
      him before he could speak. &ldquo;I am a murderess,&rdquo; she ended hysterically.
      &ldquo;Don't deny it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think you can be got off on the ground of insanity, Miss Kilburn, if
      you go on in this way,&rdquo; he answered.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her desperation broke in tears. &ldquo;Oh, what shall I do&mdash;what shall I
      do? I've killed the child!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh no, you haven't,&rdquo; he retorted. &ldquo;I know the case. The only hope for it
      was the sea-air; I was going to ask you to send it&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She took down her handkerchief and gave him a piercing look. &ldquo;Dr. Morrell,
      if you are lying to me&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm not lying, Miss Kilburn,&rdquo; he answered. &ldquo;You've done a very
      unwarrantable thing in both of the cases that you sent to the seaside on
      your own responsibility. One of them I certainly shouldn't have advised
      sending, but it's turned out well. You've no more credit for it, though,
      than for this that died; and you won't think I'm lying, perhaps, when I
      say you're equally to blame in both instances.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&mdash;I beg your pardon,&rdquo; she faltered, with dawning comfort in his
      severity. &ldquo;I didn't mean&mdash;I didn't intend to say&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know it,&rdquo; said Dr. Morrell, allowing himself to smile. &ldquo;Just remember
      that you blundered into doing the only thing left to be done for Mrs.
      Savor's child; and&mdash;don't try it again. That's all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He smiled once more, and at some permissive light in her face, he began
      even to laugh.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You&mdash;you're horrible!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh no, I'm not,&rdquo; he gasped. &ldquo;All the tears in the world wouldn't help;
      and my laughing hurts nobody. I'm sorry for you, and I'm sorry for the
      mother; but I've told you the truth&mdash;I have indeed; and you <i>must</i>
      believe me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The child's father came to see her the next night. &ldquo;Rebecca she seemed to
      think that you felt kind of bad, may be, because Maria wouldn't speak to
      you when she first got off the cars yesterday, and I don't say she done
      exactly right, myself. The way I look at it, and the way I tell Maria <i>she'd</i>
      ought to, is like this: You done what you done for the best, and we wa'n't
      <i>obliged</i> to take your advice anyway. But of course Maria she'd kind
      of set her heart on savin' it, and she can't seem to get over it right
      away.&rdquo; He talked on much longer to the same effect, tilted back in his
      chair, and looking down, while he covered and uncovered one of his knees
      with his straw hat. He had the usual rustic difficulty in getting away,
      but Annie was glad to keep him, in her gratitude for his kindness.
      Besides, she could not let him go without satisfying a suspicion she had.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And Dr. Morrell&mdash;have you seen him for Mrs. Savor&mdash;have you&mdash;&rdquo;
       She stopped, for shame of her hypocrisy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, 'm. We hain't seen him <i>sence</i>. I guess she'll get along.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It needed this stroke to complete her humiliation before the
      single-hearted fellow.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&mdash;I suppose,&rdquo; she stammered out, &ldquo;that you&mdash;your wife,
      wouldn't like me to come to the&mdash;I can understand that; but oh! if
      there is anything I can do for you&mdash;flowers&mdash;or my carriage&mdash;or
      helping anyway&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Savor stood up. &ldquo;I'm much obliged to <i>you</i>, Miss Kilburn; but we
      thought we hadn't better wait, well not a great while, and&mdash;the
      funeral was this afternoon. Well, I wish you good evening.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She met the mother, a few days after, in the street; with an impulse to
      cross over to the other side she advanced straight upon her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mrs. Savor! What can I say to you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I don't presume but what you meant for the best, Miss Kilburn. But I
      guess I shall know what to do next time. I kind of felt the whole while
      that it was a resk. But it's all right now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Annie realised, in her resentment of the poor thing's uncouth sorrow, that
      she had spoken to her with the hope of getting, not giving, comfort.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes,&rdquo; she confessed. &ldquo;I was to blame.&rdquo; The bereaved mother did not
      gainsay her, and she felt that, whatever was the justice of the case, she
      had met her present deserts.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had to bear the discredit into which the seaside fell with the mothers
      of all the other sick children. She tried to bring Dr. Morrell once to the
      consideration of her culpability in the case of those who might have lived
      if the case of Mrs. Savor's baby had not frightened their mothers from
      sending them to the seaside; but he refused to grapple with the problem.
      She was obliged to believe him when he said he should not have advised
      sending any of the recent cases there; that the disease was changing its
      character, and such a course could have done no good.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look here, Miss Kilburn,&rdquo; he said, after scanning her face sharply, &ldquo;I'm
      going to leave you a little tonic. I think you're rather run down.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; she said passively.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      XIV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      It was in her revulsion from the direct beneficence which had proved so
      dangerous that Annie was able to give herself to the more general
      interests of the Social Union. She had not the courage to test her
      influence for it among the workpeople whom it was to entertain and
      elevate, and whose co-operation Mr. Peck had thought important; but she
      went about among the other classes, and found a degree of favour and
      deference which surprised her, and an ignorance of what lay so heavy on
      her heart which was still more comforting. She was nowhere treated as the
      guilty wretch she called herself; some who knew of the facts had got them
      wrong; and she discovered what must always astonish the inquirer below the
      pretentious surface of our democracy&mdash;an indifference and an
      incredulity concerning the feelings of people of lower station which could
      not be surpassed in another civilisation. Her concern for Mrs. Savor was
      treated as a great trial for Miss Kilburn; but the mother's bereavement
      was regarded as something those people were used to, and got over more
      easily than one could imagine.
    </p>
    <p>
      Annie's mission took her to the ministers of the various denominations,
      and she was able to overcome any scruples they might have about the
      theatricals by urging the excellence of their object. As a Unitarian, she
      was not prepared for the liberality with which the matter was considered;
      the Episcopalians of course were with her; but the Universalist minister
      himself was not more friendly than the young Methodist preacher, who
      volunteered to call with her on the pastor of the Baptist church, and help
      present the affair in the right light; she had expected a degree of
      narrow-mindedness, of bigotry, which her sect learned to attribute to
      others in the militant period before they had imbibed so much of its own
      tolerance.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the recollection of what had passed with Mr. Peck remained a reproach
      in her mind, and nothing that she accomplished for the Social Union with
      the other ministers was important. In her vivid reveries she often met
      him, and combated his peculiar ideas, while she admitted a wrong in her
      own position, and made every expression of regret, and parted from him on
      the best terms, esteemed and complimented in high degree; in reality she
      saw him seldom, and still more rarely spoke to him, and then with a
      distance and consciousness altogether different from the effects
      dramatised in her fancy. Sometimes during the period of her interest in
      the sick children of the hands, she saw him in their houses, or coming and
      going outside; but she had no chance to speak with him, or else said to
      herself that she had none, because she was ashamed before him. She thought
      he avoided her; but this was probably only a phase of the impersonality
      which seemed characteristic of him in everything. At these times she felt
      a strange pathos in the lonely man whom she knew to be at odds with many
      of his own people, and she longed to interpret herself more
      sympathetically to him, but actually confronted with him she was sensible
      of something cold and even hard in the nimbus her compassion cast about
      him. Yet even this added to the mystery that piqued her, and that loosed
      her fancy to play, as soon as they parted, in conjecture about his past
      life, his marriage, and the mad wife who had left him with the child he
      seemed so ill-fitted to care for. Then, the next time they met she was
      abashed with the recollection of having unwarrantably romanced the plain,
      simple, homely little man, and she added an embarrassment of her own to
      that shyness of his which kept them apart.
    </p>
    <p>
      Except for what she had heard Putney say, and what she learned casually
      from the people themselves, she could not have believed he ever did
      anything for them. He came and went so elusively, as far as Annie was
      concerned, that she knew of his presence in the houses of sickness and
      death usually by his little girl, whom she found playing about in the
      street before the door with the children of the hands. She seemed to hold
      her own among the others in their plays and their squabbles; if she tried
      to make up to her, Idella smiled, but she would not be approached, and
      Annie's heart went out to the little mischief in as helpless goodwill as
      toward the minister himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      She used to hear his voice through the summer-open windows when he called
      upon the Boltons, and wondered if some accident would not bring them
      together, but she had to send for Mrs. Bolton at last, and bid her tell
      Mr. Peck that she would like to see him before he went away, one night. He
      came, and then she began a parrying parley of preliminary nothings before
      she could say that she supposed he knew the ladies were going on with
      their scheme for the establishment of the Social Union; he admitted
      vaguely that he had heard something to that effect, and she added that the
      invited dance and supper had been given up.
    </p>
    <p>
      He remained apparently indifferent to the fact, and she hurried on: &ldquo;And I
      ought to say, Mr. Peck, that nearly every one&mdash;every one whose
      opinion you would value&mdash;agreed with you that it would have been
      extremely ill-advised, and&mdash;and shocking. And I'm quite ashamed that
      I should not have seen it from the beginning; and I hope&mdash;I hope you
      will forgive me if I said things in my&mdash;my excitement that must have&mdash;I
      mean not only what I said to you, but what I said to others; and I assure
      you that I regret them, and&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She went on and repeated herself at length, and he listened patiently, but
      as if the matter had not really concerned either of them personally. She
      had to conclude that what she had said of him had not reached him, and she
      ended by confessing that she had clung to the Social Union project because
      it seemed the only thing in which her attempts to do good were not
      mischievous.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Peck's thin face kindled with a friendlier interest than it had shown
      while the question at all related to himself, and a light of something
      that she took for humorous compassion came into his large, pale blue eyes.
      At least it was intelligence; and perhaps the woman nature craves this as
      much as it is supposed to crave sympathy; perhaps the two are finally one.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I want to tell you something, Mr. Peck&mdash;an experience of mine,&rdquo; she
      said abruptly, and without trying to connect it obviously with what had
      gone before, she told him the story of her ill-fated beneficence to the
      Savors. He listened intently, and at the end he said: &ldquo;I understand. But
      that is sorrow you have caused, not evil; and what we intend in goodwill
      must not rest a burden on the conscience, no matter how it turns out.
      Otherwise the moral world is no better than a crazy dream, without plan or
      sequence. You might as well rejoice in an evil deed because good happened
      to come of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I <i>thank</i> you!&rdquo; she gasped. &ldquo;You don't know what a load you have
      lifted from me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her words feebly expressed the sense of deliverance which overflowed her
      heart. Her strength failed her like that of a person suddenly relieved
      from some great physical stress or peril; but she felt that he had given
      her the truth, and she held fast by it while she went on.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you knew, or if any one knew, how difficult it is, what a
      responsibility, to do the least thing for others! And once it seemed so
      simple! And it seems all the more difficult, the more means you have for
      doing good. The poor people seem to help one another without doing any
      harm, but if <i>I</i> try it&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said the minister, &ldquo;it is difficult to help others when we cease to
      need help ourselves. A man begins poor, or his father or grandfather
      before him&mdash;it doesn't matter how far back he begins&mdash;and then
      he is in accord and full understanding with all the other poor in the
      world; but as he prospers he withdraws from them and loses their point of
      view. Then when he offers help, it is not as a brother of those who need
      it, but a patron, an agent of the false state of things in which want is
      possible; and his help is not an impulse of the love that ought to bind us
      all together, but a compromise proposed by iniquitous social conditions, a
      peace-offering to his own guilty consciousness of his share in the wrong.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Annie, too grateful for the comfort he had given her to
      question words whose full purport had not perhaps reached her. &ldquo;And I
      assure you, Mr. Peck, I feel very differently about these things since I
      first talked with you. And I wish to tell you, in justice to myself, that
      I had no idea then that&mdash;that&mdash;you were speaking from your own
      experience when you&mdash;you said how working people looked at things. I
      didn't know that you had been&mdash;that is, that&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said the minister, coming to her relief, &ldquo;I once worked in a
      cotton-mill. Then,&rdquo; he continued, dismissing the personal concern, &ldquo;it
      seems to me that I saw things in their right light, as I have never been
      able to see them since&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And how brutal,&rdquo; she broke in, &ldquo;how cruel and vulgar, what I said must
      have seemed to you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I fancied,&rdquo; he continued evasively, &ldquo;that I had authority to set myself
      apart from my fellow-workmen, to be a teacher and guide to the true life.
      But it was a great error. The true life was the life of work, and no one
      ever had authority to turn from it. Christ Himself came as a labouring
      man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is true,&rdquo; said Annie; and his words transfigured the man who spoke
      them, so that her heart turned reverently toward him. &ldquo;But if you had been
      meant to work in a mill all your life,&rdquo; she pursued, &ldquo;would you have been
      given the powers you have, and that you have just used to save me from
      despair?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The minister rose, and said, with a sigh: &ldquo;No one was meant to work in a
      mill all his life. Good night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She would have liked to keep him longer, but she could not think how, at
      once. As he turned to go out through the Boltons' part of the house,
      &ldquo;Won't you go out through my door?&rdquo; she asked, with a helpless effort at
      hospitality.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, if you wish,&rdquo; he answered submissively.
    </p>
    <p>
      When she had closed the door upon him she went to speak with Mrs. Bolton.
      She was in the kitchen mixing flour to make bread, and Annie traced her by
      following the lamp-light through the open door. It discovered Bolton
      sitting in the outer doorway, his back against one jamb and his
      stocking-feet resting against the base of the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mrs. Bolton,&rdquo; Annie began at once, making herself free of one of the hard
      kitchen chairs, &ldquo;how is Mr. Peck getting on in Hatboro'?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I d'know as I know just what you mean, Miss Kilburn,&rdquo; said Mrs. Bolton,
      on the defensive.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I mean, is there a party against him in his church? Is he unpopular?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bolton took some flour and sprinkled it on her bread-board; then she
      lifted the mass of dough out of the trough before her, and let it sink
      softly upon the board.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I d'know as you can say he's unpoplah. He ain't poplah with some. Yes,
      there's a party&mdash;the Gerrish party.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it a strong one?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's pretty strong.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you think it will prevail?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, most o' folks don't know <i>what</i> they want; and if there's some
      folks that know what they <i>don't</i> want, they can generally keep from
      havin' it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Bolton made a soft husky prefatory noise of protest in his throat, which
      seemed to stimulate his wife to a more definite assertion, and she cut in
      before he could speak&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>I</i> should say that unless them that stood Mr. Peck's friends first
      off, and got him here, done something to keep him, his enemies wa'n't
      goin' to take up his cause.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Annie divined a personal reproach for Bolton in the apparent abstraction.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, now, you'll see it'll all come out right in the end, Pauliny,&rdquo; he
      mildly opposed. &ldquo;There ain't any such great feelin' about Mr. Peck;
      nothin' but what'll work itself off perfec'ly natural, give it time. It's
      goin' to come out all right.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, at the day o' jedgment,&rdquo; Mrs. Bolton assented, plunging her fists
      into the dough, and beginning to work a contempt for her husband's
      optimism into it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, an' a good deal before,&rdquo; he returned. &ldquo;There's always somethin' to
      objec' to every minister; we ain't any of us perfect, and Mr. Peck's got
      his failin's; he hain't built up the church quite so much as some on 'em
      expected but what he would; and there's some that don't like his prayers;
      and some of 'em thinks he ain't doctrinal enough. But I guess, take it all
      round, he suits pretty well. It'll come out all right, Pauliny. You'll
      see.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A pause ensued, of which Annie felt the awfulness. It seemed to her that
      Mrs. Bolton's impatience with this intolerable hopefulness must burst
      violently. She hastened to interpose. &ldquo;I think the trouble is that people
      don't fully understand Mr. Peck at first. But they do finally.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; take time,&rdquo; said Bolton.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take eternity, I guess, for some,&rdquo; retorted his wife. &ldquo;If you think
      William B. Gerrish is goin' to work round with time&mdash;&rdquo; She stopped
      for want of some sufficiently rejectional phrase, and did not go on.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The way I look at it,&rdquo; said Bolton, with incorrigible courage, &ldquo;is like
      this: When it comes to anything like askin' Mr. Peck to resign, it'll
      develop his strength. You can't tell how strong he is without you try to
      git red of him. I 'most wish it would come, once, fair and square.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm sure you're right, Mr. Bolton,&rdquo; said Annie. &ldquo;I don't believe that
      your church would let such a man go when it really came to it. Don't they
      all feel that he has great ability?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I guess they appreciate him as far forth as ability goes. Some on 'em
      complains that he's a little <i>too</i> intellectial, if anything. But I
      tell 'em it's a good fault; it's a thing that can be got over in time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bolton had ceased to take part in the discussion. She finished
      kneading her dough, and having fitted it into two baking-pans and dusted
      it with flour, she laid a clean towel over both. But when Annie rose she
      took the lamp from the mantel-shelf, where it stood, and held it up for
      her to find her way back to her own door.
    </p>
    <p>
      Annie went to bed with a spirit lightened as well as chastened, and kept
      saying over the words of Mr. Peck, so as to keep fast hold of the
      consolation they had given her. They humbled her with, a sense of his
      wisdom and insight; the thought of them kept her awake. She remembered the
      tonic that Dr. Morrell had left with her, and after questioning whether
      she really needed it now, she made sure by getting up and taking it.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      XV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      The spring had filled and flushed into summer. Bolton had gone over the
      grass on the slope before the house, and it was growing thick again, dark
      green above the yellow of its stubble, and the young generation of robins
      was foraging in it for the callow grasshoppers. Some boughs of the maples
      were beginning to lose the elastic upward lift of their prime, and to hang
      looser and limper with the burden of their foliage. The elms drooped lower
      toward the grass, and swept the straggling tops left standing in their
      shade.
    </p>
    <p>
      The early part of September had been fixed for the theatricals. Annie
      refused to have anything to do with them, and the preparations remained
      altogether with Brandreth. &ldquo;The minuet,&rdquo; he said to her one afternoon,
      when he had come to report to her as a co-ordinate authority, &ldquo;is going to
      be something exquisite, I assure you. A good many of the ladies studied it
      in the Continental times, you know, when we had all those Martha
      Washington parties&mdash;or, I forgot you were out of the country&mdash;and
      it will be done perfectly. We're going to have the ball-room scene on the
      tennis-court just in front of the evergreens, don't you know, and then the
      balcony scene in the same place. We have to cut some of the business
      between Romeo and Juliet, because it's too long, you know, and some of
      it's too&mdash;too passionate; we couldn't do it properly, and we've
      decided to leave it out. But we sketch along through the play, and we have
      Friar Laurence coming with Juliet out of his cell onto the tennis-court
      and meeting Romeo; so that tells the story of the marriage. You can't
      imagine what a Mercutio Mr. Putney makes; he throws himself into it heart
      and soul, especially where he fights with Tybalt and gets killed. I give
      him lines there out of other scenes too; the tennis-court sets that part
      admirably; they come out of a street at the side. I think the scenery will
      surprise you, Miss Kilburn. Well, and then we have the Nurse and Juliet,
      and the poison scene&mdash;we put it into the garden, on the tennis-court,
      and we condense the different acts so as to give an idea of all that's
      happened, with Romeo banished, and all that. Then he comes back from
      Mantua, and we have the tomb scene set at one side of the tennis-court
      just opposite the street scene; and he fights with Paris; and then we have
      Juliet come to the door of the tomb&mdash;it's a liberty, of course; but
      we couldn't arrange the light inside&mdash;and she stabs herself and falls
      on Romeo's body, and that ends the play. You see, it gives a notion of the
      whole action, and tells the story pretty well. I think you'll be pleased.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I've no doubt I shall,&rdquo; said Annie. &ldquo;Did you make the adaptation
      yourself, Mr. Brandreth?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, yes, I did,&rdquo; Mr. Brandreth modestly admitted. &ldquo;It's been a good
      deal of work, but it's been a pleasure too. You know how that is, Miss
      Kilburn, in your charities.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>Don't</i> speak of my charities, Mr. Brandreth. I'm not a charitable
      person.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You won't get people to believe <i>that</i>&rdquo; said Mr. Brandreth.
      &ldquo;Everybody knows how much good you do. But, as I was saying, my idea was
      to give a notion of the whole play in a series of passages or tableaux.
      Some of my friends think I've succeeded so well in telling the story,
      don't you know, without a change of scene, that they're urging me to
      publish my arrangement for the use of out-of-door theatricals.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should think it would be a very good idea,&rdquo; said Annie. &ldquo;I suppose Mr.
      Chapley would do it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I don't know&mdash;I don't know,&rdquo; Mr. Brandreth answered, with a
      note of trouble in his voice. &ldquo;I'm afraid not,&rdquo; he added sadly. &ldquo;Miss
      Kilburn, I've been put in a very unfair position by Miss Northwick's
      changing her mind about Juliet, after the part had been offered to Miss
      Chapley. I've been made the means of a seeming slight to Miss Chapley,
      when, if it hadn't been for the cause, I'd rather have thrown up the whole
      affair. She gave up the part instantly when she heard that Miss Northwick
      wished to change her mind, but all the same I know&mdash;.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He stopped, and Annie said encouragingly: &ldquo;Yes, I see. But perhaps she
      doesn't really care.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's what she said,&rdquo; returned Mr. Brandreth ruefully. &ldquo;But I don't
      know. I have never spoken of it with her since I went to tell her about
      it, after I got Miss Northwick's note.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Mr. Brandreth, I think you've really been victimised; and I don't
      believe the Social Union will ever be worth what it's costing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was sure you would appreciate&mdash;would understand;&rdquo; and Mr.
      Brandreth pressed her hand gratefully in leave-taking.
    </p>
    <p>
      She heard him talking with some one at the gate, whose sharp, &ldquo;All right,
      my son!" identified Putney.
    </p>
    <p>
      She ran to the door to welcome him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, you're <i>both</i> here!&rdquo; she rejoiced, at sight of Mrs. Putney too.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can send Ellen home,&rdquo; suggested Putney.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh <i>no</i>, indeed!&rdquo; said Annie, with single-mindedness at which she
      laughed with Mrs. Putney. &ldquo;Only it seemed too good to have you both,&rdquo; she
      explained, kissing Mrs. Putney. &ldquo;I'm <i>so</i> glad to see you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, what's the reason?&rdquo; Putney dropped into a chair and began to rock
      nervously. &ldquo;Don't be ashamed: we're <i>all</i> selfish. Has Brandreth been
      putting up any more jobs on you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no! Only giving me a hint of his troubles and sorrows with those
      wretched Social Union theatricals. Poor young fellow! I'm sorry for him.
      He is really very sweet and unselfish. I like him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Brandreth is one of the most lady-like fellows I ever saw,&rdquo; said
      Putney. &ldquo;That Juliet business has pretty near been the death of him. I
      told him to offer Miss Chapley some other part&mdash;Rosaline, the part of
      the young lady who was dropped; but he couldn't seem to see it. Well, and
      how come on the good works, Annie?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The good works! Ralph, tell me: <i>do</i> people think me a charitable
      person? Do they suppose I've done or can do any good whatever?&rdquo; She looked
      from Putney to his wife, and back again with comic entreaty.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, aren't you a charitable person? Don't you do any good?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No!&rdquo; she shouted. &ldquo;Not the least in the world!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is pretty rough,&rdquo; said Putney, taking out a cigar for a dry smoke;
      &ldquo;and nobody will believe me when I report what you say, Annie. Mrs. Munger
      is telling round that she don't see how you can live through the summer at
      the rate you're going. She's got it down pretty cold about your taking
      Brother Peck's idea of the invited dance and supper, and joining hands
      with him to save the vanity of the self-respecting poor. She says that
      your suppression of that one unpopular feature has done more than anything
      else to promote the success of the Social Union. You ought to be glad
      Brother Peck is coming to the show.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To the theatricals?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Putney nodded his head. &ldquo;That's what he says. I believe Brother Peck is
      coming to see how the upper classes amuse themselves when they really try
      to benefit the lower classes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Annie would not laugh at his joke. &ldquo;Ralph,&rdquo; she asked, &ldquo;is it true that
      Mr. Peck is so unpopular in his church? Is he really going to be turned
      out&mdash;dismissed?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I don't know about that. But they'll bounce him if they can.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And can nothing be done? Can't his friends unite?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, they're united enough now; what they're afraid of is that they're not
      numerous enough. Why don't you buy in, Annie, and help control the stock?
      That old Unitarian concern of yours isn't ever going to get into running
      order again, and if you owned a pew in Ellen's church you could have a
      vote in church meeting, after a while, and you could lend Brother Peck
      your moral support now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I never liked that sort of thing, Ralph. I shouldn't believe with your
      people.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ellen's people, please. <i>I</i> don't believe with them either. But I
      always vote right. Now you think it over.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I shall not think it over. I don't approve of it. If I should take a
      pew in your church it would be simply to hear Mr. Peck preach, and
      contribute toward his&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Salary? Yes, that's the way to look at it in the beginning. I knew you'd
      work round. Why, Annie, in a year's time you'll be trying to <i>buy</i>
      votes for Brother Peck.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should <i>never</i> vote,&rdquo; she retorted. &ldquo;And I shall keep myself out
      of all temptation by not going to your church.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ellen's church,&rdquo; Putney corrected.
    </p>
    <p>
      She went the next Sunday to hear Mr. Peck preach, and Putney, who seemed
      to see her the moment she entered the church, rose, as the sexton was
      showing her up the aisle, and opened the door of his pew for her with
      ironical welcome.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You can always have a seat with us, Annie,&rdquo; he mocked, on their way out
      of the church together.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you, Ralph,&rdquo; she answered boldly. &ldquo;I'm going to speak to the sexton
      for a pew.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      XVI.
    </h2>
    <p>
      A wire had been carried from the village to the scene of the play at South
      Hatboro', and electric globes fizzed and hissed overhead, flooding the
      open tennis-court with the radiance of sharper moonlight, and stamping the
      thick velvety shadows of the shrubbery and tree-tops deep into the raw
      green of the grass along its borders.
    </p>
    <p>
      The spectators were seated on the verandas and terraced turf at the rear
      of the house, and they crowded the sides of the court up to a certain
      point, where a cord stretched across it kept them from encroaching upon
      the space intended for the action. Another rope enclosed an area all round
      them, where chairs and benches were placed for those who had tickets.
      After the rejection of the exclusive feature of the original plan, Mrs.
      Munger had liberalised more and more: she caused it to be known that all
      who could get into her grounds would be welcome on the outside of that
      rope, even though they did not pay anything; but a large number of tickets
      had been sold to the hands, as well as to the other villagers, and the
      area within the rope was closely packed. Some of the boys climbed the
      neighbouring trees, where from time to time the town authorities
      threatened them, but did not really dislodge them.
    </p>
    <p>
      Annie, with other friends of Mrs. Munger, gained a reserved seat on the
      veranda through the drawing-room windows; but once there, she found
      herself in the midst of a sufficiently mixed company.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How do, Miss Kilburn? That you? Well, I declare!&rdquo; said a voice that she
      seemed to know, in a key of nervous excitement. Mrs. Savor's husband
      leaned across his wife's lap and shook hands with Annie. &ldquo;William thought
      I better come,&rdquo; Mrs. Savor seemed called upon to explain. &ldquo;I got to do <i>something</i>.
      Ain't it just too cute for anything the way they got them screens worked
      into the shrubbery down they-ar? It's like the cycloraymy to Boston; you
      can't tell where the ground ends and the paintin' commences. Oh, I do want
      'em to <i>begin</i>!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Savor laughed at his wife's impatience, and she said playfully: &ldquo;What
      you laughin' at? I guess you're full as excited as what I be, when all's
      said and done.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There were other acquaintances of Annie's from Over the Track, in the
      group about her, and upon the example of the Savors they all greeted her.
      The wives and sweethearts tittered with self-derisive expectation; the men
      were gravely jocose, like all Americans in unwonted circumstances, but
      they were respectful to the coming performance, perhaps as a tribute to
      Annie. She wondered how some of them came to have those seats, which were
      reserved at an extra price; she did not allow for that self-respect which
      causes the American workman to supply himself with the best his money can
      buy while his money lasts.
    </p>
    <p>
      She turned to see who was on her other hand. A row of three small children
      stretched from her to Mrs. Gerrish, whom she did not recognise at first.
      &ldquo;Oh, Emmeline!&rdquo; she said; and then, for want of something else, she added,
      &ldquo;Where is Mr. Gerrish? Isn't he coming?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He was detained at the store,&rdquo; said Mrs. Gerrish, with cold importance;
      &ldquo;but he will be here. May I ask, Annie,&rdquo; she pursued solemnly, &ldquo;how you
      got here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How did I get here? Why, through the windows. Didn't you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;May I ask who had charge of the arrangements?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know, I'm sure,&rdquo; said Annie. &ldquo;I suppose Mrs. Munger.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A burst of music came from the dense shadow into which the group of
      evergreens at the bottom of the tennis-court deepened away from the
      glister of the electrics. There was a deeper hush; then a slight jarring
      and scraping of a chair beyond Mrs. Gerrish, who leaned across her
      children and said, &ldquo;He's come, Annie&mdash;right through the parlour
      window!&rdquo; Her voice was lifted to carry above the music, and all the people
      near were able to share the fact that righted Mrs. Gerrish in her own
      esteem.
    </p>
    <p>
      From the covert of the low pines in the middle of the scene Miss Northwick
      and Mr. Brandreth appeared hand in hand, and then the place filled with
      figures from other apertures of the little grove and through the
      artificial wings at the sides, and walked the minuet. Mr. Fellows, the
      painter, had helped with the costumes, supplying some from his own
      artistic properties, and mediævalising others; the Boston costumers had
      been drawn upon by the men; and they all moved through the stately figures
      with a security which discipline had given them. The broad solid colours
      which they wore took the light and shadow with picturesque effectiveness;
      the masks contributed a sense of mystery novel in Hatboro', and kept the
      friends of the dancers in exciting doubt of their identity; the
      strangeness of the audience to all spectacles of the sort held its
      judgment in suspense. The minuet was encored, and had to be given again,
      and it was some time before the applause of the repetition allowed the
      characters to be heard when the partners of the minuet began to move about
      arm in arm, and the drama properly began. When the applause died away it
      was still not easy to hear; a boy in one of the trees called, &ldquo;Louder!&rdquo;
       and made some of the people laugh, but for the rest they were very orderly
      throughout.
    </p>
    <p>
      Toward the end of the fourth act Annie was startled by a child dashing
      itself against her knees, and breaking into a gurgle of shy laughter as
      children do.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, you little witch!&rdquo; she said to the uplifted face of Idella Peck.
      &ldquo;Where is your father?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, somewhere,&rdquo; said the child, with entire ease of mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And your hat?&rdquo; said Annie, putting her hand on the curly bare head&mdash;&ldquo;where's
      your hat?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;On the ground.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;On the ground&mdash;where?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I don't know,&rdquo; said Idella lightly, as if the pursuit bored her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Annie pulled her up on her lap. &ldquo;Well, now, you stay here with me, if you
      please, till your papa or your hat comes after you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My&mdash;hat&mdash;can't&mdash;come&mdash;after&mdash;me!&rdquo; said the
      child, turning back her head, so as to laugh her sense of the joke in
      Annie's face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No matter; your papa can, and I'm going to keep you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Idella let her head fall back against Annie's breast, and began to finger
      the rings on the hand which Annie laid across her lap to keep her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For goodness gracious!&rdquo; said Mrs. Savor, &ldquo;who you got there, Miss
      Kilburn?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Peck's little girl.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where'd she spring from?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Gerrish leaned forward and spoke across the six legs of her children,
      who were all three standing up in their chairs: &ldquo;You don't mean to say
      that's Idella Peck? Where's her father?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Somewhere, she says,&rdquo; said Annie, willing to answer Mrs. Gerrish with the
      child's nonchalance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, that's great!&rdquo; said Mrs. Gerrish. &ldquo;I should think he better be
      looking after her&mdash;or some one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The music ceased, and the last act of the play began. Before it ended,
      Idella had fallen asleep, and Annie sat still with her after the crowd
      around her began to break up. Mrs. Savor kept her seat beside Annie. She
      said, &ldquo;Don't you want I should spell you a little while, Miss Kilburn?&rdquo;
       She leaned over the face of the sleeping child. &ldquo;Why, she ain't much more
      than a baby! William, you go and see if you can't find Mr. Peck. I'm goin'
      to stay here with Miss Kilburn.&rdquo; Her husband humoured her whim, and made
      his way through the knots and clumps of people toward the rope enclosing
      the tennis-court. &ldquo;Won't you let me hold her, Miss Kilburn?&rdquo; she pleaded
      again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no; she isn't heavy; I like to hold her,&rdquo; replied Annie. Then
      something occurred to her, and she started in amazement at herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Or yes, Mrs. Savor, you <i>may</i> take her a while;&rdquo; and she put the
      child into the arms of the bereaved creature, who had fallen desolately
      back in her chair. She hugged Idella up to her breast, and hungrily
      mumbled her with kisses, and moaned out over her, &ldquo;Oh dear! Oh my! Oh my!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      XVII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      The people beyond the rope had nearly all gone away, and Mr. Savor was
      coming back across the court with Mr. Peck. The players appeared from the
      grove at the other end of the court in their vivid costumes, chatting and
      laughing with their friends, who went down from the piazzas and terraces
      to congratulate them. Mrs. Munger hurried about among them, saying
      something to each group. She caught sight of Mr. Peck and Mr. Savor, and
      she ran after them, arriving with them where Annie sat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hope you were not anxious about Idella,&rdquo; Annie said, laughing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; I didn't miss her at once,&rdquo; said the minister simply; &ldquo;and then I
      thought she had merely gone off with some of the other children who were
      playing about.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You shall talk all that over later,&rdquo; said Mrs. Munger. &ldquo;Now, Miss
      Kilburn, I want you and Mr. Peck and Mr. and Mrs. Savor to stay for a cup
      of coffee that I'm going to give our friends out there. Don't you think
      they deserve it? Wasn't it a wonderful success? They must be frightfully
      exhausted. Just go right out to them. I'll be with you in one moment. Oh
      yes, the child! Well, bring her into the house, Mrs. Savor; I'll find a
      place for her, and then you can go out with me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I guess you won't get Maria away from her very easy,&rdquo; said Mr. Savor,
      laughing. His wife stood with the child's cheek pressed tight against
      hers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I'll manage that,&rdquo; said Mrs. Munger. &ldquo;I'm counting on Mrs. Savor.&rdquo;
       She added in a hurried undertone to Annie: &ldquo;I've asked a number of the
      workpeople to stay&mdash;representative workpeople, the foremen in the
      different shops and their families&mdash;and you'll find your friends of
      all classes together. It's a great day for the Social Union!&rdquo; she said
      aloud. &ldquo;I'm sure <i>you</i> must feel that, Mr. Peck. Miss Kilburn and I
      have to thank you for saving us from a great mistake at the outset, and
      now your staying,&rdquo; she continued, &ldquo;will give it just the appearance we
      want. I'm going to keep your little girl as a hostage, and you shall not
      go till I let you. Come, Mrs. Savor!&rdquo; She bustled away with Mrs. Savor,
      and Mr. Peck reluctantly accompanied Annie down over the lawn.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was silent, but Mr. Savor was hilarious. &ldquo;Well, Mr. Putney,&rdquo; he said,
      when he joined the group of which Putney was the centre, &ldquo;you done that in
      apple-pie order. I never see anything much better than the way you carried
      on with Mrs. Wilmington.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you, Mr. Savor,&rdquo; said Putney; &ldquo;I'm glad you liked it. You couldn't
      say I was trying to flatter her up much, anyway.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no!&rdquo; Mr. Savor assented, with delight in the joke.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Annie,&rdquo; said Putney. He shook hands with her, and Mrs. Putney, who
      was there with Dr. Morrell, asked her where she had sat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We kept looking all round for you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Putney, with his hand on his boy's shoulder, &ldquo;we wanted to
      know how you liked the Mercutio.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ralph, it was incomparable!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, that will do for a beginning. It's a little cold, but it's in the
      right spirit. You mean that the Mercutio wasn't comparable to the Nurse.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Lyra was wonderful!&rdquo; said Annie. &ldquo;Don't you think so, Ellen?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She was Lyra,&rdquo; said Mrs. Putney definitely.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; she wasn't Lyra at all!&rdquo; retorted Annie. &ldquo;That was the marvel of it.
      She was Juliet's nurse.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps she was a little of both,&rdquo; suggested Putney. &ldquo;What did you think
      of the performance, Mr. Peck? I don't want a personal tribute, but if you
      offer it, I shall not be ungrateful.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have been very much interested,&rdquo; said the minister. &ldquo;It was all very
      new to me. I realised for the first time in my life the great power that
      the theatre must be. I felt how much the drama could do&mdash;how much
      good.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, that's what we're after,&rdquo; said Putney. &ldquo;We had no personal motive;
      good, right straight along, was our motto. Nobody wanted to outshine
      anybody else. I kept my Mercutio down all through, so's not to get ahead
      of Romeo or Tybalt in the public esteem. Did our friends outside the rope
      catch on to my idea?&rdquo; Mr. Peck smiled at the banter, but he seemed not to
      know just what to say, and Putney went on: &ldquo;That's why I made it so bad. I
      didn't want anybody to go home feeling sorry that Mercutio was killed. I
      don't suppose Winthrop could have slept.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You won't sleep yourself to-night, I'm afraid,&rdquo; said his wife.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Mrs. Munger has promised me a particularly weak cup of coffee. She
      has got us all in, it seems, for a sort of supper, in spite of everything.
      I understand it includes representatives of all the stations and
      conditions present except the outcasts beyond the rope. I don't see what
      you're doing here, Mr. Peck.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was Mr. Peck really outside the rope?&rdquo; Annie asked Dr. Morrell, as they
      dropped apart from the others a little.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I believe he gave his chair to one of the women from the outside,&rdquo; said
      the doctor.
    </p>
    <p>
      Annie moved with him toward Lyra, who was joking with some of the hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      With all her good-nature, she had the effect of patronising them, as she
      stood talking about the play with them in her drawl, which she had got
      back to again. They were admiring her, in her dress of the querulous old
      nurse, and told her how they never would have known her. But there was an
      insincerity in the effusion of some of the more nervous women, and in the
      reticence of the others, who were holding back out of self-respect.
    </p>
    <p>
      She met Annie and Morrell with eager relief. &ldquo;Well, Annie?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perfect!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, now, that's very nice; you can't go beyond perfect, you know. I <i>did</i>
      do it pretty well, didn't I? Poor Mr. Brandreth! Have you seen him? You
      must say something comforting to him. He's really been sacrificed in this
      business. You know he wanted Miss Chapley. She would have made a lovely
      Juliet. Of course she blames him for it. She thinks he wanted to make up
      to Miss Northwick, when Miss Northwick was just flinging herself at Jack.
      Look at her!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack Wilmington and Miss Sue Northwick were standing together near her
      father and a party of her friends, and she was smiling and talking at him.
      Eyes, lips, gestures, attitude expressed in the proud girl a fawning
      eagerness to please the man, who received her homage rather as if it bored
      him. His indifferent manner may have been one secret of his power over
      her, and perhaps she was not capable of all the suffering she was capable
      of inflicting.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lyra turned to walk toward the house, deflecting a little in the direction
      of her nephew and Miss Northwick. &ldquo;Jack!&rdquo; she drawled over the shoulder
      next them as she passed, &ldquo;I wish you'd bring your aunty's wrap to her on
      the piazza.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, stay here!&rdquo; Putney called after her. &ldquo;They're going to fetch the
      refreshments out here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, but I'm tired, Ralph, and I can't sit on the grass, at my age.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She moved on, with her sweeping, lounging pace, and Jack Wilmington, after
      a moment's hesitation, bowed to Miss Northwick and went after her.
    </p>
    <p>
      The girl remained apart from her friends, as if expecting his return.
    </p>
    <p>
      Silhouetted against the bright windows, Lyra waited till Jack Wilmington
      reappeared with a shawl and laid it on her shoulders. Then she sank into a
      chair. The young man stood beside her talking down upon her. Something
      restive and insistent expressed itself in their respective attitudes. He
      sat down at her side.
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Northwick joined her friends carelessly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, Miss Kilburn,&rdquo; said Mr. Brandreth's voice at Annie's ear, &ldquo;I'm glad
      to find you. I've just run home with mother&mdash;she feels the night air&mdash;and
      I was afraid you would slip through our fingers before I got back. This
      little business of the refreshments was an afterthought of Mrs. Munger's,
      and we meant it for a surprise&mdash;we knew you'd approve of it in the
      form it took.&rdquo; He looked round at the straggling workpeople, who
      represented the harmonisation of classes, keeping to themselves as if they
      had been there alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; Annie was obliged to say; &ldquo;it's very pleasant.&rdquo; She added: &ldquo;You
      must all be rather hungry, Mr. Brandreth. If the Social Union ever gets on
      its feet, it will have <i>you</i> to thank more than any one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, don't speak of me, Miss Kilburn! Do you know, we've netted about two
      hundred dollars. Isn't that pretty good, doctor?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very,&rdquo; said the doctor. &ldquo;Hadn't we better follow Mrs. Wilmington's
      example, and get up under the piazza roof? I'm afraid you'll be the worse
      for the night air, Miss Kilburn. Putney,&rdquo; he called to his friend, &ldquo;we're
      going up to the house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All right. I guess that's a good idea.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The doctor called to the different knots and groups, telling them to come
      up to the house. Some of the workpeople slipped away through the grounds
      and did not come. The Northwicks and their friends moved toward the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Munger came down the lawn to meet her guests. &ldquo;Ah, that's right. It's
      much better indoors. I was just coming for you.&rdquo; She addressed herself
      more particularly to the Northwicks. &ldquo;Coffee will be ready in a few
      moments. We've met with a little delay.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm afraid we must say good night at once,&rdquo; said Mr. Northwick. &ldquo;We had
      arranged to have our friends and some other guests with us at home. And
      we're quite late now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Munger protested. &ldquo;Take our Juliet from us! Oh, Miss Northwick, how
      can I thank you enough? The whole play turned upon you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's just as well,&rdquo; she said to Annie, as the Northwicks and their
      friends walked across the lawn to the gate, where they had carriages
      waiting. &ldquo;They'd have been difficult to manage, and everybody else will
      feel a little more at home without them. Poor Mr. Brandreth, I'm sure <i>you</i>
      will! I did pity you so, with such a Juliet on your hands!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In-doors the representatives of the lower classes were less at ease than
      they were without. Some of the ministers mingled with them, and tried to
      form a bond between them and the other villagers. Mr. Peck took no part in
      this work; he stood holding his elbows with his hands, and talking with a
      perfunctory air to an old lady of his congregation.
    </p>
    <p>
      The young ladies of South Hatboro', as Mrs. Munger's assistants, went
      about impartially to high and low with trays of refreshments. Annie saw
      Putney, where he stood with his wife and boy, refuse coffee, and she
      watched him anxiously when the claret-cup came. He waved his hand over it,
      and said, &ldquo;No; I'll take some of the lemonade.&rdquo; As he lifted a glass of it
      toward his lips he stopped and made as if to put it down again, and his
      hand shook so that he spilled some of it. Then he dashed it off, and
      reached for another glass. &ldquo;I want some more,&rdquo; he said, with a laugh; &ldquo;I'm
      thirsty.&rdquo; He drank a second glass, and when he saw a tray coming toward
      Annie, where Dr. Morrell had joined her, he came over and exchanged his
      empty glass for a full one.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not much to brag of as lemonade,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;but first-rate rum punch.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look here, Putney,&rdquo; whispered the doctor, laying his hand on his arm,
      &ldquo;don't you take any more of that. Give me that glass!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, all right!&rdquo; laughed Putney, dashing it off. &ldquo;You're welcome to the
      tumbler, if you want it, Doc.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      XVIII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Mrs. Munger's guests kept on talking and laughing. With the coffee and the
      punch there began to be a little more freedom. Some prohibitionists among
      the working people went away when they found that the lemonade was punch;
      but Mrs. Munger did not know it, and she saw the ideal of a Social Union
      figuratively accomplished in her own house. She stirred about among her
      guests till she produced a fleeting, empty good-fellowship among them. One
      of the shoe-shop hands, with an inextinguishable scent of leather and the
      character of a droll, seconded her efforts with noisy jokes. He proposed
      games, and would not be snubbed by the refusal of his boss to countenance
      him, he had the applause of so many others. Mrs. Munger approved of the
      idea.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't you think it would be great fun, Mrs. Gerrish?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, now, if Squire Putney would lead off,&rdquo; said the joker, looking
      round.
    </p>
    <p>
      Putney could not be found, nor Dr. Morrell.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They're off somewhere for a smoke,&rdquo; said Mrs. Munger. &ldquo;Well, that's
      right. I want everybody to feel that my house is their own to-night, and
      to come and go just as they like. Do you suppose Mr. Peck is offended?&rdquo;
       she asked, under her breath, as she passed Annie. &ldquo;He <i>couldn't</i> feel
      that this is the same thing; but I can't see him anywhere. He wouldn't go
      without taking leave, you don't suppose?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Annie joined Mrs. Putney. They talked at first with those who came to ask
      where Putney and the doctor were; but finally they withdrew into a little
      alcove from the parlour, where Mrs. Munger approved of their being when
      she discovered them; they must be very tired, and ought to rest on the
      lounge there. Her theory of the exhaustion of those who had taken part in
      the play embraced their families.
    </p>
    <p>
      The time wore on toward midnight, and her guests got themselves away with
      more or less difficulty as they attempted the formality of leave-taking or
      not. Some of the hands who thought this necessary found it a serious
      affair; but most of them slipped off without saying good night to Mrs.
      Munger or expressing that rapture with the whole evening from beginning to
      end which the ladies of South Hatboro' professed. The ladies of South
      Hatboro' and Old Hatboro' had met in a general intimacy not approached
      before, and they parted with a flow of mutual esteem. The Gerrish children
      had dropped asleep in nooks and corners, from which Mr. Gerrish hunted
      them up and put them together for departure, while his wife remained with
      Mrs. Munger, unable to stop talking, and no longer amenable to the looks
      with which he governed her in public.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lyra came downstairs, hooded and wrapped for departure, with Jack
      Wilmington by her side. &ldquo;Why, <i>Ellen</i>!&rdquo; she said, looking into the
      little alcove from the hall. &ldquo;Are you here yet? And Annie! Where in the
      world is Ralph?&rdquo; At the pleading look with which Mrs. Putney replied, she
      exclaimed: &ldquo;Oh, it's what I was afraid of! I don't see what the woman
      could have been about! But of course she didn't think of poor Ralph.
      Ellen, let me take you and Winthrop home! Dr. Morrell will be sure to
      bring Ralph.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said Mrs. Putney passively, but without rising.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Annie can come too. There's plenty of room. Jack can walk.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack Wilmington joined Lyra in urging Annie to take his place. He said to
      her, apart, &ldquo;Young Munger has been telling me that Putney got at the
      sideboard and carried off the rum. I'll stay and help look after him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A crazy laugh came into the parlour from the piazza outside, and the group
      in the alcove started forward. Putney stood at a window, resting one arm
      on the bar of the long lower sash, which was raised to its full height,
      and looking ironically in upon Mrs. Munger and her remaining guests. He
      was still in his Mercutio dress, but he had lost his plumed cap, and was
      bareheaded. A pace or two behind him stood Mr. Peck, regarding the effect
      of this apparition upon the company with the same dreamy, indrawn presence
      he had in the pulpit.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Mrs. Munger, I'm glad I got back in time to tell you how much I've
      enjoyed it. Brother Peck wanted me to go home, but I told him, Not till
      I've thanked Mrs. Munger, Brother Peck; not till I've drunk her health in
      her own old particular Jamaica.&rdquo; He put to his lips the black bottle which
      he had been holding in his right hand behind him; then he took it away,
      looked at it, and flung it rolling-along the piazza floor. &ldquo;Didn't get
      hold of the inexhaustible bottle that time; never do. But it's a good
      article; a better article than you used to sell on the sly, Bill Gerrish.
      You'll excuse my helping myself, Mrs. Munger; I knew you'd want me to.
      Well, it's been a great occasion, Mrs. Munger.&rdquo; He winked at the hostess.
      &ldquo;You've had your little invited supper, after all. You're a manager, Mrs.
      Munger. You've made even the wrath of Brother Peck to praise you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The ladies involuntarily shrank backward as Putney suddenly entered
      through the window and gained the corner of the piano at a dash. He stayed
      himself against it, slightly swaying, and turned his flaming eyes from one
      to another, as if questioning whom he should attack next.
    </p>
    <p>
      Except for the wild look in them, which was not so much wilder than they
      wore in all times of excitement, and an occasional halt at a difficult
      word, he gave no sign of being drunk. The liquor had as yet merely
      intensified him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Munger had the inspiration to treat him as one caresses a dangerous
      lunatic. &ldquo;I'm sure you're very kind, Mr. Putney, to come back. Do sit
      down!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why?&rdquo; demanded Putney. &ldquo;Everybody else standing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's true,&rdquo; said Mrs. Munger. &ldquo;I'm sure I don't know why&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh yes, you do, Mrs. Munger. It's because they want to have a good view
      of a man who's made a fool of himself&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, now, Mr. <i>Putney</i>!&rdquo; said Mrs. Munger, with hospitable
      deprecation. &ldquo;I'm sure no one wants to do anything of the kind.&rdquo; She
      looked round at the company for corroboration, but no one cared to attract
      Putney's attention by any sound or sign.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I'll tell you what,&rdquo; said Putney, with a savage burst, &ldquo;that a woman
      who puts hell-fire before a poor devil who can't keep out of it when he
      sees it, is better worth looking at.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Putney, I assure you,&rdquo; said Mrs. Munger, &ldquo;that it was the <i>mildest</i>
      punch! And I really didn't think&mdash;I didn't remember&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She turned toward Mrs. Putney with her explanation, but Putney seemed to
      have forgotten her, and he turned upon Mr. Gerrish, &ldquo;How's that drunkard's
      grave getting along that you've dug for your porter?&rdquo; Gerrish remained
      prudently silent. &ldquo;I know you, Billy. You're all right. You've got the
      pull on your conscience; we all have, one way or another. Here's Annie
      Kilburn, come back from Rome, where she couldn't seem to fix it up with
      hers to suit her, and she's trying to get round it in Hatboro' with good
      works. Why, there isn't any occasion for good works in Hatboro'. I could
      have told you that before you came,&rdquo; he said, addressing Annie directly.
      &ldquo;What we want is faith, and lots of it. The church is going to pieces
      because we haven't got any faith.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His hand slipped from the piano, and he dropped heavily back upon a chair
      that stood near. The concussion seemed to complete in his brain the
      transition from his normal dispositions to their opposite, which had
      already begun. &ldquo;Bill Gerrish has done more for Hatboro' than any other man
      in the place. He's the only man that holds the church together, because he
      knows the value of <i>faith</i>.&rdquo; He said this without a trace of irony,
      glaring at Annie with fierce defiance. &ldquo;You come back here, and try to set
      up for a saint in a town where William B. Gerrish has done&mdash;has done
      more to establish the dry-goods business on a metro-me-tro-politan basis
      than any other man out of New York or Boston.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He stopped and looked round, mystified, as if this were not the point
      which he had been aiming at.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lyra broke into a spluttering laugh, and suddenly checked herself. Putney
      smiled slightly. &ldquo;Pretty good, eh? Say, where was I?&rdquo; he asked slyly. Lyra
      hid her face behind Annie's shoulder. &ldquo;What's that dress you got on?
      What's all this about, anyway? Oh yes, I know. <i>Romeo and Juliet</i>&mdash;Social
      Union. Well,&rdquo; he resumed, with a frown, &ldquo;there's too much <i>Romeo and
      Juliet</i>, too much Social Union, in this town already.&rdquo; He stopped, and
      seemed preparing to launch some deadly phrase at Mrs. Wilmington, but he
      only said, &ldquo;You're all right, Lyra.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mrs. Munger,&rdquo; said Mr. Gerrish, &ldquo;we must be going. Good night, ma'am.
      Mrs. Gerrish, it's time the children were at home.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course it is,&rdquo; said Putney, watching the Gerrishes getting their
      children together. He waved his hand after them, and called out, &ldquo;William
      Gerrish, you're a man; I honour you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He laid hold of the piano and pulled himself to his feet, and seemed to
      become aware, for the first time, of his wife, where she stood with their
      boy beside her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What you doing here with that child at this time of night?&rdquo; he shouted at
      her, all that was left of the man in his eyes changing into the glare of a
      pitiless brute. &ldquo;Why don't you go home? You want to show people what I did
      to him? You want to publish my shame, do you? Is that it? Look here!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He began to work himself along toward her by help of the piano. A step was
      heard on the piazza without, and Dr. Morrell entered through the open
      window.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come now, Putney,&rdquo; he said gently. The other men closed round them.
    </p>
    <p>
      Putney stopped. &ldquo;What's this? Interfering in family matters? You better go
      home and look after your own wives, if you got any. Get out the way, 'n'
      you mind your own business, Doc. Morrell. You meddle too much.&rdquo; His speech
      was thickening and breaking. &ldquo;You think science going do everything&mdash;evolution!
      Talk me about evolution! What's evolution done for Hatboro'? 'Volved
      Gerrish's store. One day of Christianity&mdash;real Christianity&mdash;Where's
      that boy? If I get hold of him&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He lunged forward, and Jack Wilmington and young Munger stepped before
      him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Putney had not moved, nor lost the look of sad, passive vigilance
      which she had worn since her husband reappeared.
    </p>
    <p>
      She pushed the men aside.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ralph, behave yourself! <i>Here's</i> Winthrop, and we want you to take
      us home. Come now!&rdquo; She passed her arm through his, and the boy took his
      other hand. The action, so full of fearless custom and wonted affection
      from them both, seemed with her words to operate another total change in
      his mood.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All right; I'm going, Ellen. Got to say good night Mrs. Munger, that's
      all.&rdquo; He managed to get to her, with his wife on his arm and his boy at
      his side. &ldquo;Want to thank you for a pleasant evening, Mrs. Munger&mdash;want
      to thank you&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And <i>I</i> want to thank you <i>too</i>, Mrs. Munger,&rdquo; said Mrs.
      Putney, with an intensity of bitterness no repetition of the words could
      give, &ldquo;It's been a pleasant evening for <i>me</i>!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Putney wished to stop and explain, but his wife pulled him away.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dr. Morrell and Annie followed to get them safely into the carriage; he
      went with them, and when she came back Mrs. Munger was saying: &ldquo;I will
      leave it to Mr. Wilmington, or any one, if I'm to blame. It had quite gone
      out of my head about Mr. Putney. There was plenty of coffee, besides, and
      if everything that could harm particular persons had to be kept out of the
      way, society couldn't go on. We ought to consider the greatest good of the
      greatest number.&rdquo; She looked round from one to another for support. No one
      said anything, and Mrs. Munger, trembling on the verge of a collapse, made
      a direct appeal: &ldquo;Don't you think so, Mr. Peck?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The minister broke his silence with reluctance. &ldquo;It's sometimes best to
      have the effect of error unmistakable. Then we are sure it's error.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Munger gave a sob of relief into her handkerchief. &ldquo;Yes, that's just
      what I say.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lyra bent her face on her arm, and Jack Wilmington put his head out of the
      window where he stood.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Peck remained staring at Mrs. Munger, as if doubtful what to do. Then
      he said: &ldquo;You seem not to have understood me, ma'am. I should be to blame
      if I left you in doubt. You have been guilty of forgetting your brother's
      weakness, and if the consequence has promptly followed in his shame, it is
      for you to realise it. I wish you a good evening.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He went out with a dignity that thrilled Annie. Lyra leaned toward her and
      said, choking with laughter, &ldquo;He's left Idella asleep upstairs. We haven't
      <i>any</i> of us got <i>perfect</i> memories, have we?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Run after him!&rdquo; Annie said to Jack Wilmington, in undertone, &ldquo;and get him
      into my carriage. I'll get the little girl. Lyra, <i>don't</i> speak of
      it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never!&rdquo; said Mrs. Wilmington, with delight. &ldquo;I'm solid for Mr. Peck every
      time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      XIX.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Annie made up a bed for Idella on a wide, old-fashioned lounge in her
      room, and put her away in it, swathed in a night-gown which she found
      among the survivals of her own childish clothing in that old chest of
      drawers. When she woke in the morning she looked across at the little
      creature, with a tender sense of possession and protection suffusing her
      troubled recollections of the night before. Idella stirred, stretched
      herself with a long sigh, and then sat up and stared round the strange
      place as if she were still in a dream.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Would you like to come in here with me?&rdquo; Annie suggested from her bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      The child pushed back her hair with her little hands, and after waiting to
      realise the situation to the limit of her small experience, she said, with
      a smile that showed her pretty teeth, &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then come.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Idella tumbled out of bed, pulling up the nightgown, which was too long
      for her, and softly thumped across the carpet. Annie leaned over and
      lifted her up, and pressed the little face to her own, and felt the play
      of the quick, light breath over her cheek.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Would you like to stay with me&mdash;live with me&mdash;Idella?&rdquo; she
      asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      The child turned her face away, and hid a roguish smile in the pillow. &ldquo;I
      don't know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Would you like to be my little girl?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No? Why not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because&mdash;because&rdquo;&mdash;she seemed to search her mind&mdash;&ldquo;because
      your night-gowns are too long.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, is that all? That's no reason. Think of something else.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Idella rubbed her face hard on the pillow. &ldquo;You dress up cats.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She lifted her face, and looked with eyes of laughing malice into Annie's,
      and Annie pushed her face against Idella's neck and cried, &ldquo;You're a
      rogue!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The little one screamed with laughter and gurgled: &ldquo;Oh, you tickle! You
      tickle!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They had a childish romp, prolonged through the details of Idella's
      washing and dressing, and Annie tried to lose, in her frolic with the
      child, the anxieties that had beset her waking; she succeeded in confusing
      them with one another in one dull, indefinite pain.
    </p>
    <p>
      She wondered when Mr. Peck would come for Idella, but they were still at
      their belated breakfast when Mrs. Bolton came in to say that Bolton had
      met the minister on his way up, and had asked him if Idella might not stay
      the week out with them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don' know but he done more'n he'd ought.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But she can be with us the rest part, when you've got done with her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I haven't begun to get done with her,&rdquo; said Annie. &ldquo;I'm glad Mr. Bolton
      asked.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      After breakfast Bolton himself appeared, to ask if Idella might go up to
      the orchard with him. Idella ran out of the room and came back with her
      hat on, and tugging to get into her shabby little sack. Annie helped her
      with it, and Idella tucked her hand into Bolton's loose, hard fist, and
      gave it a pull toward the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I don't see but what she's goin',&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; you'd better ask her the next time if <i>I</i> can go,&rdquo; said Annie.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, why don't you?&rdquo; asked Bolton, humouring the joke. &ldquo;I guess you'd
      enjoy it about as well as any. We're just goin' for a basket of wind-falls
      for pies. I guess we ain't a-goin' to be gone a great while.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Annie watched them up the lane from the library window with a queer grudge
      at heart; Bolton stiffly lumbering forward at an angle of forty-five
      degrees, the child whirling and dancing at his side, and now before and
      now after him.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the sound of wheels on the gravel before the front door, Annie turned
      away with such an imperative need of its being Dr. Morrell's buggy that it
      was almost an intolerable disappointment to find it Mrs. Munger's phaeton.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Munger burst in upon her in an excitement which somehow had an effect
      of premeditation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss Kilburn, I wish to know what you think of Mr. and Mrs. Putney's
      behaviour to me, and Mr. Peck's, in my own house, last night. They are
      friends of yours, and I wish to know if you approve of it. I come to you
      <i>as</i> their friend, and I am sure you will feel as I do that my
      hospitality has been abused. It was an outrage for Mr. Putney to get
      intoxicated in my house; and for Mr. Peck to attack me as he did before
      everybody, because Mr. Putney had taken advantage of his privileges, was
      abominable. I am not a member of his church; and even if I were, he would
      have had no right to speak so to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Annie felt the blood fly to her head, and she waited a moment to regain
      her coolness. &ldquo;I wonder you came to ask me, Mrs. Munger, if you were so
      sure that I agreed with you. I'm certainly Mr. and Mrs. Putney's friend,
      and so far as admiring Mr. Peck's sincerity and goodness is concerned, I'm
      <i>his</i> friend. But I'm obliged to say that you're mistaken about the
      rest.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She folded her hands at her waist, and stood up very straight, looking
      firmly at Mrs. Munger, who made a show of taking a new grip of her senses
      as she sank unbidden into a chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, what do you mean, Miss Kilburn?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It seems to me that I needn't say.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, but you must! You <i>must</i>, you know. I can't be <i>left</i> so!
      I must know where I <i>stand</i>! I must be sure of my <i>ground</i>! I
      can't go on without understanding just how much you mean by my being
      mistaken.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She looked Annie in the face with eyes superficially expressive of
      indignant surprise, and Annie perceived that she wished to restore herself
      in her own esteem by browbeating some one else into the affirmation of her
      innocence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, if you must know, Mrs. Munger, I mean that you ought to have
      remembered Mr. Putney's infirmity, and that it was cruel to put temptation
      in his way. Everybody knows that he can't resist it, and that he is making
      such a hard fight to keep out of it. And then, if you press me for an
      opinion, I must say that you were not justifiable in asking Mr. Peck to
      take part in a social entertainment when we had explicitly dropped that
      part of the affair.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Munger had not pressed Annie for an opinion on this point at all; but
      in their interest in it they both ignored the fact. Mrs. Munger tacitly
      admitted her position in retorting, &ldquo;He needn't have stayed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You made him stay&mdash;you remember how&mdash;and he couldn't have got
      away without being rude.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you think he wasn't rude to scold me before my guests?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He told you the truth. He didn't wish to say anything, but you forced him
      to speak, just as you have forced me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Forced <i>you</i>? Miss Kilburn!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. I don't at all agree with Mr. Peck in many things, but he is a good
      man, and last night he spoke the truth. I shouldn't be speaking it if I
      didn't tell you I thought so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well, then,&rdquo; said Mrs. Munger, rising.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;After this you can't expect me to have anything to do with the Social
      Union; you couldn't <i>wish</i> me to, if that's your opinion of my
      character.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I haven't expressed any opinion of your character, Mrs. Munger, if you'll
      remember, please; and as for the Social Union, I shall have nothing
      further to do with it myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Annie drew herself up a little higher, and silently waited for her visitor
      to go.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Mrs. Munger remained.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't believe Mrs. Putney herself would say what you have said,&rdquo; she
      remarked, after an embarrassing moment. &ldquo;If it were really so I should be
      willing to make any reparation&mdash;to acknowledge it. Will you go with
      me to Mrs. Putney's? I have my phaeton here, and&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shouldn't dream of going to Mrs. Putney's with you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Munger urged, with the effect of invincible argument: &ldquo;I've been down
      in the village, and I've talked to a good many about it&mdash;some of them
      hadn't heard of it before&mdash;and I must say, Miss Kilburn, that people
      generally take a very different view of it from what you do. They think
      that my hospitality has been shamefully abused. Mr. Gates said he should
      think I would have Mr. Putney arrested. But I don't care for all that.
      What I wish is to prove to you that I am right; and if I can go with you
      to call on Mrs. Putney, I shall not care what any one else says. Will you
      come?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly not,&rdquo; cried Annie.
    </p>
    <p>
      They both stood a moment, and in this moment Dr. Morrell drove up, and
      dropped his hitching-weight beyond Mrs. Munger's phaeton.
    </p>
    <p>
      As he entered she said: &ldquo;We will let Dr. Morrell decide. I've been asking
      Miss Kilburn to go with me to Mrs. Putney's. I think it would be a
      graceful and proper thing for me to do, to express my sympathy and
      interest, and to hear what Mrs. Putney really has to say. Don't <i>you</i>
      think I ought to go to see her, doctor?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The doctor laughed. &ldquo;I can't prescribe in matters of social duty. But what
      do you want to see Mrs. Putney for?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What for? Why, doctor, on account of Mr. Putney&mdash;what took place
      last night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes? What was that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What was <i>that</i>? Why, his strange behaviour&mdash;his&mdash;his
      intoxication.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was he intoxicated? Did you think so?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, you were there, doctor. Didn't you think so?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Annie looked at him with as much astonishment as Mrs. Munger.
    </p>
    <p>
      The doctor laughed again. &ldquo;You can't always tell when Putney's joking;
      he's a great joker. Perhaps he was hoaxing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh doctor, do you think he <i>could</i> have been?&rdquo; said Mrs. Munger,
      with clasped hands. &ldquo;It would make me the happiest woman in the world! I'd
      forgive him all he's made me suffer. But <i>you're</i> joking <i>now</i>,
      doctor?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You can't tell when people are joking. If I'm not, does it follow that
      I'm really intoxicated?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, but that's nonsense, Dr. Morrell. That's mere&mdash;what do you call
      it?&mdash;chop logic. But I don't mind it. I grasp at a straw.&rdquo; Mrs.
      Munger grasped at a straw of the mind, to show how. &ldquo;But what <i>do</i>
      you mean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Mrs. Putney wasn't intoxicated last night, but she's not well this
      morning. I'm afraid she couldn't see you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just as you <i>say</i>, doctor,&rdquo; cried Mrs. Munger, with mounting
      cheerfulness. &ldquo;I <i>wish</i> I knew just how much you meant, and how
      little.&rdquo; She moved closer to the doctor, and bent a look of candid
      fondness upon him. &ldquo;But I know you're trying to mystify me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She pursued him with questions which he easily parried, smiling and
      laughing. At the end she left him to Annie, with adieux that were almost
      radiant. &ldquo;Anyhow, I shall take the benefit of the doubt, and if Mr. Putney
      was hoaxing, I shall not give myself away. <i>Do</i> find out what he
      means, Miss Kilburn, won't you?&rdquo; She took hold of Annie's unoffered hand,
      and pressed it in a double leathern grasp, and ran out of the room with a
      lightness of spirit which her physical bulk imperfectly expressed.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      XX.
    </h2>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well?&rdquo; said Annie, to the change which came over Morrell's face when Mrs.
      Munger was gone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, it's a miserable business! He must go on now to the end of his
      debauch. He's got past doing any mischief, I'm thankful to say. But I had
      hoped to tide him over a while longer, and now that fool has spoiled
      everything. Well!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Annie's heart warmed to his vexation, and she postponed another emotion.
      &ldquo;Yes, she <i>is</i> a fool. I wish you had qualified the term, doctor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They looked at each other solemnly, and then laughed. &ldquo;It won't do for a
      physician to swear,&rdquo; said Morrell. &ldquo;I wish you'd give me a cup of coffee.
      I've been up all night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;With Ralph?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;With Putney.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You shall have it instantly; that is, as instantly as Mrs. Bolton can
      kindle up a fire and make it.&rdquo; She went out to the kitchen, and gave the
      order with an imperiousness which she softened in Dr. Morrell's interest
      by explaining rather fully to Mrs. Bolton.
    </p>
    <p>
      When she came back she wanted to talk seriously, tragically, about Putney.
      But the doctor would not. He said that it paid to sit up with Putney,
      drunk or sober, and hear him go on. He repeated some things Putney said
      about Mr. Peck, about Gerrish, about Mrs. Munger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But why did you try to put her off in that way&mdash;to make her believe
      he wasn't intoxicated?&rdquo; asked Annie, venting her postponed emotion, which
      was of disapproval.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know. It came into my head. But she knows better.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was rather cruel; not that she deserves any mercy. She caught so at
      the idea.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh yes, I saw that. She'll humbug herself with it, and you'll see that
      before night there'll be two theories of Putney's escapade. I think the
      last will be the popular one. It will jump with the general opinion of
      Putney's ability to carry anything out. And Mrs. Munger will do all she
      can to support it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bolton brought in the coffee-pot, and Annie hesitated a moment, with
      her hand on it, before pouring out a cup.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't like it,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know you don't. But you can say that it wasn't Putney who hoaxed Mrs.
      Munger, but Dr. Morrell.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, you didn't either of you hoax her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, there's no harm done.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm not so sure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you won't give me any coffee?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh yes, I'll give you some <i>coffee</i>,&rdquo; said Annie, with a sigh of
      baffled scrupulosity that made them both laugh.
    </p>
    <p>
      He broke out again after he had begun to drink his coffee.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well?&rdquo; she demanded, from her own lapse into silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, nothing! Only Putney. He wants Brother Peck, as he calls him, to
      unite all the religious elements of Hatboro' in a church of his own, and
      send out missionaries to the heathen of South Hatboro' to preach a
      practical Christianity. He makes South Hatboro' stand for all that's
      worldly and depraved.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor Ralph! Is that the way he talks?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, not all the time. He talks a great many other ways.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wonder you can laugh.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He's been very severe on Brother Peck for neglecting the discipline of
      his child. He says he ought to remember his duty to others, and save the
      community from having the child grow up into a capricious, wilful woman.
      Putney was very hard upon your sex, Miss Kilburn. He attributed nearly all
      the trouble in the world to women's wilfulness and caprice.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He looked across the table at her with his merry eyes, whose sweetness she
      felt even in her sudden preoccupation with the notion which she now
      launched upon him, leaning forward and pushing some books and magazines
      aside, as if she wished to have nothing between her need and his response.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dr. Morrell, what should you think of my asking Mr. Peck to give me his
      little girl?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To give you his&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. Let me take Idella&mdash;keep her&mdash;adopt her! I've nothing to
      do, as you know very well, and she'd be an occupation; and it would be far
      better for her. What Ralph says is true. She's growing up without any sort
      of training; and I think if she keeps on she will be mischievous to
      herself and every one else.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Really?&rdquo; asked the doctor. &ldquo;Is it so bad as that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course not. And of course I don't want Mr. Peck to renounce all claim
      to his child; but to let me have her for the present, or indefinitely, and
      get her some decent clothes, and trim her hair properly, and give her some
      sort of instruction&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;May I come in?&rdquo; drawled Mrs. Wilmington's mellow voice, and Annie turned
      and saw Lyra peering round the edge of the half-opened library door. &ldquo;I've
      been discreetly hemming and scraping and hammering on the wood-work so as
      not to overhear, and I'd have gone away if I hadn't been afraid of being
      overheard.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, come in, Lyra,&rdquo; said Annie; and she hoped that she had kept the
      spirit of resignation with which she spoke out of her voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dr. Morrell jumped up with an apparent desire to escape that wounded and
      exasperated her. She put out her hand quite haughtily to him and asked,
      &ldquo;Oh, must you go?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. How do you do, Mrs. Wilmington? You'd better get Miss Kilburn to
      give you a cup of her coffee.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I will,&rdquo; said Lyra. She forbore any reference, even by a look, to the
      intimate little situation she had disturbed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Morrell added to Annie: &ldquo;I like your plan. It's the best thing you could
      do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She found she had been keeping his hand, and in the revulsion from wrath
      to joy she violently wrung it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm <i>so</i> glad!&rdquo; She could not help following him to the door, in the
      hope that he would say something more, but he did not, and she could only
      repeat her rapturous gratitude in several forms of incoherency.
    </p>
    <p>
      She ran back to Mrs. Wilmington. &ldquo;Lyra, what do you think of my taking Mr.
      Peck's little girl?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Wilmington never allowed herself to seem surprised at anything; she
      was, in fact, surprised at very few things. She had got into the easiest
      chair in the room, and she answered from it, with a luxurious interest in
      the affair, &ldquo;Well, you know what people will say, Annie.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I don't. <i>What</i> will they say?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That you're after Mr. Peck pretty openly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Annie turned scarlet. &ldquo;And when they find I'm <i>not</i>?&rdquo; she demanded
      with severity, that had no effect upon Lyra.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then they'll say you couldn't get him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They may say what they please. What do you think of the plan?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think it would be the greatest blessing for the poor little thing,&rdquo;
       said Lyra, with a nearer approach to seriousness than she usually made.
      &ldquo;And the greatest care for you,&rdquo; she added, after a moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall not care for the care. I shall be glad of it&mdash;thankful for
      it,&rdquo; cried Annie fervidly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you can get it,&rdquo; Lyra suggested.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I believe I can get it. I believe I can make Mr. Peck see that it's a
      duty. I shall ask him to regard it as a charity to me&mdash;as a mercy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, that's a good way to work upon Mr. Peck's feelings,&rdquo; said Lyra
      demurely. &ldquo;Was that the plan that Dr. Morrell approved of so highly?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I didn't know but it was some course of treatment. You pressed his hand
      so affectionately. I said to myself, Well, Annie's either an enthusiastic
      patient, or else&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What?&rdquo; demanded Annie, at the little stop Lyra made.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, you know what people do <i>say</i>, Annie.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, that you're very much out of health, or&mdash;&rdquo; Lyra made another of
      her tantalising stops.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Or what?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Or Dr. Morrell is very much in love.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lyra, I can't allow you to say such things to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; that's what I've kept saying to myself all the time. But you would
      have it <i>out</i> of me. <i>I</i> didn't want to say it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was impossible to resist Lyra's pretended deprecation. Annie laughed.
      &ldquo;I suppose I can't help people's talking, and I ought to be too old to
      care.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You ought, but you're not,&rdquo; said Lyra flatteringly. &ldquo;Well, Annie, what do
      you think of our little evening at Mrs. Munger's in the dim retrospect?
      Poor Ralph! What did the doctor say about him?&rdquo; She listened with so keen
      a relish for the report of Putney's sayings that Annie felt as if she had
      been turning the affair into comedy for Lyra's amusement. &ldquo;Oh dear, I wish
      I could hear him! I thought I should have died last night when he came
      back, and began to scare everybody blue with his highly personal remarks.
      I wish he'd had time to get round to the Northwicks.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lyra,&rdquo; said Annie, nerving herself to the office; &ldquo;don't you think it was
      wicked to treat that poor girl as you did?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I suppose that's the way some people might look at it,&rdquo; said Lyra
      dispassionately.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then how&mdash;<i>how</i> could you do it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, it's easy enough to behave wickedly, Annie, when you feel like it,&rdquo;
       said Lyra, much amused by Annie's fervour, apparently. &ldquo;Besides, I don't
      know that it was so <i>very</i> wicked. What makes you think it was?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, it wasn't that merely. Lyra, may I&mdash;<i>may</i> I speak to you
      plainly, frankly&mdash;like a sister?&rdquo; Annie's heart filled with
      tenderness for Lyra, with the wish to help her, to save a person who
      charmed her so much.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, like a <i>step</i>-sister, you may,&rdquo; said Lyra demurely.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It wasn't for her sake alone that I hated to see it. It was for your sake&mdash;for
      <i>his</i> sake.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, that's very kind of you, Annie,&rdquo; said Lyra, without the least
      resentment. &ldquo;And I know what you mean. But it really doesn't hurt either
      Jack or me. I'm not very goody-goody, Annie; I don't pretend to be; but
      I'm not very baddy-baddy either. I assure you&rdquo;&mdash;Lyra laughed
      mischievously&mdash;&ldquo;I'm one of the very few persons in Hatboro' who are
      better than they should be.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know it, Lyra&mdash;I know it. But you have no right to keep him from
      taking a fancy to some young girl&mdash;and marrying her; to keep him to
      yourself; to make people talk.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There's something in that,&rdquo; Lyra assented, with impartiality. &ldquo;But I
      don't think it would be well for Jack to marry yet; and if I see him
      taking a fancy to any real nice girl, I sha'n't interfere with him. But I
      shall be very <i>particular</i>, Annie.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She looked at Annie with such a droll mock earnest, and shook her head
      with such a burlesque of grandmotherly solicitude, that Annie laughed in
      spite of herself. &ldquo;Oh, Lyra, Lyra!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And as for me,&rdquo; Lyra went on, &ldquo;I assure you I don't care for the little
      bit of harm it does me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you ought&mdash;you ought!&rdquo; cried Annie. &ldquo;You ought to respect
      yourself enough to care. You ought to respect other women enough.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I guess I'd let the balance of the sex slide, Annie,&rdquo; said Lyra.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, you mustn't; you can't. We are all bound together; we owe everything
      to each other.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Isn't that rather Peckish?&rdquo; Lyra suggested.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know. But it's true, Lyra. And I shouldn't be ashamed of getting
      it from Mr. Peck.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I didn't say you would be.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I hope you won't be hurt with me. I know that it's a most
      unwarrantable thing to speak to you about such a matter; but you know why
      I do it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I suppose it's because you like me; and I appreciate that, I assure
      you, Annie.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lyra was soberer than she had yet been, and Annie felt that she was really
      gaining ground. &ldquo;And your husband; you ought to respect <i>him</i>&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lyra laughed out with great relish. &ldquo;Oh, now, Annie, you <i>are</i>
      joking! Why in the <i>world</i> should I respect Mr. Wilmington? An old
      man like him marrying a young girl like me!&rdquo; She jumped up and laughed at
      the look in Annie's face. &ldquo;Will you go round with me to the Putneys?
      thought Ellen might like to see us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no. I can't go,&rdquo; said Annie, finding it impossible to recover at once
      from the quite unanswerable blow her sense of decorum&mdash;she thought it
      her moral sense&mdash;had received.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, you'll be glad to have <i>me</i> go, anyway,&rdquo; said Lyra. She saw
      Annie shrinking from her, and she took hold of her, and pulled her up and
      kissed her. &ldquo;You dear old thing! I wouldn't hurt your feelings for the
      world. And whichever it is, Annie, the parson or the doctor, I wish him
      joy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      That afternoon, as Annie was walking to the village, the doctor drove up
      to the sidewalk, and stopped near her. &ldquo;Miss Kilburn, I've got a letter
      from home. They write me about my mother in a way that makes me rather
      anxious, and I shall run down to Chelsea this evening.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I'm sorry for your bad news. I hope it's nothing serious.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She's old; that's the only cause for anxiety. But of course I must go.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh yes, indeed. I do hope you'll find all right with her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you very much. I'm sorry that I must leave Putney at such a time.
      But I leave him with Mr. Peck, who's promised to be with him. I thought
      you'd like to know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I do; it's very kind of you&mdash;very kind indeed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you,&rdquo; said the doctor. It was not the phrase exactly, but it served
      the purpose of the cordial interest in which they parted as well as
      another.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      XXI.
    </h2>
    <p>
      During the days that Mr. Peck had consented to leave Idella with her Annie
      took the whole charge of the child, and grew into an intimacy with her
      that was very sweet. It was not necessary to this that Idella should be
      always tractable and docile, which she was not, but only that she should
      be affectionate and dependent; Annie found that she even liked her to be a
      little baddish; it gave her something to forgive; and she experienced a
      perverse pleasure in discovering that the child of a man so self-forgetful
      as Mr. Peck was rather more covetous than most children. It also amused
      her that when some of Idella's shabby playmates from Over the Track
      casually found their way to the woods past Annie's house, and tried to
      tempt Idella to go with them, the child disowned them, and ran into the
      house from them; so soon was she alienated from her former life by her
      present social advantages. She apparently distinguished between Annie and
      the Boltons, or if not quite this, she showed a distinct preference for
      her company, and for her part of the house. She hung about Annie with a
      flattering curiosity and interest in all she did. She lost every trace of
      shyness with her, but developed an intense admiration for her in every way&mdash;for
      her dresses, her rings, her laces, for the elegancies that marked her a
      gentlewoman. She pronounced them prettier than Mrs. Warner's things, and
      the house prettier and larger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Should you like to live with me?&rdquo; Annie asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      The child seemed to reflect. Then she said, with the indirection of her
      age and sex, pushing against Annie's knee, &ldquo;I don't know what your name
      is.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you never heard my name? It's Annie. How do you like it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's&mdash;it's too short,&rdquo; said the child, from her readiness always to
      answer something that charmed Annie.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then you can make it longer. You can call me Aunt Annie. I think
      that will be better for a little girl; don't you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mothers can whip, but aunts can't,&rdquo; said Idella, bringing a practical
      knowledge, acquired from her observation of life Over the Track, to a
      consideration of the proposed relation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know <i>one</i> aunt who won't,&rdquo; said Annie, touched by the reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      Saturday evening Idella's father came for her; and with a preamble which
      seemed to have been unnecessary when he understood it, Annie asked him to
      let her keep the child, at least till he had settled himself in a house of
      his own, or, she hinted, in some way more comfortable for Idella than he
      was now living. In her anxiety to make him believe that she was not taking
      too great a burden on her hands, she became slowly aware that no fear of
      this had apparently troubled him, and that he was looking at the whole
      matter from a point outside of questions of polite ceremonial, even of
      personal feeling.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was vexed a little with his insensibility to the favour she meant the
      child, and she could not help trying to make him realise it. &ldquo;I don't
      promise always to be the best guide, philosopher, and friend that Idella
      could have&rdquo;&mdash;she took this light tone because she found herself
      afraid of him&mdash;&ldquo;but I think I shall be a little improvement on some
      of her friends Over the Track. At least, if she wants my cat, she shall
      have it without fighting for it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Peck looked up with question, and she went on to tell him of a
      struggle which she had seen one day between Idella and a small Irish boy
      for a kitten; it really belonged to the boy, but Idella carried it off.
    </p>
    <p>
      The minister listened attentively. At the end: &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;that lust
      of possession is something all but impossible, even with constant care, to
      root out of children. I have tried to teach Idella that nothing is
      rightfully hers except while she can use it; but it is hard to make her
      understand, and when she is with other children she forgets.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Annie could not believe at first that he was serious, and then she was
      disposed to laugh. &ldquo;Really, Mr. Peck,&rdquo; she began, &ldquo;I can't think it's so
      important that a little thing like Idella should be kept from coveting a
      kitten as that she should be kept from using naughty words and from
      scratching and biting.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know,&rdquo; Mr. Peck consented. &ldquo;That is the usual way of looking at such
      things.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It seems to me,&rdquo; said Annie, &ldquo;that it's the common-sense way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps. But upon the whole, I don't agree with you. It is bad for the
      child to use naughty words and to scratch and bite; that's part of the
      warfare in which we all live; but it's worse for her to covet, and to wish
      to keep others from having.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't wonder you find it hard to make her understand that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, it's hard with all of us. But if it is ever to be easier we must
      begin with the children.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was silent, and Annie did not say anything. She was afraid that she had
      not helped her cause. &ldquo;At least,&rdquo; she finally ventured, &ldquo;you can't object
      to giving Idella a little rest from the fray. Perhaps if she finds that
      she can get things without fighting for them, she'll not covet them so
      much.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he said, with a dim smile that left him sad again, &ldquo;there is some
      truth in that. But I'm not sure that I have the right to give her
      advantages of any kind, to lift her above the lot, the chance, of the
      least fortunate&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Surely, we are bound to provide for those of our own household,&rdquo; said
      Annie.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who are those of our own household?&rdquo; asked the minister. &ldquo;All mankind are
      those of our own household. These are my mother and my brother and my
      sister.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I know,&rdquo; said Annie, somewhat eagerly quitting this difficult
      ground. &ldquo;But you can leave her with me at least till you get settled,&rdquo; she
      faltered, &ldquo;if you don't wish it to be for longer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps it may not be for long,&rdquo; he answered, &ldquo;if you mean my settlement
      in Hatboro'. I doubt,&rdquo; he continued, lifting his eyes to the question in
      hers, &ldquo;whether I shall remain here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I hope you will,&rdquo; cried Annie. She thought she must make a pretence
      of misunderstanding him. &ldquo;I supposed you were very much satisfied with
      your work here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not satisfied with myself in my work,&rdquo; replied the minister; &ldquo;and I
      know that I am far from acceptable to many others in it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are acceptable to those who are best able to appreciate you, Mr.
      Peck,&rdquo; she protested, &ldquo;and to people of every kind. I'm sure it's only a
      question of time when you will be thoroughly acceptable to all. I want you
      to understand, Mr. Peck,&rdquo; she added, &ldquo;that I was shocked and ashamed the
      other night at your being tricked into countenancing a part of the
      entertainment you were promised should be dropped. I had nothing to do
      with it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was very unimportant, after all,&rdquo; the minister said, &ldquo;as far as I was
      concerned. In fact, I was interested to see the experiment of bringing the
      different grades of society together.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It seems to me it was an utter failure,&rdquo; suggested Annie.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quite. But it was what I expected.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There appeared an uncandour in this which Annie could not let pass even if
      it imperilled her present object to bring up the matter of past
      contention. &ldquo;But when we first talked of the Social Union you opposed it
      because it wouldn't bring the different classes together.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you understand that? Then I failed to make myself clear. I wished
      merely to argue that the well-meaning ladies who suggested it were not
      intending a social union at all. In fact, such a union in our present
      condition of things, with its division of classes, is impossible&mdash;as
      Mrs. Munger's experiment showed&mdash;with the best will on both sides.
      But, as I said, the experiment was interesting, though unimportant, except
      as it resulted in heart-burning and offence.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They were on the same ground, but they had reached it from starting-points
      so opposite that Annie felt it very unsafe. In her fear of getting into
      some controversy with Mr. Peck that might interfere with her designs
      regarding Idella, she had a little insincerity in saying: &ldquo;Mrs. Munger's
      bad faith in that was certainly unimportant compared with her part in poor
      Mr. Putney's misfortune. That was the worst thing; that's what I <i>can't</i>
      forgive.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Peck said nothing to this, and Annie, somewhat daunted by his silence,
      proceeded. &ldquo;I've had the satisfaction of telling her what I thought on
      both points. But Ralph&mdash;Mr. Putney&mdash;I hear, has escaped this
      time with less than his usual&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She did not know what lady-like word to use for spree, and so she stopped.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Peck merely said, &ldquo;He has shown great self-control;&rdquo; and she perceived
      that he was not going to say more. He listened patiently to the reasons
      she gave for not having offered Mrs. Putney anything more than passive
      sympathy at a time when help could only have cumbered and kindness wounded
      her, but he made no sign of thinking them either necessary or sufficient.
      In the meantime he had not formally consented to Idella's remaining with
      her, and Annie prepared to lead back to that affair as artfully as she
      could.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I really want you to believe, Mr. Peck, that I think very differently on
      <i>some</i> points from what I did when we first talked about the Social
      Union, and I have you to thank for seeing things in a new light. And you
      needn't,&rdquo; she added lightly, &ldquo;be afraid of my contaminating Idella's mind
      with any wicked ideas. I'll do my best to keep her from coveting kittens
      or property of any kind; though I've always heard my father say that
      civilisation was founded upon the instinct of ownership, and that it was
      the only thing that had advanced the world. And if you dread the danger of
      giving her advantages, as you say, or bettering her worldly lot,&rdquo; she
      continued, with a smile for his quixotic scruples, &ldquo;why, I'll do my best
      to reduce her blessings to a minimum; though I don't see why the poor
      little thing shouldn't get some good from the inequalities that there
      always must be in the world.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not sure there always must be inequalities in the world,&rdquo; answered
      the minister.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There always have been,&rdquo; cried Annie.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There always had been slavery, up to a certain time,&rdquo; he replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, but surely you don't compare the two!&rdquo; Annie pleaded with what she
      really regarded as a kind of lunacy in the good man. &ldquo;In the freest
      society, I've heard my father say, there is naturally an upward and
      downward tendency; a perfect level is impossible. Some must rise, and some
      must sink.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what do you mean by rising? If you mean in material things, in wealth
      and the power over others that it gives&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't mean that altogether. But there are other ways&mdash;in
      cultivation, refinement, higher tastes and aims than the great mass of
      people can have. You have risen yourself, Mr. Peck.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have risen, as you call it,&rdquo; he said, with a meek sufferance of the
      application of the point to himself. &ldquo;Those who rise above the necessity
      of work for daily bread are in great danger of losing their right relation
      to other men, as I said when we talked of this before.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A point had remained in Annie's mind from her first talk with Dr. Morrell.
      &ldquo;Yes; and you said once that there could be no sympathy between the rich
      and the poor&mdash;no real love&mdash;because they had not had the same
      experience of life. But how is it about the poor who become rich? They
      have had the same experience.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Too often they make haste to forget that they were poor; they become hard
      masters to those they have left behind them. They are eager to identify
      themselves with those who have been rich longer than they. Some
      working-men who now see this clearly have the courage to refuse to rise.
      Miss Kilburn, why should I let you take my child out of the conditions of
      self-denial and self-help to which she was born?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know,&rdquo; said Annie rather blankly. Then she added impetuously:
      &ldquo;Because I love her and want her. I don't&mdash;I <i>won't</i>&mdash;pretend
      that it's for her sake. It's for <i>my</i> sake, though I can take better
      care of her than you can. But I'm all alone in the world; I've neither
      kith nor kin; nothing but my miserable money. I've set my heart on the
      child; I must have her. At least let me keep her a while. I will be honest
      with you, Mr. Peck. If I find I'm doing her harm and not good, I'll give
      her up. I should wish you to feel that she is yours as much as ever, and
      if you <i>will</i> feel so, and come often to see her&mdash;I&mdash;I
      shall&mdash;be very glad, and&mdash;&rdquo; she stopped, and Mr. Peck rose.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where is the child?&rdquo; he asked, with a troubled air; and she silently led
      the way to the kitchen, and left him at the door to Idella and the
      Boltons. When she ventured back later he was gone, but the child remained.
    </p>
    <p>
      Half exultant and half ashamed, she promised herself that she really would
      be true as far as possible to the odd notions of the minister in her
      treatment of his child. When she undressed Idella for bed she noticed
      again the shabbiness of her poor little clothes. She went through the
      bureau that held her own childish things once more, but found them all too
      large for Idella, and too hopelessly antiquated. She said to herself that
      on this point at least she must be a law to herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      She went down to see Mrs. Bolton. &ldquo;Isn't there some place in the village
      where they have children's ready-made clothes for sale?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Gerrish's,&rdquo; said Mrs. Bolton briefly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Annie shook her head, drawing in her breath. &ldquo;I shouldn't want to go
      there. Is there nowhere else?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There's a Jew place. They say he cheats.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I dare say he doesn't cheat more than most Christians,&rdquo; said Annie,
      jumping from her chair. &ldquo;I'll try the Jew place. I want you to come with
      me, Mrs. Bolton.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They went together, and found a dress that they both decided would fit
      Idella, and a hat that matched it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know as he'd like to have anything quite so nice,&rdquo; said Mrs.
      Bolton coldly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know as he has anything to say about it,&rdquo; said Annie, mimicking
      Mrs. Bolton's accent and syntax.
    </p>
    <p>
      They both meant Mr. Peck. Mrs. Bolton turned away to hide her pleasure in
      Annie's audacity and extravagance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Want I should carry 'em?&rdquo; she asked, when they were out of the store.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I can carry them,&rdquo; said Annie.
    </p>
    <p>
      She put them where Idella must see them as soon as she woke.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was late before she slept, and Idella's voice broke upon her dreams.
      The child was sitting up in her bed, gloating upon the dress and hat hung
      and perched upon the chair-back in the middle of the room. &ldquo;Oh, whose is
      it? Whose is it? Whose is it?&rdquo; she screamed; and as Annie lifted herself
      on her elbow, and looked over at her: &ldquo;Is it mine? Is it mine?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Annie had thought of playing some joke; of pretending not to understand;
      of delaying the child's pleasure; playing with it; teasing. But in the
      face of this rapturous longing, she could only answer, &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mine? My very own? To have? To keep always?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Idella sprang from her bed, and flew upon the things with a primitive,
      greedy transport in their possession. She could scarcely be held long
      enough to be washed before the dress could be put on.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Be careful&mdash;be careful not to get it soiled now,&rdquo; said Annie.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; I won't spoil it.&rdquo; She went quietly downstairs, and when Annie
      followed, she found her posing before the long pier-glass in the parlour,
      and twisting and turning for this effect and that. All the morning she
      moved about prim and anxious; the wild-wood flower was like a hot-house
      blossom wired for a bouquet. At the church door she asked Idella, &ldquo;Would
      you rather sit with Mrs. Bolton?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no,&rdquo; gasped the child intensely; &ldquo;with <i>you</i>!&rdquo; and she pushed
      her hand into Annie's, and held fast to it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Annie's question had been suggested by a belated reluctance to appear
      before so much of Hatboro' in charge of the minister's child. But now she
      could not retreat, and with Idella's hand in hers she advanced blushing up
      the aisle to her pew.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      XXII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      The farmers' carry-alls filled the long shed beside the church, and their
      leathern faces looked up, with their wives' and children's, at Mr. Peck
      where he sat high behind the pulpit; a patient expectance suggested itself
      in the men's bald or grizzled crowns, and in the fantastic hats and
      bonnets of their women folks. The village ladies were all in the
      perfection of their street costumes, and they compared well with three or
      four of the ladies from South Hatboro', but the men with them spoiled all
      by the inadequacy of their fashion. Mrs. Gates, the second of her name,
      was very stylish, but the provision-man had honestly the effect of having
      got for the day only into the black coat which he had bought ready-made
      for his first wife's funeral. Mr. Wilmington, who appeared much shorter
      than his wife as he sat beside her, was as much inferior to her in dress;
      he wore, with the carelessness of a rich man who could afford simplicity,
      a loose alpaca coat and a cambric neckcloth, over which he twisted his
      shrivelled neck to catch sight of Annie, as she rustled up the aisle. Mrs.
      Gerrish&mdash;so much as could be seen of her&mdash;was a mound of bugled
      velvet, topped by a small bonnet, which seemed to have gone much to a fat
      black pompon; she sat far within her pew, and their children stretched in
      a row from her side to that of Mr. Gerrish, next the door. He did not look
      round at Annie, but kept an attitude of fixed self-concentration, in
      harmony with the severe old-school respectability of his dress; his wife
      leaned well forward to see, and let all her censure appear in her eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      Colonel Marvin, of the largest shoe-shop, showed the side of his large
      florid face, with the kindly smile that seemed to hang loosely upon it;
      and there was a good number of the hat-shop and shoe-shop hands of
      different ages and sexes scattered about. The gallery, commonly empty or
      almost so, showed groups and single figures dropped about here and there
      on its seats.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Putneys were in their pew, the little lame boy between the father and
      mother, as their custom was. They each looked up at her as she passed, and
      smiled in the slight measure of recognition which people permit themselves
      in church. Putney was sitting with his head hanging forward in pathetic
      dejection; his face, when he first lifted it to look at Annie in passing,
      was haggard, but otherwise there was no consciousness in it of what had
      passed since they had sat there the Sunday before. When his glance took in
      Idella too, in her sudden finery, a light of friendly mocking came into
      it, and seemed to comment the relation Annie had assumed to the child.
    </p>
    <p>
      Annie's pew was just in front of Lyra's, and Lyra pursed her mouth in
      burlesque surprise as Annie got into it with Idella and turned round to
      lift the child to the seat. While Mr. Peck was giving out the hymn, Lyra
      leaned forward and whispered&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't imagine that this turnout is <i>all</i> on your account, Annie.
      He's going to preach against the Social Union and the social glass.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The banter echoed a mechanical expectation in Annie's heart, which was
      probably present in many others there. It was some time before she could
      cast it out, even after he had taken his text, &ldquo;I am the Resurrection and
      the Life,&rdquo; and she followed him with a mechanical disappointment at his
      failure to meet it.
    </p>
    <p>
      He began by saying that he wished to dissociate his text in his hearers'
      minds from the scent of the upturned earth, and the fall of clods upon the
      coffin lid, and he asked them to join him in attempting to find in it
      another meaning beside that which it usually carried. He believed that
      those words of Christ ought to speak to us of this world as well as the
      next, and enjoin upon us the example which we might all find in Him, as
      well as promise us immortality with Him. As the minister went on, Annie
      followed him with the interest which her belief that she heard between the
      words inspired, and occasionally in a discontent with what seemed a
      mystical, almost a fantastical, quality of his thought.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is an evolution,&rdquo; he continued, &ldquo;in the moral as well as in the
      material world, and good unfolds in greater good; that which was once best
      ceases to be in that which is better. In the political world we have
      striven forward to liberty as to the final good, but with this achieved we
      find that liberty is only a means and not an end, and that we shall abuse
      it as a means if we do not use it, even sacrifice it, to promote equality;
      or in other words, equality is the perfect work, the evolution of liberty.
      Patriotism has been the virtue which has secured an image of brotherhood,
      rude and imperfect, to large numbers of men within certain limits, but
      nationality must perish before the universal ideal of fraternity is
      realised. Charity is the holiest of the agencies which have hitherto
      wrought to redeem the race from savagery and despair; but there is
      something holier yet than charity, something higher, something purer and
      further from selfishness, something into which charity shall willingly
      grow and cease, and that is <i>justice</i>. Not the justice of our
      Christless codes, with their penalties, but the instinct of righteous
      shame which, however dumbly, however obscurely, stirs in every honest
      man's heart when his superfluity is confronted with another's destitution,
      and which is destined to increase in power till it becomes the social as
      well as the individual conscience. Then, in the truly Christian state,
      there shall be no more asking and no more giving, no more gratitude and no
      more merit, no more charity, but only and evermore justice; all shall
      share alike, and want and luxury and killing toil and heartless indolence
      shall all cease together.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is in the spirit of this justice that I believe Christ shall come to
      judge the world; not to condemn and punish so much as to reconcile and to
      right. We live in an age of seeming preparation for indefinite war. The
      lines are drawn harder and faster between the rich and the poor, and on
      either side the forces are embattled. The working-men are combined in vast
      organisations to withstand the strength of the capitalists, and these are
      taking the lesson and uniting in trusts. The smaller industries are gone,
      and the smaller commerce is being devoured by the larger. Where many
      little shops existed one huge factory assembles manufacture; one large
      store, in which many different branches of trade are united, swallows up
      the small dealers. Yet in the labour organisations, which have their bad
      side, their weak side, through which the forces of hell enter, I see
      evidence of the fact that the poor have at last had pity on the poor, and
      will no more betray and underbid and desert one another, but will stand
      and fall together as brothers; and the monopolies, though they are founded
      upon ruin, though they know no pity and no relenting, have a final
      significance which we must not lose sight of. They prophesy the end of
      competition; <i>they eliminate</i> one element of strife, of rivalry, of
      warfare. But woe to them through whose evil this good comes, to any man
      who prospers on to ease and fortune, forgetful or ignorant of the ruin on
      which his success is built. For that death the resurrection and the life
      seem not to be. Whatever his creed or his religious profession, his state
      is more pitiable than that of the sceptic, whose words perhaps deny
      Christ, but whose works affirm Him. There has been much anxiety in the
      Church for the future of the world abandoned to the godlessness of
      science, but I cannot share it. If God is, nothing exists but from Him. He
      directs the very reason that questions Him, and Christ rises anew in the
      doubt of him that the sins of Christendom inspire. So far from dreading
      such misgiving as comes from contemplating the disparity between the
      Church's profession and her performance, I welcome it as another
      resurrection and a new life.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The minister paused and seemed about to resume, when a scuffling and
      knocking noise drew all eyes toward the pew of the Gerrish family. Mr.
      Gerrish had risen and flung open the door so sharply that it struck
      against the frame-work of the pew, and he stood pulling his children, whom
      Mrs. Gerrish urged from behind, one after another, into the aisle beside
      him. One of them had been asleep, and he now gave way to the alarm which
      seizes a small boy suddenly awakened. His mother tried to still him,
      stooping over him and twitching him by the hand, with repeated &ldquo;Sh!
      'sh's!&rdquo; as mothers do, till her husband got her before him, and marched
      his family down the aisle and out of the door. The noise of their feet
      over the floor of the vestibule died away upon the stone steps outside.
      The minister allowed the pause he had made to prolong itself painfully. He
      wavered, after clearing his throat, as if to go on with his sermon, and
      then he said sadly, &ldquo;Let us pray!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      XXIII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Putney stopped with his wife and boy and waited for Annie at the corner of
      the street where their ways parted. She had eluded Lyra Wilmington in
      coming down the aisle, and she had hurried to escape the sensation which
      broke into eager talk among the people before they got out of church, and
      which began with question whether one of the Gerrish children was sick,
      and ended in the more satisfactory conviction that Mr. Gerrish was
      offended at something in the sermon.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Annie,&rdquo; said Putney, with a satirical smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Ralph&mdash;Ellen&mdash;what does it mean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It means that Brother Gerrish thought Mr. Peck was hitting at him in that
      talk about the large commerce, and it means business,&rdquo; said Putney.
      &ldquo;Brother Gerrish has made a beginning, and I guess it's the beginning of
      the end, unless we're all ready to take hold against him. What are you
      going to do?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do? Anything! Everything! It was abominable! It was atrocious!&rdquo; she
      shuddered out with disgust. &ldquo;How could he imagine that Mr. Peck would do
      such a thing?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, he's imagined it. But he doesn't mean to stay out of church; he
      means to put Brother Peck out.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We mustn't let him. That would be outrageous.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's the way Ellen and I feel about it,&rdquo; said Putney; &ldquo;but we don't
      know how much of a party there is with us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But everybody&mdash;everybody must feel the same way about Mr. Gerrish's
      behaviour? I don't see how you can be so quiet about it&mdash;you and
      Ellen!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Annie looked from one to another indignantly, and Putney laughed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We're not <i>feeling</i> quietly about it,&rdquo; said Mrs. Putney.
    </p>
    <p>
      Putney took out a piece of tobacco, and bit off a large corner, and began
      to chew vehemently upon it. &ldquo;Hello, Idella!&rdquo; he said to the little girl,
      holding by Annie's hand and looking up intently at him, with childish
      interest in what he was eating. &ldquo;What a pretty dress you've got on!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's mine,&rdquo; said the child. &ldquo;To keep.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is that so? Well, it's a beauty.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm going to wear it all the time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is that so? Well, now, you and Winthrop step on ahead a little; I want to
      see how you look in it. Splendid!&rdquo; he said, as she took the boy's hand and
      looked back over her shoulder for Putney's applause. &ldquo;Lyra tells us you've
      adopted her for the time being, Annie. I guess you'll have your hands
      full. But, as I was going to say, about feeling differently, my experience
      is that there's always a good-sized party for the perverse, simply because
      it seems to answer a need in human nature. There's a fascination in it; a
      man feels as if there must be something in it besides the perversity, and
      because it's so obviously wrong it must be right. Don't you believe but
      what a good half of the people in church to-day are pretty sure that
      Gerrish had a good reason for behaving indecently. The very fact that he
      did so carries conviction to some minds, and those are the minds we have
      got to deal with. When he gets up in the next Society meeting there's a
      mighty great danger that he'll have a strong party to back him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can't believe it,&rdquo; Annie broke out, but she was greatly troubled. &ldquo;What
      do you think, Ellen; that there's any danger of his carrying the day
      against Mr. Peck?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There's a great deal of dissatisfaction with Mr. Peck already, you know,
      and I guess Ralph's right about the rest of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I'm glad I've taken a pew. I'm with you for Mr. Peck, Ralph, heart
      and soul.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As Brother Brandreth says about the Social Union. Well, that's right. I
      shall count upon you. And speaking of the Social Union, I haven't seen
      you, Annie, since that night at Mrs. Munger's. I suppose you don't expect
      me to say anything in self-defence?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Ralph, and you needn't; <i>I've</i> defended you sufficiently&mdash;justified
      you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That won't do,&rdquo; said Putney. &ldquo;Ellen and I have thought that all out, and
      we find that I&mdash;or something that stood for me&mdash;was to blame,
      whoever else was to blame, too; we won't mention the hospitable Mrs.
      Munger. When Dr. Morrell had to go away Brother Peck took hold with me,
      and he suggested good resolutions. I told him I'd tried 'em, and they
      never did me the least good; but his sort really seemed to work. I don't
      know whether they would work again; Ellen thinks they would. <i>I</i>
      think we sha'n't ever need anything again; but that's what I always think
      when I come out of it&mdash;like a man with chills and fever.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was Dr. Morrell who asked Mr. Peck to come,&rdquo; said Mrs. Putney; &ldquo;and it
      turned out for the best. Ralph got well quicker than he ever did before.
      Of course, Annie,&rdquo; she explained, &ldquo;it must seem strange to you hearing us
      talk of it as if it were a disease; but that's just like what it is&mdash;a
      raging disease; and I can't feel differently about anything that happens
      in it, though I do blame people for it.&rdquo; Annie followed with tender
      interest the loving pride that exonerated and idealised Putney in the
      words of the woman who had suffered so much with him, and must suffer. &ldquo;I
      couldn't help speaking as I did to Mrs. Munger.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She deserved it every word,&rdquo; said Annie. &ldquo;I wonder you didn't say more.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, hold on!&rdquo; Putney interposed. &ldquo;We'll allow that the local influences
      were malarial, but I guess we can't excuse the invalid altogether. That's
      Brother Peck's view; and I must say I found it decidedly tonic; it helped
      to brace me up.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think he was too severe with you altogether,&rdquo; said his wife.
    </p>
    <p>
      Putney laughed. &ldquo;It was all I could do to keep Ellen from getting up and
      going out of church too, when Brother Gerrish set the example. She's a
      Gerrishite at heart.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, remember, Ralph,&rdquo; said Annie, &ldquo;that I'm with you in whatever you do
      to defeat that man. It's a good cause&mdash;a righteous cause&mdash;the
      cause of justice; and we must do everything for it,&rdquo; she said fervently.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, any enormity is justifiable against injustice,&rdquo; he suggested, &ldquo;or
      the unjust; it's the same thing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know I don't mean that. I can trust you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall keep within the law, at any rate,&rdquo; said Putney.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Mrs. Bolton!&rdquo; Annie called out, when she entered her house, and she
      pushed on into the kitchen; she had not the patience to wait for her to
      bring in the dinner before speaking about the exciting event at church.
      But Mrs. Bolton would not be led up to the subject by a tacit invitation,
      and after a suspense in which her zeal for Mr. Peck began to take a colour
      of resentment toward Mrs. Bolton, Annie demanded, &ldquo;What do you think of
      Mr. Gerrish's scandalous behaviour?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bolton gave herself time to put a stick of wood into the stove, and
      to punch it with the stove-lid handle before answering. &ldquo;I don't know as
      it's anything more than I expected.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Annie went on: &ldquo;It was shameful! Do you suppose he really thought Mr. Peck
      was referring to him in his sermon?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I presume he felt the cap fit. But if it hadn't b'en one thing, 'twould
      b'en another. Mr. Peck was bound to roil the brook for Mr. Gerrish's
      drinkin', wherever he stood, up stream or down.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. He <i>is</i> a wolf! A wolf in sheep's clothing,&rdquo; said Annie
      excitedly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I d'know as you can call him a <i>wolf</i>, exactly,&rdquo; returned Mrs.
      Bolton dryly. &ldquo;He's got his good points, I presume.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Annie was astounded. &ldquo;Why, Mrs. Bolton, you're surely not going to justify
      him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bolton erected herself from cutting a loaf of her best bread into
      slices, and stood with the knife in her hand, like a figure of Justice.
      &ldquo;Well, I <i>guess</i> you no need to ask me a question like that, Miss
      Kilburn. I hain't obliged to make up to Mr. Peck, though, for what I done
      in the beginnin' by condemnin' everybuddy else without mercy now.&rdquo; Mrs.
      Bolton's eyes did not flash fire, but they sent out an icy gleam that went
      as sharply to Annie's heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bolton came in from feeding the horse and cow in the barn, with a mealy
      tin pan in his hand, from which came a mild, subdued radiance like that of
      his countenance. He was not sensible of arriving upon a dramatic moment,
      and he said, without noticing the attitude of either lady: &ldquo;I see you
      walkin' home with Mr. Putney, Miss Kilburn. What'd <i>he</i> say?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You mean about Mr. Gerrish? He thinks as we all do; that it was a
      challenge to Mr. Peck's friends, and that we must take it up.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A light of melancholy satisfaction shone from Bolton's deeply shaded eyes.
      &ldquo;Well, he ain't one to lose time, not a great deal. I presume he's goin'
      to work?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At once,&rdquo; said Annie. &ldquo;He says Mr. Gerrish will be sure to bring his
      grievance up at the next Society meeting, and we must be ready to meet
      him, and out-talk him and out-vote him.&rdquo; She reported these phrases from
      Putney's lips.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I guess if it was out-talkin', Mr. Putney wouldn't have much
      trouble about it. And as far forth as votin' goes, I don't believe but
      what we can carry the day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We couldn't,&rdquo; said Mrs. Bolton from the pantry, where she had gone to put
      the bread away in its stone jar, &ldquo;if it was left to the church.&rdquo; She
      accented the last word with the click of the jar lid, and came out.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, it ain't a church question. It's a Society question.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bolton replied, on her passage to the dining-room with the plate of
      sliced bread: &ldquo;I can't make it seem right to have the minister a Society
      question. Seems to me that the church members'd ought have the say.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, you can't make the discipline over to suit everybody,&rdquo; said Bolton.
      &ldquo;I presume it was ordered for a wise purpose.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, land alive, Oliver Bolton,&rdquo; his wife shouted back from the
      remoteness to which his words had followed her, &ldquo;the statute provisions
      and rules of the Society wa'n't ordered by Providence.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, not directly, as you may say,&rdquo; said Bolton, beginning high, and
      lowering his voice as she rejoined them, &ldquo;but I presume the hearts of them
      that made them was moved.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bolton could not combat a position of such unimpregnable piety in
      words, but she permitted herself a contemptuous sniff, and went on getting
      the things into the dining-room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I guess it's all goin' to work together for good. I ain't afraid any
      but what it's goin' to come out all right. But we got to be up and doin',
      as they say about 'lection times. The Lord helps them that helps
      themselves,&rdquo; said Bolton, and then, as if he felt the weakness of this
      position as compared with that of entire trust in Providence, he winked
      his mild eyes, and added, &ldquo;if they're on the right side, and put their
      faith in His promises.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, your dinner's ready now,&rdquo; Mrs. Bolton said to Annie.
    </p>
    <p>
      Idella had clung fast to Annie's hand; as Annie started toward the
      dining-room she got before her, and whispered vehemently.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What?&rdquo; asked Annie, bending down; she laughed, in lifting her head, &ldquo;I
      promised Idella you'd let us have some preserves to-day, Mrs. Bolton.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bolton smiled with grim pleasure. &ldquo;I see all the while her mind was
      set on something. She ain't one to let you forget <i>your</i> promises.
      Well, I guess if Mr. Peck had a little more of <i>her</i> disposition
      there wouldn't be much doubt about the way it would all come out.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, you don't often see pairents take after their children,&rdquo; said
      Bolton, venturing a small joke.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, nor husbands after their wives, either,&rdquo; said Mrs. Bolton sharply.
      &ldquo;The more's the pity.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      XXIV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Dr. Morrell came to see Annie late the next Wednesday evening.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I didn't know you'd come back,&rdquo; she said. She returned to the
      rocking-chair, from which she came forward to greet him, and he dropped
      into an easy seat near the table piled with books and sewing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I didn't know it myself half an hour ago.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Really? And is this your first visit? I must be a very interesting case.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are&mdash;always. How have you been?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I? I hardly know whether I've been at all,&rdquo; she answered, in mechanical
      parody of his own reply. &ldquo;So many other things have been of so much more
      importance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She let her eyes rest full upon his, with a sense of returning comfort and
      safety in his presence, and after a deep breath of satisfaction, she
      asked, &ldquo;How did you leave your mother?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very much better&mdash;entirely out of danger.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's so odd to think of any one's having a family. To me it seems the
      normal condition not to have any relatives.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, we can't very well dispense with mothers,&rdquo; said the doctor. &ldquo;We
      have to begin with them, at any rate.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I don't object to them. I only wonder at them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They fell into a cosy and mutually interesting talk about their separate
      past, and he gave her glimpses of the life, simple and studious, he had
      led before he went abroad. She confessed to two mistakes in which she had
      mechanically persisted concerning him; one that he came from Charlestown
      instead of Chelsea, and the other that his first name was Joseph instead
      of James. She did not own that she had always thought it odd he should be
      willing to remain in a place like Hatboro', and that it must argue a
      strangely unambitious temperament in a man of his ability. She diverted
      the impulse to a general satire of village life, and ended by saying that
      she was getting to be a perfect villager herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      He laughed, and then, &ldquo;How has Hatboro' been getting along?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Simply seething with excitement,&rdquo; she answered. &ldquo;But I should hardly know
      where to begin if I tried to tell you,&rdquo; she added. &ldquo;It seems such an age
      since I saw you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you,&rdquo; said the doctor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I didn't mean to be <i>quite</i> so flattering; but you have certainly
      marked an epoch. Really, I <i>don't</i> know where to begin. I wish you'd
      seen somebody else first&mdash;Ralph and Ellen, or Mrs. Wilmington.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I might go and see them now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; stay, now you're here, though I know I shall not do justice to the
      situation.&rdquo; But she was able to possess him of it with impartiality, even
      with a little humour, all the more because she was at heart intensely
      partisan and serious. &ldquo;No one knows what Mr. Gerrish intends to do next.
      He has kept quietly about his business; and he told some of the ladies who
      tried to interview him that he was not prepared to talk about the course
      he had taken. He doesn't seem to be ashamed of his behaviour; and Ralph
      thinks that he's either satisfied with it, and intends to let it stand as
      a protest, or else he's going to strike another blow on the next business
      meeting. But he's even kept Mrs. Gerrish quiet, and all we can do is to
      unite Mr. Peck's friends provisionally. Ralph's devoted himself to that,
      and he says he has talked forty-eight hours to the day ever since.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Is he&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; perfectly! I could hardly believe it when I saw him at church on
      Sunday. It was like seeing one risen from the dead. What he must have gone
      through, and Ellen! She told me how Mr. Peck had helped him in the
      struggle. She attributes everything to him. But of course you think he had
      nothing to do with it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What makes you think that?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I don't know. Wouldn't that naturally be the attitude of Science?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Toward religion? Perhaps. But I'm not Science&mdash;with a large S. May
      be that's the reason why I left the case with Mr. Peck,&rdquo; said the doctor,
      smiling. &ldquo;Putney didn't leave off my medicine, did he?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He never got well so soon before. They both say that. I didn't think you
      could be so narrow-minded, Dr. Morrell. But of course your scientific
      bigotry couldn't admit the effect of the moral influence. It would be too
      much like a miracle; you would have to allow for a mystery.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have to allow for a good many,&rdquo; said the doctor. &ldquo;The world is full of
      mysteries for me, if you mean things that science hasn't explored yet. But
      I hope that they'll all yield to the light, and that somewhere there'll be
      light enough to clear up even the spiritual mysteries.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you really?&rdquo; she demanded eagerly. &ldquo;Then you believe in a life
      hereafter? You believe in a moral government of the&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He retreated, laughing, from her ardent pursuit. &ldquo;Oh, I'm not going to
      commit myself. But I'll go so far as to say that I like to hear Mr. Peck
      preach, and that I want him to stay. I don't say he had nothing to do with
      Putney's straightening up. Putney had a great deal to do with it himself.
      What does he think Mr. Peck's chances are?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If Mr. Gerrish tries to get him dismissed? He doesn't know; he's quite in
      the dark. He says the party of the perverse&mdash;the people who think Mr.
      Gerrish must have had some good reason for his behaviour, simply because
      they can't see any&mdash;is unexpectedly large; and it doesn't help
      matters with the more respectable people that the most respectable, like
      Mr. Wilmington and Colonel Marvin, are Mr. Peck's friends. They think
      there must be something wrong if such good men are opposed to Mr.
      Gerrish.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I suspect,&rdquo; said Dr. Morrell soberly, &ldquo;that Putney's championship
      isn't altogether an advantage. The people all concede his brilliancy, and
      they are prouder of him on account of his infirmity; but I guess they like
      to feel their superiority to him in practical matters. They admire him,
      but they don't want to follow him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I suppose so,&rdquo; said Annie disconsolately. &ldquo;And I imagine that Mr.
      Wilmington's course is attributed to Lyra, and that doesn't help Mr. Peck
      much with the husbands of the ladies who don't approve of her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The doctor tacitly declined to touch this delicate point. He asked, after
      a pause, &ldquo;You'll be at the meeting?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I couldn't keep away. But I've no vote, that's the worst. I can only
      suffer in the cause.&rdquo; The doctor smiled. &ldquo;You must go, too,&rdquo; she added
      eagerly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I shall go; I couldn't keep away either. Besides, I can vote. How are
      you getting on with your little <i>protégée</i>?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Idella? Well, it isn't such a simple matter as I supposed, quite. Did you
      ever hear anything about her mother?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing more than what every one has. Why?&rdquo; asked the doctor, with
      scientific curiosity. &ldquo;Do you find traits that the father doesn't account
      for?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. She is very vain and greedy and quick-tempered.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are those traits uncommon in children?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In such a degree I should think they were. But she's very affectionate,
      too, and you can do anything with her through her love of praise. She
      puzzles me a good deal. I wish I knew something about her mother. But Mr.
      Peck himself is a puzzle. With all my respect for him and regard and
      admiration, I can't help seeing that he's a very imperfect character.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Doctor Morrell laughed. &ldquo;There's a great deal of human nature in man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There isn't enough in Mr. Peck,&rdquo; Annie retorted. &ldquo;From the very first he
      has said things that have stirred me up and put me in a fever; but he
      always seems to be cold and passive himself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps he <i>is</i> cold,&rdquo; said the doctor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But has he any <i>right</i> to be so?&rdquo; retorted Annie, with certainly no
      coldness of her own.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I don't know. I never thought of the right or wrong of a man's
      being what he was born. Perhaps we might justly blame his ancestors.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Annie broke into a laugh at herself: &ldquo;Of course. But don't you think that
      a man who is able to put things as he does&mdash;who can make you see, for
      example, the stupidity and cruelty of things that always seemed right and
      proper before&mdash;don't you think that he's guilty of a kind of
      hypocrisy if he doesn't <i>feel</i> as well as see?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I can't say that I do,&rdquo; said the doctor, with pleasure in the
      feminine excess of her demand. &ldquo;And there are so many ways of feeling.
      We're apt to think that our own way is the only way, of course; but I
      suppose that most philanthropists&mdash;men who have done the most to
      better conditions&mdash;have been people of cold temperaments; and yet you
      can't say they are unfeeling.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, certainly. Do you think Mr. Peck is a real philanthropist?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How you do get back to the personal always!&rdquo; said Dr. Morrell. &ldquo;What
      makes you ask?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because I can't understand his indifference to his child. It seems to me
      that real philanthropy would begin at home. But twice he has distinctly
      forgotten her existence, and he always seems bored with it. Or not that
      quite; but she seems no more to him than any other child.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There's something very curious about all that,&rdquo; said the doctor. &ldquo;In most
      things the greater includes the less, but in philanthropy it seems to
      exclude it. If a man's heart is open to the whole world, to all men, it's
      shut sometimes against the individual, even the nearest and dearest. You
      see I'm willing to admit all you can say against a rival practitioner.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I understand,&rdquo; said Annie. &ldquo;But I'm not going to gratify your spite.&rdquo;
       At the same time she tacitly consented to the slight for Mr. Peck which
      their joking about him involved. In such cases we excuse our disloyalty as
      merely temporary, and intend to turn serious again and make full amends
      for it. &ldquo;He made very short work,&rdquo; she continued, &ldquo;of that notion of yours
      that there could be any good feeling between the poor and the rich who had
      once been poor themselves.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did I have any such notion as that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She recalled the time and place of its expression to him, and he said, &ldquo;Oh
      yes! Well?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He says that rich people like that are apt to be the hardest masters, and
      are eager to forget they ever were poor, and are only anxious to identify
      themselves with the rich.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dr. Morrell seemed to enjoy this immensely. &ldquo;That does rather settle it,&rdquo;
       he said recreantly.
    </p>
    <p>
      She tried to be severe with him, but she only kept on laughing and joking;
      she was aware that he was luring her away from her seriousness.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bolton brought in the lamp, and set it on the library table, showing
      her gaunt outline a moment against it before she left it to throw its
      softened light into the parlour where they sat. The autumn moonshine,
      almost as mellow, fell in through the open windows, which let in the
      shrilling of the crickets and grasshoppers, and wafts of the warm night
      wind.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Does life,&rdquo; Annie was asking, at the end of half an hour, &ldquo;seem more
      simple or more complicated as you live on? That sounds awfully abstruse,
      doesn't it? And I don't know why I'm always asking you abstruse things,
      but I am.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I don't mind it,&rdquo; said the doctor. &ldquo;Perhaps I haven't lived on long
      enough to answer this particular question; I'm only thirty-six, you know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>Only</i>? I'm thirty-one, and I feel a hundred!&rdquo; she broke in.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don't look it. But I believe I rather like abstruse questions. You
      know Putney and I have discussed a great many. But just what do you mean
      by this particular abstraction?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He took from the table a large ivory paper-knife which he was in the habit
      of playing with in his visits, and laid first one side and then the other
      side of its smooth cool blade in the palm of his left hand, as he leaned
      forward, with his elbows on his knees, and bent his smiling eyes keenly
      upon her.
    </p>
    <p>
      She stopped rocking herself, and said imperatively, &ldquo;Will you please put
      that back, Dr. Morrell?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This paper-knife?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. And not look at me just in that way? When you get that knife and
      that look, I feel a little too much as if you were diagnosing me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Diagnosticating,&rdquo; suggested the doctor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it? I always supposed it was diagnosing. But it doesn't matter. It
      wasn't the name I was objecting to.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He put the knife back and changed his posture, with a smile that left
      nothing of professional scrutiny in his look. &ldquo;Very well, then; you shall
      diagnose yourself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Diagnosticate, please.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I thought you preferred the other.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, it sounds undignified, now that I know there's a larger word. Where
      was I?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The personal bearing of the question whether life isn't more and more
      complicated?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How did you know it had a personal bearing?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I suspected as much.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, it has. I mean that within the last four or five months&mdash;since
      I've been in Hatboro'&mdash;I seem to have lost my old point of view; or,
      rather, I don't find it satisfactory any more. I'm ashamed to think of the
      simple plans, or dreams, that I came home with. I hardly remember what
      they were; but I must have expected to be a sort of Lady Bountiful here;
      and now I think a Lady Bountiful one of the most mischievous persons that
      could infest any community.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don't mean that charity is played out?&rdquo; asked the doctor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the old-fashioned way, yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But they say poverty is on the increase. What is to be done?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Justice,&rdquo; said Annie. &ldquo;Those who do most of the work in the world ought
      to share in its comforts as a right, and not be put off with what we
      idlers have a mind to give them from our superfluity as a grace.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, that's all very true. But what till justice <i>is</i> done?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, we must continue to do charity,&rdquo; cried Annie, with self-contempt that
      amused him. &ldquo;But don't you see how much more complicated it is? That's
      what I meant by life not being simple any more. It was easy enough to do
      charity when it used to seem the right and proper remedy for suffering;
      but now, when I can't make it appear a finality, but only something
      provisional, temporary&mdash;Don't you see?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I see. But I don't see how you're going to help it At the same time,
      I'll allow that it makes life more difficult.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      For a moment they were both serious and silent. Then she said: &ldquo;Sometimes
      I think the fault is all in myself, and that if I were not so
      sophisticated and&mdash;and&mdash;selfish, I should find the old way of
      doing good just as effective and natural as ever. Then again, I think the
      conditions are all wrong, and that we ought to be fairer to people, and
      then we needn't be so good to them. I should prefer that. I hate being
      good to people I don't like, and I can't like people who don't interest
      me. I think I must be very hard-hearted.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The doctor laughed at this.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I know,&rdquo; said Annie, &ldquo;I know the fraudulent reputation I've got for
      good works.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your charity to tramps is the opprobrium of Hatboro',&rdquo; the doctor
      consented.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I don't mind that. It's easy when people ask you for food or money,
      but the horrible thing is when they ask you for work. Think of me, who
      never did anything to earn a cent in my life, being humbly asked by a
      fellow-creature to let him work for something to eat and drink! It's
      hideous! It's abominable! At first I used to be flattered by it, and try
      to conjure up something for them to do, and to believe that I was helping
      the deserving poor. Now I give all of them money, and tell them that they
      needn't even pretend to work for it. <i>I</i> don't work for my money, and
      I don't see why they should.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They'd find that an unanswerable argument if you put it to them,&rdquo; said
      the doctor. He reached out his hand for the paper-cutter, and then
      withdrew it in a way that made her laugh.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But the worst of it is,&rdquo; she resumed, &ldquo;that I don't love any of the
      people that I help, or hurt, whichever it is. I did feel remorseful toward
      Mrs. Savor for a while, but I didn't love her, and I knew that I only
      pitied myself through her. Don't you see?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I don't,&rdquo; said the doctor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don't, because you're too polite. The only kind of creature that I
      can have any sympathy with is some little wretch like Idella, who is
      perfectly selfish and naughty every way, but seems to want me to like her,
      and a reprobate like Lyra, or some broken creature like poor Ralph. I
      think there's something in the air, the atmosphere, that won't allow you
      to live in the old way if you've got a grain of conscience or humanity. I
      don't mean that <i>I</i> have. But it seems to me as if the world couldn't
      go on as it has been doing. Even here in America, where I used to think we
      had the millennium because slavery was abolished, people have more
      liberty, but they seem just as far off as ever from justice. That is what
      paralyses me and mocks me and laughs in my face when I remember how I used
      to dream of doing good after I came home. I had better stayed at Rome.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The doctor said vaguely, &ldquo;I'm glad you didn't,&rdquo; and he let his eyes dwell
      on her with a return of the professional interest which she was too lost
      in her self reproach to be able to resent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I blame myself for trying to excuse my own failure on the plea that
      things generally have gone wrong. At times it seems to me that I'm
      responsible for having lost my faith in what I used to think was the right
      thing to do; and then again it seems as if the world were all so bad that
      no real good could be done in the old way, and that my faith is gone
      because there's nothing for it to rest on any longer. I feel that
      something must be done; but I don't know what.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It would be hard to say,&rdquo; said the doctor.
    </p>
    <p>
      She perceived that her exaltation amused him, but she was too much in
      earnest to care. &ldquo;Then we are guilty&mdash;all guilty&mdash;till we find
      out and begin to do it. If the world has come to such a pass that you
      can't do anything but harm in it&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, is it so bad as that?&rdquo; he protested.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's <i>quite</i> as bad,&rdquo; she insisted. &ldquo;Just see what mischief I've
      done since I came back to Hatboro'. I took hold of that miserable Social
      Union because I was outside of all the life about me, and it seemed my
      only chance of getting into it; and I've done more harm by it in one
      summer than I could undo in a lifetime. Just think of poor Mr. Brandreth's
      love affair with Miss Chapley broken off, and Lyra's lamentable triumph
      over Miss Northwick, and Mrs. Munger's duplicity, and Ralph's escapade&mdash;all
      because I wanted to do good!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A note of exaggeration had begun to prevail in her self-upbraiding, which
      was real enough, and the time came for him to suggest, &ldquo;I think you're a
      little morbid, Miss Kilburn.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Morbid! Of course I am! But that doesn't alter the fact that everything
      is wrong, does it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Everything!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, you don't pretend yourself, do you, that everything is right?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A true American ought to do so, oughtn't he?&rdquo; teased the doctor. &ldquo;One
      mustn't be a bad citizen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But if you <i>were</i> a bad citizen?&rdquo; she persisted.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, then I might agree with you on some points. But I shouldn't say such
      things to my patients, Miss Kilburn.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It would be a great comfort to them if you did,&rdquo; she sighed.
    </p>
    <p>
      The doctor broke out in a laugh of delight at her perfervid concentration.
      &ldquo;Oh, no, no! They're mostly nervous women, and it would be the death of
      them&mdash;if they understood me. In fact, what's the use of brooding upon
      such ideas? We can't hurry any change, but we can make ourselves
      uncomfortable.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why should I be comfortable?&rdquo; she asked, with a solemnity that made him
      laugh again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why shouldn't you be?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, that's what I often ask myself. But I can't be,&rdquo; she said sadly.
    </p>
    <p>
      They had risen, and he looked at her with his professional interest now
      openly dominant, as he stood holding her hand. &ldquo;I'm going to send you a
      little more of that tonic, Miss Kilburn.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She pulled her hand away. &ldquo;No, I shall not take any more medicine. You
      think everything is physical. Why don't you ask at once to see my tongue?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He went out laughing, and she stood looking wistfully at the door he had
      passed through.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      XXV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      The bell on the orthodox church called the members of Mr. Peck's society
      together for the business meeting with the same plangent, lacerant note
      that summoned them to worship on Sundays. Among those who crowded the
      house were many who had not been there before, and seldom in any place of
      the kind. There were admirers of Putney: workmen of rebellious repute and
      of advanced opinions on social and religious questions; nonsuited
      plaintiffs and defendants of shady record, for whom he had at one time or
      another done what he could. A good number of the summer folk from South
      Hatboro' were present, with the expectation of something dramatic, which
      every one felt, and every one hid with the discipline that subdues the
      outside of life in a New England town to a decorous passivity.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the appointed time Mr. Peck rose to open the meeting with prayer; then,
      as if nothing unusual were likely to come before it, he declared it ready
      to proceed to business. Some people who had been gathering in the
      vestibule during his prayer came in; and the electric globes, which had
      been recently hung above the pulpit and on the front of the gallery in
      substitution of the old gas chandelier, shed their moony glare upon a
      house in which few places were vacant. Mr. Gerrish, sitting erect and
      solemn beside his wife in their pew, shared with the minister and Putney
      the tacit interest of the audience.
    </p>
    <p>
      He permitted the transaction of several minor affairs, and Mr. Peck, as
      Moderator, conducted the business with his habitual exactness and effect
      of far-off impersonality. The people waited with exemplary patience, and
      Putney, who lounged in one corner of his pew, gave no more sign of
      excitement, with his chin sunk in his rumpled shirt-front, than his
      sad-faced wife at the other end of the seat.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Gerrish rose, with the air of rising in his own good time, and said,
      with dry pomp, &ldquo;Mr. Moderator, I have prepared a resolution, which I will
      ask you to read to this meeting.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He held up a paper as he spoke, and then passed it to the minister, who
      opened and read it&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>Whereas</i>, It is indispensable to the prosperity and well-being of
      any and every organisation, and especially of a Christian church, that the
      teachings of its minister be in accord with the convictions of a majority
      of its members upon vital questions of eternal interest, with the end and
      aim of securing the greatest efficiency of that body in the community, as
      an example and a shining light before men to guide their steps in the
      strait and narrow path; therefore,
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>Resolved</i>, That a committee of this society be appointed to inquire
      if such is the case in the instance of the Rev. Julius W. Peck, and be
      instructed to report upon the same.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A satisfied expectation expressed itself in the silence that followed the
      reading of the paper, whatever pain and shame were mixed with the
      satisfaction. If the contempt of kindly usage shown in offering such a
      resolution without warning or private notice to the minister shocked many
      by its brutality, still it was satisfactory to find that Mr. Gerrish had
      intended to seize the first chance of airing his grievance, as everybody
      had said he would do.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Peck looked up from the paper and across the intervening pews at Mr.
      Gerrish. &ldquo;Do I understand that you move the adoption of this resolution?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, certainly, sir,&rdquo; said Mr. Gerrish, with an accent of supercilious
      surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You did not say so,&rdquo; said the minister gently. &ldquo;Does any one second
      Brother Gerrish's motion?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A murmur of amusement followed Mr. Peck's reminder to Mr. Gerrish, and an
      ironical voice called out&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Moderator!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Putney.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think it important that the sense of the meeting should be taken on the
      question the resolution raises. I therefore second the motion for its
      adoption.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Putney sat down, and the murmur now broadened into something like a
      general laugh, hushed as with a sudden sense of the impropriety.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Gerrish had gradually sunk into his seat, but now he rose again, and
      when the minister formally announced the motion before the meeting, he
      called, sharply, &ldquo;Mr. Moderator!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Brother Gerrish,&rdquo; responded the minister, in recognition.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wish to offer a few remarks in support of the resolution which I have
      had the honour&mdash;the duty, I <i>would</i> say&mdash;of laying before
      this meeting.&rdquo; He jerked his head forward at the last word, and slid the
      fingers of his right hand into the breast of his coat like an orator, and
      stood very straight. &ldquo;I have no desire, sir, to make this the occasion of
      a personal question between myself and my pastor. But, sir, the question
      has been forced upon me against my will and my&mdash;my consent; and I was
      obliged on the last ensuing Sabbath, when I sat in this place, to enter my
      public protest against it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sir, I came into this community a poor boy, without a penny in my pocket,
      and unaided and alone and by my own exertions I have built up one of the
      business interests of the place. I will not stoop to boast of the part I
      have taken in the prosperity of this place; but I will say that no public
      object has been wanting&mdash;that my support has not been wanting&mdash;from
      the first proposition to concrete the sidewalks of this village to the
      introduction of city waterworks and an improved system of drainage, and&mdash;er&mdash;electric
      lighting. So much for my standing in a public capacity! As for my business
      capacity, I would gladly let that speak for itself, if that capacity had
      not been turned in the sanctuary itself against the personal reputation
      which every man holds dearer than life itself, and which has had a deadly
      blow aimed at it through that&mdash;that very capacity. Sir, I have
      established in this town a business which I may humbly say that in no
      other place of the same numerical size throughout the commonwealth will
      you find another establishment so nearly corresponding to the wants and
      the&mdash;er&mdash;facilities of a great city. In no other establishment
      in a place of the same importance will you find the interests and the
      demands and the necessities of the whole community so carefully
      considered. In no other&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Putney got upon his feet and called out, &ldquo;Mr. Moderator, will Brother
      Gerrish allow me to ask him a single question?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Peck put the request, and Mr. Gerrish involuntarily made a pause, in
      which Putney pursued&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My question is simply this: doesn't Brother Gerrish think it would help
      us to get at the business in hand sooner if he would print the rest of his
      advertisement in the Hatboro' <i>Register</i>?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A laugh broke out all over the house as Putney dropped back into his seat.
      Mr. Gerrish stood apparently undaunted.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will attend to you presently, sir,&rdquo; he said, with a schoolmasterly
      authority which made an impression in his favour with some. &ldquo;And I thank
      the gentleman,&rdquo; he continued, turning again to address the minister, &ldquo;for
      recalling me from a side issue. As he acknowledges in the suggestion which
      he intended to wound my feelings, but I can assure him that my
      self-respect is beyond the reach of slurs and innuendoes; I care little
      for them; I care not what quarter they originate from, or have their&mdash;their
      origin; and still less when they spring from a source notoriously
      incompetent and unworthy to command the respect of this community, which
      has abused all its privileges and trampled the forbearance of its
      fellow-citizens under foot, until it has become a&mdash;a byword in this
      place, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Putney sprang up again with, &ldquo;Mr. Moderator&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, sir! no, sir!&rdquo; pursued Gerrish; &ldquo;I will not submit to your
      interruptions. I have the floor, and I intend to keep it. I intend to
      challenge a full and fearless scrutiny of my motives in this matter, and I
      intend to probe those motives in others. Why do we find, sir, on the one
      side of this question as its most active exponent a man outside of the
      church in organising a force within this society to antagonise the most
      cherished convictions of that church? We do not asperse his motives; but
      we ask if these motives coincide with the relations which a Christian
      minister should sustain to his flock as expressed in the resolution which
      I have had the privilege to offer, more in sorrow than in anger.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Putney made some starts to rise, but quelled himself, and finally sank
      back with an air of ironical patience. Gerrish's personalities had turned
      public sentiment in his favour. Colonel Marvin came over to Putney's pew
      and shook hands with him before sitting down by his side. He began to talk
      with him in whisper while Gerrish went on&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But on the other hand, sir, what do we see? I will not allude to myself
      in this connection, but I am well aware, sir, that I represent a large and
      growing majority of this church in the stand I have taken. We are tired,
      sir&mdash;and I say it to you openly, sir, what has been bruited about in
      secret long enough&mdash;of having what I may call a one-sided gospel
      preached in this church and from this pulpit. We enter our protest against
      the neglect of very essential elements of Christianity&mdash;not to say
      the essential&mdash;the representation of Christ as&mdash;a&mdash;a spirit
      as well as a life. Understand me, sir, we do not object, neither I nor any
      of those who agree with me, to the preaching of Christ as a life. That is
      all very well in its place, and it is the wish of every true Christian to
      conform and adapt his own life as far as&mdash;as circumstances will
      permit of. But when I come to this sanctuary, and <i>they</i> come,
      Sabbath after Sabbath, and hear nothing said of my Redeemer as a&mdash;means
      of salvation, and nothing of Him crucified; and when I find the precious
      promises of the gospel ignored and neglected continually and&mdash;and all
      the time, and each discourse from yonder pulpit filled up with
      generalities&mdash;glittering generalities, as has been well said by
      another&mdash;in relation to and connection with mere conduct, I am
      disappointed, sir, and dissatisfied, and I feel to protest against that
      line of&mdash;of preaching. During the last six months, Sabbath after
      Sabbath, I have listened in vain for the ministrations of the plain gospel
      and the tenets under which we have been blessed as a church and as&mdash;a&mdash;people.
      Instead of this I have heard, as I have said&mdash;and I repeat it without
      fear of contradiction&mdash;nothing but one-idea appeals and mere
      moralisings upon duty to others, which a child and the veriest tyro could
      not fail therein; and I have culminated&mdash;or rather it has been
      culminated to me&mdash;in a covert attack upon my private affairs and my
      way of conducting my private business in a manner which I could not
      overlook. For that reason, and for the reasons which I have recapitulated&mdash;and
      I challenge the closest scrutiny&mdash;I felt it my duty to enter my
      public protest and to leave this sanctuary, where I have worshipped ever
      since it was erected, with my family. And I now urge the adoption of the
      foregoing resolution because I believe that your usefulness has come to an
      end to the vast majority of the constituent members of this church; and&mdash;and
      that is all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Gerrish stopped so abruptly that Putney, who was engaged in talk with
      Colonel Marvin, looked up with a startled air, too late to secure the
      floor. Mr. Peck recognised Mr. Gates, who stood with his wrists caught in
      either hand across his middle, and looked round with a quizzical glance
      before he began to speak. Putney lifted his hand in playful threatening
      toward Colonel Marvin, who got away from him with a face of noiseless
      laughter, and went and joined Mr. Wilmington where he sat with his wife,
      who entered into the talk between the men.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Moderator,&rdquo; said Gates, &ldquo;I don't know as I expected to take part in
      this debate; but you can't always tell what's going to happen to you, even
      if you're only a member of the church by marriage, as you might say. I
      presume, though, that I have a right to speak in a meeting like this,
      because I <i>am</i> a member of the society in my own right, and I've got
      its interests at heart as much as any one. I don't know but what I got the
      interests of Hatboro' at heart too, but I can't be certain; sometimes you
      can't; sometimes you think you've got the common good in view, and you
      come to look a little closer and you find it's the uncommon good; that is
      to say, it's not so much the public weal you're after as what it is the
      private weal. But that's neither here nor there. I haven't got anything to
      say against identifying yourself with things in general; I don't know but
      what it's a good way; all is, it's apt to make you think you're personally
      attacked when nobody is meant in particular. <i>I</i> think that's what's
      partly the matter with Brother Gerrish here. I heard that sermon, and I
      didn't suppose there was anything in it to hurt any one especially; and I
      was consid'ably surprised to see that Mr. Gerrish seemed to take it to
      himself, somehow, and worry over it; but I didn't really know just what
      the trouble was till he explained here tonight. All I was thinking was
      when it come to that about large commerce devouring the small&mdash;sort
      of lean and fat kine&mdash;I wished Jordan and Marsh could hear that, or
      Stewart's in New York, or Wanamaker's in Philadelphia. I never <i>thought</i>
      of Brother Gerrish once; and I don't presume one out of a hundred did
      either. I&mdash;&rdquo; The electric light immediately over Gates's head began
      to hiss and sputter, and to suffer the sort of syncope which overtakes
      electric lights at such times, and to leave the house in darkness. Gates
      waited, standing, till it revived, and then added: &ldquo;I guess I hain't got
      anything more to say, Mr. Moderator. If I had it's gone from me now. I'm
      more used to speaking by kerosene, and I always lose my breath when an
      electric light begins that way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Putney was on his legs in good time now, and secured recognition before
      Mr. Wilmington, who made an effort to catch the moderator's eye. Gates had
      put the meeting in good-humoured expectation of what they might now have
      from Putney. They liked Gates's points very well, but they hoped from
      Putney something more cruel and unsparing, and the greater part of those
      present must have shared his impatience with Mr. Wilmington's request that
      he would give way to him for a moment. Yet they all probably felt the same
      curiosity about what was going forward, for it was plain that Mr.
      Wilmington and Colonel Marvin were conniving at the same point. Marvin had
      now gone to Mr. Gerrish, and had slipped into the pew beside him with the
      same sort of hand-shake he had given Putney.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will my friend Mr. Putney give way to me for a moment?&rdquo; asked Mr.
      Wilmington.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't see why I should do that,&rdquo; said Putney.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I assure him that I will not abuse his courtesy, and that I will yield
      the floor to him at any moment.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Putney hesitated a moment, and then, with the contented laugh of one who
      securely bides his time, said, &ldquo;Go ahead.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is simply this,&rdquo; said Mr. Wilmington, with a certain formal neatness
      of speech: &ldquo;The point has been touched by the last speaker, which I think
      suggested itself to all who heard the remarks of Brother Gerrish in
      support of his resolution, and the point is simply this&mdash;whether he
      has not misapplied the words of the discourse by which he felt himself
      aggrieved, and whether he has not given them a particular bearing foreign
      to the intention of their author. If, as I believe, this is the case, the
      whole matter can be easily settled by a private conference between the
      parties, and we can be saved the public appearance of disagreement in our
      society. And I would now ask Brother Gerrish, in behalf of many who take
      this view with me, whether he will not consent to reconsider the matter,
      and whether, in order to arrive at the end proposed, he will not, for the
      present at least, withdraw the resolution he has offered?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Wilmington sat down amidst a general sensation, which was heightened
      by Putney's failure to anticipate any action on Gerrish's part. Gerrish
      rapidly finished something he was saying to Colonel Marvin, and then half
      rose, and said, &ldquo;Mr. Moderator, I withdraw my resolution&mdash;for the
      time being, and&mdash;for the present, sir,&rdquo; and sat down again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Moderator,&rdquo; Putney called sharply, from his place, &ldquo;this is
      altogether unparliamentary. That resolution is properly before the
      meeting. Its adoption has been moved and seconded, and it cannot be
      withdrawn without leave granted by a vote of the meeting. I wish to
      discuss the resolution in all its bearings, and I think there are a great
      many present who share with me a desire to know how far it represents the
      sense of this society. I don't mean as to the supposed personal
      reflections which it was intended to punish; that is a very small matter,
      and as compared with the other questions involved, of no consequence
      whatever.&rdquo; Putney tossed his head with insolent pleasure in his contempt
      of Gerrish. His nostrils swelled, and he closed his little jaws with a
      firmness that made his heavy black moustache hang down below the corners
      of his chin. He went on with a wicked twinkle in his eye, and a look all
      round to see that people were waiting to take his next point. &ldquo;I judge my
      old friend Brother Gerrish by myself. My old friend Gerrish cares no more
      really about personal allusions than I do. What he really had at heart in
      offering his resolution was not any supposed attack upon himself or his
      shop from the pulpit of this church. He cared no more for that than I
      should care for a reference to my notorious habits. These are things that
      we feel may be safely left to the judgment, the charitable judgment, of
      the community, which will be equally merciful to the man who devours
      widows' houses and to the man who 'puts an enemy in his mouth to steal
      away his brains.'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Moderator,&rdquo; said Colonel Marvin, getting upon his feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, sir!&rdquo; shouted Putney fiercely; &ldquo;I can't allow you to speak. Wait till
      I get done!&rdquo; He stopped, and then said gently &ldquo;Excuse me, Colonel; I
      really must go on. I'm speaking now in behalf of Brother Gerrish, and he
      doesn't like to have the speaking on his side interrupted.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, all right,&rdquo; said Colonel Marvin amiably; &ldquo;go on.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What my old friend William Gerrish really designed in offering that
      resolution was to bring into question the kind of Christianity which has
      been preached in this place by our pastor&mdash;the one-sided gospel, as
      he aptly called it&mdash;and what he and I want to get at is the opinion
      of the society on that question. Has the gospel preached to us here been
      one-sided or hasn't it? Brother Gerrish says it has, and Brother Gerrish,
      as I understand, doesn't change his mind on that point, if he does on any,
      in asking to withdraw his resolution. He doesn't expect Mr. Peck to
      convince him in a private conference that he has been preaching an
      all-round gospel. I don't contend that he has; but I suppose I'm not a
      very competent judge. I don't propose to give you the opinion of one very
      fallible and erring man, and I don't set myself up in judgment of others;
      but I think it's important for all parties concerned to know what the
      majority of this society think on a question involving its future. That
      importance must excuse&mdash;if anything can excuse&mdash;the apparent
      want of taste, of humanity, of decency, in proposing the inquiry at a
      meeting over which the person chiefly concerned would naturally preside,
      unless he were warned to absent himself. Nobody cares for the contemptible
      point, the wholly insignificant question, whether allusion to Mr.
      Gerrish's variety store was intended or not. What we are all anxious to
      know is whether he represents any considerable portion of this society in
      his general attack upon its pastor. I want a vote on that, and I move the
      previous question.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      No one stopped to inquire whether this was parliamentary or not. Putney
      sat down, and Colonel Marvin rose to say that if a vote was to be taken,
      it was only right and just that Mr. Peck should somehow be heard in his
      own behalf, and half a dozen voices from all parts of the church supported
      him Mr. Peck, after a moment, said, &ldquo;I think I have nothing to say;&rdquo; and
      he added, &ldquo;Shall I put the question?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Question!&rdquo; &ldquo;Question!&rdquo; came from different quarters.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is moved and seconded that the resolution before the meeting be
      adopted,&rdquo; said the minister formally. &ldquo;All those in favour will say ay.&rdquo;
       He waited for a distinct space, but there was no response; Mr. Gerrish
      himself did not vote. The minister proceeded, &ldquo;Those opposed will say no.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The word burst forth everywhere, and it was followed by laughter and
      inarticulate expressions of triumph and mocking. &ldquo;Order! order!&rdquo; called
      the minister gravely, and he announced, &ldquo;The noes have it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The electric light began to suffer another syncope. When it recovered,
      with the usual fizzing and sputtering, Mr. Peck was on his feet, asking to
      be relieved from his duties as moderator, so that he might make a
      statement to the meeting. Colonel Marvin was voted into the chair, but
      refused formally to take possession of it. He stood up and said, &ldquo;There is
      no place where we would rather hear you than in that pulpit, Mr. Peck.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thank you,&rdquo; said the minister, making himself heard through the
      approving murmur; &ldquo;but I stand in this place only to ask to be allowed to
      leave it. The friendly feeling which has been expressed toward me in the
      vote upon the resolution you have just rejected is all that reconciles me
      to its defeat. Its adoption might have spared me a duty which I find
      painful. But perhaps it is best that I should discharge it. As to the
      sermon which called forth that resolution it is only just to say that I
      intended no personalities in it, and I humbly entreat any one who felt
      himself aggrieved to believe me.&rdquo; Every one looked at Gerrish to see how
      he took this; he must have felt it the part of self-respect not to change
      countenance. &ldquo;My desire in that discourse was, as always, to present the
      truth as I had seen it, and try to make it a help to all. But I am by no
      means sure that the author of the resolution was wrong in arraigning me
      before you for neglecting a very vital part of Christianity in my
      ministrations here. I think with him, that those who have made an open
      profession of Christ have a claim to the consolation of His promises, and
      to the support which good men have found in the mysteries of faith; and I
      ask his patience and that of others who feel that I have not laid
      sufficient stress upon these. My shortcoming is something that I would not
      have you overlook in any survey of my ministry among you; and I am not
      here now to defend that ministry in any point of view. As I look back over
      it, by the light of the one ineffable ideal, it seems only a record of
      failure and defeat.&rdquo; He stopped, and a sympathetic dissent ran through the
      meeting. &ldquo;There have been times when I was ready to think that the fault
      was not in me, but in my office, in the church, in religion. We all have
      these moments of clouded vision, in which we ourselves loom up in illusory
      grandeur above the work we have failed to do. But it is in no such error
      that I stand before you now. Day after day it has been borne in upon me
      that I had mistaken my work here, and that I ought, if there was any truth
      in me, to turn from it for reasons which I will give at length should I be
      spared to preach in this place next Sabbath. I should have willingly
      acquiesced if our parting had come in the form of my dismissal at your
      hands. Yet I cannot wholly regret that it has not taken that form, and
      that in offering my resignation, as I shall formally do to those empowered
      by the rules of our society to receive it, I can make it a means of
      restoring concord among you. It would be affectation in me to pretend that
      I did not know of the dissension which has had my ministry for its object
      if not its cause; and I earnestly hope that with my withdrawal that
      dissension may cease, and that this church may become a symbol before the
      world of the peace of Christ. I conjure such of my friends as have been
      active in my behalf to unite with their brethren in a cause which can
      alone merit their devotion. Above all things I beseech you to be at peace
      one with another. Forbear, forgive, submit, remembering that strife for
      the better part can only make it the worse, and that for Christians there
      can be no rivalry but in concession and self-sacrifice.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Colonel Marvin forgot his office and all parliamentary proprieties in the
      tide of emotion that swept over the meeting when the minister sat down. &ldquo;I
      am glad,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;that no sort of action need be taken now upon Mr.
      Peck's proposed resignation, which I for one cannot believe this society
      will ever agree to accept.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Others echoed his sentiment; they spoke out, sitting and standing, and
      addressed themselves to no one, till Putney moved an adjournment, which
      Colonel Marvin sufficiently recollected himself to put to a vote, and
      declare carried.
    </p>
    <p>
      Annie walked home with the Putneys and Dr. Morrell. She was aware of
      something unwholesome in the excitement which ran so wholly in Mr. Peck's
      favour, but abandoned herself to it with feverish helplessness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah-h-h!&rdquo; cried Putney, when they were free of the crowd which pressed
      upon him with questions and conjectures and comments. &ldquo;What a slump!&mdash;what
      a slump! That blessed, short-legged little seraph has spoilt the best
      sport that ever was. Why, he's sent that fool of a Gerrish home with the
      conviction that he was right in the part of his attack that was the most
      vilely hypocritical, and he's given that heartless scoundrel the pleasure
      of feeling like an honest man. I should like to rap Mr. Peck's head up
      against the back of his pulpit, and I should like to knock the skulls of
      Colonel Marvin and Mr. Wilmington together and see which was the thickest.
      Why, I had Gerrish fairly by the throat at last, and I was just reaching
      for the balm of Gilead with my other hand to give him a dose that would
      have done him for one while! Ah, it's too bad, too bad! Well! well! But&mdash;haw!
      haw! haw!&mdash;didn't Gerrish tangle himself up beautifully in his
      rhetoric? I guess we shall fix Brother Gerrish yet, and I don't think we
      shall let Brother Peck off without a tussle. I'm going to try print on
      Brother Gerrish. I'm going to ask him in the Hatboro' <i>Register</i>&mdash;he
      doesn't advertise, and the editor's as independent as a lion where a man
      don't advertise&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed he's not going to do anything of the kind, Annie,&rdquo; said Mrs.
      Putney. &ldquo;I shall not let him. I shall make him drop the whole affair now,
      and let it die out, and let us be at peace again, as Mr. Peck says.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There seemed to be a good deal of sense in that part of it,&rdquo; said Dr.
      Morrell. &ldquo;I don't know but he was right to propose himself as a
      peace-offering; perhaps there's no other way out.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said Mrs. Putney, &ldquo;whether he goes or stays, I think we owe him
      that much. Don't you, Annie?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh yes!&rdquo; sighed Annie, from the exaltation to which the events of the
      evening had borne her. &ldquo;And we mustn't let him go. It would be a loss that
      every one would feel; that&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm tired of this fighting,&rdquo; Mrs. Putney broke in, &ldquo;and I think it's
      ruining Ralph every way. He hasn't slept the last two nights, and he's
      been all in a quiver for the last fortnight. For my part I don't care what
      happens now, I'm not going to have Ralph mixed up in it any more. I think
      we ought all to forgive and forget. I'm willing to overlook everything,
      and I believe others are the same.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You'd better ask Mrs. Gerrish the next time she calls,&rdquo; Putney
      interposed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Putney stopped, and took her hand from her husband's arm. &ldquo;Well,
      after what Mr. Gerrish said to-night about you, I <i>don't</i> think
      Emmeline had better call <i>very</i> soon!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ha, ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha!&rdquo; shrieked Putney, and his laugh flapped back at
      them in derisive echo from the house-front they were passing. &ldquo;I guess
      Brother Peck had better stay and help fight it out. It won't be <i>all</i>
      brotherly love after he goes&mdash;or sisterly either.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      XXVI.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Annie knew from the light in the kitchen window that Mrs. Bolton, who had
      not gone to the meeting, was there, and she inferred from the silence of
      the house that Bolton had not yet come home. She went up to her room, and
      after a glance at Idella asleep in her crib, she began to lay off her
      things. Then she sat down provisionally by the open window, and looked out
      into the still autumnal night. The air was soft and humid, with a scent of
      smoke in it from remote forest fires. The village lights showed themselves
      dimmed by the haze that thickened the moonless dark.
    </p>
    <p>
      She heard steps on the gravel of the lane, and then two men talking, one
      of whom she knew to be Bolton. In a little while the back entry door was
      opened and shut, and after a brief murmur of voices in the library Mrs.
      Bolton knocked on the door-jamb of the room where Annie sat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it, Mrs. Bolton?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You in bed yet?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; I'm here by the window. What is it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I don't know but what you'll think it's pretty late for callers,
      but Mr. Peck is down in the library. I guess he wants to speak with you
      about Idella. I told him he better see <i>you</i>.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will come right down.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She followed Mrs. Bolton to the foot of the stairs, where she kept on to
      the kitchen, while Annie turned into the library. Mr. Peck stood beside
      her father's desk, resting one hand on it and holding his hat in the
      other.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Won't you be seated, Mr. Peck?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thank you. It's only for a moment. I am going away to-morrow, and I
      wish to speak with you about Idella.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, certainly. But surely you are not going to leave Hatboro', Mr. Peck!
      I hoped&mdash;we all did&mdash;that after what you had seen of the strong
      feeling in your favour to-night you would reconsider your determination
      and stay with us!&rdquo; She went on impetuously. &ldquo;You must know&mdash;you must
      understand now&mdash;how much good you can do here&mdash;more than any one
      else&mdash;more than you could do anywhere else. I don't believe that you
      realise how much depends upon your staying here. You can't stop the
      dissensions by going away; it will only make them worse. You saw how
      Colonel Marvin and Mr. Wilmington were with you; and Mr. Gates&mdash;all
      classes. I oughtn't to speak&mdash;to attempt to teach you your duty; I'm
      not of your church; and I can only tell you how it seems to me: that you
      never can find another place where your principles&mdash;your views&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He waited for her to go on; but she really had nothing more to say, and he
      began: &ldquo;I am not hoping for another charge elsewhere, at least not for the
      present; but I am satisfied that my usefulness here is at an end, and I do
      not think that my going away will make matters worse. Whether I go or
      stay, the dissensions will continue. At any rate, I believe that there are
      those who need help more, and whom I can help more, in another field&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she broke in, with a woman's relevancy to the immediate point,
      &ldquo;there is nothing to do here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He went on as if she had not spoken: &ldquo;I am going to Fall River to-morrow,
      where I have heard that there is work for me&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the mills!&rdquo; she exclaimed, recurring in thought to what he had once
      said of his work in them. &ldquo;Surely you don't mean that!&rdquo; The sight, the
      smell, the tumult of the work she had seen that day in the mill with Lyra
      came upon her with all their offence. &ldquo;To throw away all that you have
      learnt, all that you have become to others!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am less and less confident that I have become anything useful to others
      in turning aside from the life of toil and presuming to attempt the
      guidance of those who remained in it. But I don't mean work in the mills,&rdquo;
       he continued, &ldquo;or not at first, or not unless it seems necessary to my
      work with those who work in them. I have a plan&mdash;or if it hardly
      deserves that name, a design&mdash;of being useful to them in such ways as
      my own experience of their life in the past shall show me in the light of
      what I shall see among them now. I needn't trouble you with it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh yes!&rdquo; she interposed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not expect to preach at once, but only to teach in one of the public
      schools, where I have heard of a vacancy, and&mdash;and&mdash;perhaps
      otherwise. With those whose lives are made up of hard work there must be
      room for willing and peaceful service. And if it should be necessary that
      I should work in the mills in order to render this, then I will do so; but
      at present I have another way in view&mdash;a social way that shall bring
      me into immediate relations with the people.&rdquo; She still tried to argue
      with him, to prove him wrong in going away, but they both ended where they
      began. He would not or could not explain himself further. At last he said:
      &ldquo;But I did not come to urge this matter. I have no wish to impose my will,
      my theory, upon any one, even my own child.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh yes&mdash;Idella!&rdquo; Annie broke in anxiously. &ldquo;You will leave her with
      me, Mr. Peck, won't you? You don't know how much I'm attached to her. I
      see her faults, and I shall not spoil her. Leave her with me at least till
      you see your way clear to having her with you, and then I will send her to
      you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A trouble showed itself in his face, ordinarily so impassive, and he
      seemed at a loss how to answer her; but he said: &ldquo;I&mdash;appreciate your
      kindness to her, but I shall not ask you to be at the inconvenience longer
      than till to-morrow. I have arranged with another to take her until I am
      settled, and then bring her to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Annie sat intensely searching his face, with her lips parted to speak. &ldquo;<i>Another!</i>&rdquo;
       she said, and the wounded feeling, the resentment of his insensibility to
      her good-will, that mingled in her heart, must have made itself felt in
      her voice, for he went on reluctantly&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is a family in which she will be brought up to work and to be helpful
      to herself. They will join me with her. You know the mother&mdash;she has
      lost her own child&mdash;Mrs. Savor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At the name, Annie's spirit fell; the tears started from her eyes. &ldquo;Yes,
      she must have her. It is just&mdash;it is the only expiation. Don't you
      remember that it was I who sent Mrs. Savor's baby to the sea-shore, where
      it died?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; I had forgotten,&rdquo; said the minister, aghast. &ldquo;I am sorry&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It doesn't matter,&rdquo; said Annie lifelessly; &ldquo;it had to be.&rdquo; After a pause,
      she asked quietly, &ldquo;If Mrs. Savor is going to work in the mills, how can
      she make a home for the child?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She is not going into the mills,&rdquo; he answered. &ldquo;She will keep house for
      us all, and we hope to have others who are without homes of their own join
      us in paying the expenses and doing the work, so that all may share its
      comfort without gain to any one upon their necessity of food and shelter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She did not heed his explanation, but suddenly entreated: &ldquo;Let me go with
      you. I will not be a trouble to you, and I will help as well as I can. I
      can't give the child up! Why&mdash;why&rdquo;&mdash;the thought, crazy as it
      would have once seemed, was now such a happy solution of the trouble that
      she smiled hopefully&mdash;&ldquo;why shouldn't I go with Mr. and Mrs. Savor,
      and help to make a home for Idella there? You will need money to begin
      your work; I will give you mine. I will give it up&mdash;I will give it
      all up. I will give it to any good object that you approve; or you may
      have it, to do what you think best with; and I will go with Idella and I
      will work in the mills there&mdash;or anything.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He shook his head, and for the first time in their acquaintance he seemed
      to feel compassion for her. &ldquo;It isn't possible. I couldn't take your
      money; I shouldn't know what to do with it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know what to do with your own,&rdquo; she broke in. &ldquo;You do good with
      that!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm afraid I do harm with it too,&rdquo; he returned. &ldquo;It's only a little, but
      little as it has been, I can no longer meet the responsibility it brings.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But if you took my money,&rdquo; she urged, &ldquo;you could devote your life to
      preaching the truth, to writing and publishing books, and all that; and so
      could others: don't you see?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He shook his head. &ldquo;Perhaps others; but I have done with preaching for the
      present. Later I may have something to say. Now I feel sure of nothing,
      not even of what I've been saying here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you send for Idella? When she goes with the Savors I will come too!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He looked at her sorrowfully. &ldquo;I think you are a good woman, and you mean
      what you say. But I am sorry you say it, if any words of mine have caused
      you to say it, for I know you cannot do it. Even for me it is hard to go
      back to those associations, and for you they would be impossible.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will see,&rdquo; she returned, with exaltation. &ldquo;I will take Idella to the
      Savors' to-morrow&mdash;or no; I'll have them come here!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He stood looking at her in perplexity. At last he asked, &ldquo;Could I see the
      child?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly!&rdquo; said Annie, with the lofty passion that possessed her, and
      she led him up into the chamber where Idella lay sleeping in Annie's own
      crib.
    </p>
    <p>
      He stood beside it, gazing long at the little one, from whose eyes he
      shaded the lamp. Then he said, &ldquo;I thank you,&rdquo; and turned away.
    </p>
    <p>
      She followed him down-stairs, and at the door she said: &ldquo;You think I will
      not come; but I will come. Don't you believe that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He turned sadly from her. &ldquo;You might come, but you couldn't stay. You
      don't know what it is; you can't imagine it, and you couldn't bear it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will come, and I will stay,&rdquo; she answered; and when he was gone she
      fell into one of those intense reveries of hers&mdash;a rapture in which
      she prefigured what should happen in that new life before her. At its end
      Mr. Peck stood beside her grave, reading the lesson of her work to the
      multitude of grateful and loving poor who thronged to pay the last tribute
      to her memory. Putney was there with his wife, and Lyra regretful of her
      lightness, and Mrs. Munger repentant of her mendacities. They talked
      together in awe-stricken murmurs of the noble career just ended. She heard
      their voices, and then she began to ask herself what they would really say
      of her proposing to go to Fall River with the Savors and be a mill-hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      XXVII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Annie did not sleep. After lying a long time awake she took some of the
      tonic that Dr. Morrell had left her, upon the chance that it might quiet
      her; but it did no good. She dressed herself, and sat by the window till
      morning.
    </p>
    <p>
      The breaking day showed her purposes grotesque and monstrous. The
      revulsion that must come, came with a tide that swept before it all
      prepossessions, all affections. It seemed as if the child, still asleep in
      her crib, had heard what she said, and would help to hold her to her word.
    </p>
    <p>
      She choked down a crust of bread with the coffee she drank at breakfast,
      and instead of romping with Idella at her bath, she dressed the little one
      silently, and sent her out to Mrs. Bolton. Then she sat down again in the
      sort of daze in which she had spent the night, and as the day passed, her
      revolt from what she had pledged herself to do mounted and mounted. It was
      like the sort of woman she was, not to think of any withdrawal from her
      pledges; they were all the more sacred with her because they had been
      purely voluntary, insistent; the fact that they had been refused made them
      the more obligatory.
    </p>
    <p>
      She thought some one would come to break in upon the heavy monotony of the
      time; she expected Ralph or Ellen, or at least Lyra; but she only saw Mrs.
      Bolton, and heard her about her work. Sometimes the child stole back from
      the kitchen or the barn, and peeped in upon her with a roguish expectance
      which her gloomy stare defeated, and then it ran off again.
    </p>
    <p>
      She lay down in the afternoon and tried to sleep; but her brain was
      inexorably alert, and she lay making inventory of all the pleasant things
      she was to leave for that ugly fate she had insisted on. A swarm of
      fancies gave every detail of the parting dramatic intensity. Amidst the
      poignancy of her regrets, her shame for her recreancy was sharper still.
    </p>
    <p>
      By night she could bear it no longer. It was Dr. Morrell's custom to come
      nearly every night; but she was afraid, because he had walked home with
      her from the meeting the night before, he might not come now, and she sent
      for him. It was in quality of medicine-man, as well as physician, that she
      wished to see him; she meant to tell him all that had passed with Mr.
      Peck; and this was perfectly easy in the interview she forecast; but at
      the sound of his buggy wheels in the lane a thought came that seemed to
      forbid her even to speak of Mr. Peck to him. For the first time it
      occurred to her that the minister might have inferred a meaning from her
      eagerness and persistence infinitely more preposterous than even the
      preposterous letter of her words. A number of little proofs of the
      conjecture flashed upon her: his anxiety to get away from her, his refusal
      to let her believe in her own constancy of purpose, his moments of
      bewilderment and dismay. It needed nothing but this to add the touch of
      intolerable absurdity to the horror of the whole affair, and to snatch the
      last hope of help from her.
    </p>
    <p>
      She let Mrs. Bolton go to the door, and she did not rise to meet the
      doctor; she saw from his smile that he knew he had a moral rather than a
      physical trouble to deal with, but she did not relax the severity of her
      glare in sympathy, as she was tempted from some infinite remoteness to do.
    </p>
    <p>
      When he said, &ldquo;You're not well,&rdquo; she whispered solemnly back, &ldquo;Not at
      all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He did not pursue his inquiry into her condition, but said, with an
      irrelevant cheerfulness that piqued her, &ldquo;I was coming here this evening
      at any rate, and I got your message on the way up from my office.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are very kind,&rdquo; she said, a little more audibly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wanted to tell you,&rdquo; he went on, &ldquo;of what a time Putney and I have had
      to-day working up public sentiment for Mr. Peck, so as to keep him here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Annie did not change her position, but the expression of her glance
      changed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We've been round in the enemy's camp, everywhere; and I've committed
      Gerrish himself to an armed neutrality. That wasn't difficult. The
      difficulty was in another quarter&mdash;with Mr. Peck himself. He's more
      opposed than any one else to his stay in Hatboro'. You know he intended
      going away this morning?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did he?&rdquo; Annie asked dishonestly. The question obliged her to say
      something.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. He came to Putney before breakfast to thank him and take leave of
      him, and to tell him of the plan he had for&mdash;Imagine what!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know,&rdquo; said Annie, hoarsely, after an effort, as if the untruth
      would not come easily. &ldquo;I am worse than Mrs. Munger,&rdquo; she thought.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For going to Fall River to teach school among the mill-hands' children!
      And to open a night-school for the hands themselves.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The doctor waited for her sensation, and in its absence he looked so
      disappointed that she was forced to say, &ldquo;To teach school?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then he went on briskly again. &ldquo;Yes. Putney laboured with him on his
      knees, so to speak, and got him to postpone his going till to-morrow
      morning; and then he came to me for help. We enlisted Mrs. Wilmington in
      the cause, and we've spent the day working up the Peck sentiment to a
      fever-heat. It's been a very queer campaign; three Gentiles toiling for a
      saint against the elect, and bringing them all over at last. We've got a
      paper, signed by a large majority of the members of the church&mdash;the
      church, not the society&mdash;asking Mr. Peck to remain; and Putney's gone
      to him with the paper, and he's coming round here to report Mr. Peck's
      decision. We all agreed that it wouldn't do to say anything about his plan
      for the future, and I fancy some of his people signed our petition under
      the impression that they were keeping a valuable man out of another
      pulpit.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Annie accompanied the doctor's words, which she took in to the last
      syllable, with a symphony of conjecture as to how the change in Mr. Peck's
      plans, if they prevailed with him, would affect her, and the doctor had
      not ceased to speak before she perceived that it would be deliverance
      perfect and complete, however inglorious. But the tacit drama so vividly
      preoccupied her with its minor questions of how to descend to this escape
      with dignity that still she did not speak, and he took up the word again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I confess I've had my misgivings about Mr. Peck, and about his final
      usefulness in a community like this. In spite of all that Putney can say
      of his hard-headedness, I'm afraid that he's a good deal of a dreamer. But
      I gave way to Putney, and I hope you'll appreciate what I've done for your
      favourite.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are very good,&rdquo; she said, in mechanical acknowledgment: her mind was
      set so strenuously to break from her dishonest reticence that she did not
      know really what she was saying. &ldquo;Why&mdash;why do you call him a
      dreamer?&rdquo; She cast about in that direction at random.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why? Well, for one thing, the reason he gave Putney for giving up his
      luxuries here: that as long as there was hardship and overwork for
      underpay in the world, he must share them. It seems to me that I might as
      well say that as long as there were dyspepsia and rheumatism in the world,
      I must share them. Then he has a queer notion that he can go back and find
      instruction in the working-men&mdash;that they alone have the light and
      the truth, and know the meaning of life. I don't say anything against
      them. My observation and my experience is that if others were as good as
      they are in the ratio of their advantages, Mr. Peck needn't go to them for
      his ideal. But their conditions warp and dull them; they see things askew,
      and they don't see them clearly. I might as well expose myself to the
      small-pox in hopes of treating my fellow-sufferers more intelligently.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She could not perceive where his analogies rang false; they only
      overwhelmed her with a deeper sense of her own folly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I don't know,&rdquo; he went on, &ldquo;that a dreamer is such a desperate
      character, if you can only keep him from trying to realise his dreams; and
      if Mr. Peck consents to stay in Hatboro', perhaps we can manage it.&rdquo; He
      drew his chair a little toward the lounge where she reclined, and asked,
      with the kindliness that was both personal and professional, &ldquo;What seems
      to be the matter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She started up. &ldquo;There is nothing&mdash;nothing that medicine can help.
      Why do you call him my favourite?&rdquo; she demanded violently. &ldquo;But you have
      wasted your time. If he had made up his mind to what you say, he would
      never give it up&mdash;never in the world!&rdquo; she added hysterically. &ldquo;If
      you've interfered between any one and his duty in this world, where it
      seems as if hardly any one had any duty, you've done a very unwarrantable
      thing.&rdquo; She was aware from his stare that her words were incoherent, if
      not from the words themselves, but she hurried on: &ldquo;I am going with him.
      He was here last night, and I told him I would. I will go with the Savors,
      and we will keep the child together; and if they will take me, I shall go
      to work in the mills; and I shall not care what people think, if it's
      right&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She stopped and weakly dropped back on the lounge, and hid her face in the
      pillow.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I really don't understand.&rdquo; The doctor began, with a physician's
      carefulness, to unwind the coil she had flung down to him. &ldquo;Are the Savors
      going, and the child?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He will give her the child for the one they lost&mdash;you know how! And
      they will take it with them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you&mdash;what have you&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must have the child too! I can't give it up, and I shall go with them.
      There's no other way. You don't know. I've given him my word, and there is
      no hope!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He asked you,&rdquo; said the doctor, to make sure he had heard aright&mdash;&ldquo;he
      asked you&mdash;advised you&mdash;to go to work in a cotton-mill?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No;&rdquo; she lifted her face to confront him. &ldquo;He told me <i>not</i> to go;
      but I said I would.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They sat staring at each other in a silence which neither of them broke,
      and which promised to last indefinitely. They were still in their daze
      when Putney's voice came through the open hall door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hello! hello! hello! Hello, Central! <i>Can't</i> I make you hear, any
      one?&rdquo; His steps advanced into the hall, and he put his head in at the
      library doorway. &ldquo;Thought you'd be here,&rdquo; he said, nodding at the doctor.
      &ldquo;Well, doctor, Brother Peck's beaten us again. He's going.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Going?&rdquo; the doctor echoed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. It's no use. I put the whole case before him, and I argued it with a
      force of logic that would have fetched the twelfth man with eleven
      stubborn fellows against him on a jury; but it didn't fetch Brother Peck.
      He was very appreciative and grateful, but he believes he's got a call to
      give up the ministry, for the present at least. Well, there's some
      consolation in supposing he may know best, after all. It seemed to us that
      he had a great opportunity in Hatboro', but if he turns his back on it,
      perhaps it's a sign he wasn't equal to it. The doctor told you what we've
      been up to, Annie?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she answered faintly, from the depths of the labyrinth in which she
      was plunged again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm sorry for your news about him,&rdquo; said the doctor. &ldquo;I hoped he was
      going to stay. It's always a pity when such a man lets his sympathies use
      him instead of using them. But we must always judge that kind of crank
      leniently, if he doesn't involve other people in his erase.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She knew that he was shielding and trying to spare her, and she felt
      inexpressibly degraded by the terms of his forbearance. She could not
      accept, and she had not the strength to refuse it; and Putney said: &ldquo;I've
      not seen anything to make me doubt his sanity; but I must say the present
      racket shakes my faith in his common-sense, and I rather held by that, you
      know. But I suppose no man, except the kind of a man that a woman would be
      if she were a man&mdash;excuse me, Annie&mdash;is ever absolutely right. I
      suppose the truth is a constitutional thing, and you can't separate it
      from the personal consciousness, and so you get it coloured and heated by
      personality when you get it fresh. That is, we can see what the absolute
      truth was, but never what it is.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Putney amused himself in speculating on these lines with more or less
      reference to Mr. Peck, and did not notice that the doctor and Annie gave
      him only a silent assent. &ldquo;As to misleading any one else, Mr. Peck's
      following in his new religion seems to be confined to the Savors, as I
      understand. They are going with him to help him set up a sort of
      cooperative boarding-house. Well, I don't know where we shall get a hotter
      gospeller than Brother Peck. Poor old fellow! I hope he'll get along
      better in Fall River. It is something to be out of reach of Gerrish.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The doctor asked, &ldquo;When is he going?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, he's gone by this time, I suppose,&rdquo; said Putney. &ldquo;I tried to get him
      to think about it overnight, but he wouldn't. He's anxious to go and get
      back, so as to preach his last sermon here Sunday, and he's taken the
      9.10, if he hasn't changed his mind.&rdquo; Putney looked at his watch.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let's hope he hasn't,&rdquo; said Dr. Morrell.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Which?&rdquo; asked Putney.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Changed his mind. I'm sorry he's coming back.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Annie knew that he was talking at her, though he spoke to Putney; but she
      was powerless to protest.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      XXVIII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      They went away together, leaving her to her despair, which had passed into
      a sort of torpor by the following night, when Dr. Morrell came again, out
      of what she knew must be mere humanity; he could not respect her any
      longer. He told her, as if for her comfort, that Putney had gone to the
      depot to meet Mr. Peck, who was expected back in the eight-o'clock train,
      and was to labour with him all night long if necessary to get him to
      change, or at least postpone, his purpose. The feeling in his favour was
      growing. Putney hoped to put it so strongly to him as a proof of duty that
      he could not resist it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Annie listened comfortlessly. Whatever happened, nothing could take away
      the shame of her weakness now. She even wished, feebly, vaguely, that she
      might be forced to keep her word.
    </p>
    <p>
      A sound of running on the gravel-walk outside and a sharp pull at the
      door-bell seemed to jerk them both to their feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      Some one stepped into the hall panting, and the face of William Savor
      showed itself at the door of the room where they stood. &ldquo;Doc&mdash;Doctor
      Morrell, come&mdash;come quick! There's been an accident&mdash;at&mdash;the
      depot. Mr.&mdash;Peck&mdash;&rdquo; He panted out the story, and Annie saw
      rather than heard how the minister tried to cross the track from his
      train, where it had halted short of the station, and the flying express
      from the other quarter caught him from his feet, and dropped the bleeding
      fragment that still held his life beside the rail a hundred yards away,
      and then kept on in brute ignorance into the night.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where is he? Where have you got him?&rdquo; the doctor demanded of Savor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At my house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The doctor ran out of the house, and she heard his buggy whirl away,
      followed by the fainter sound of Savor's feet as he followed running,
      after he had stopped to repeat his story to the Boltons. Annie turned to
      the farmer. &ldquo;Mr. Bolton, get the carry-all. I must go.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And me too,&rdquo; said his wife.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, no, Pauliny; I guess you better stay. I guess it'll come out all
      right in the end,&rdquo; Bolton began. &ldquo;<i>I</i> guess William has exaggerated
      some may be. Anyrate, who's goin' to look after the little girl if you
      come?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>I</i> am,&rdquo; Mrs. Bolton snapped back. &ldquo;She's goin' with me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course she is. Be quick, Mr. Bolton!&rdquo; Annie called from the stairs,
      which she had already mounted half-way.
    </p>
    <p>
      She caught up the child, limp with sleep, from its crib, and began to
      dress it. Idella cried, and fought away the hands that tormented her, and
      made herself now very stiff and now very lax; but Annie and Mrs. Bolton
      together prevailed against her, and she was dressed, and had fallen asleep
      again in her clothes while the women were putting on their hats and sacks,
      and Bolton was driving up to the door with the carry-all.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, I can see,&rdquo; he said, when he got out to help them in, &ldquo;just how
      William's got his idee about it. His wife's an excitable kind of a woman,
      and she's sent him off lickety-split after the doctor without looking to
      see what the matter was. There hain't never been anybody hurt at our
      depot, and it don't stand to reason&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oliver Bolton, <i>will</i> you hush that noise?&rdquo; shrieked his wife. &ldquo;If
      the world was burnin' up you'd say it was nothing but a chimbley on fire
      som'er's.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, well, Pauliny, have it your own way, have it your own way,&rdquo; said
      Bolton. &ldquo;I ain't sayin' but what there's <i>some</i>thin' in William's
      story; but you'll see't he's exaggerated. Git up!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, do hurry, and <i>do</i> be still!&rdquo; said his wife.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes. It's all right, Pauliny; all right. Soon's I'm out the lane,
      you'll see't I'll drive <i>fast</i> enough.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bolton kept a grim silence, against which her husband's babble of
      optimism played like heat-lightning on a night sky.
    </p>
    <p>
      Idella woke with the rush of cold air, and in the dark and strangeness
      began to cry, and wailed heart-breakingly between her fits of louder
      sobbing, and then fell asleep again before they reached the house where
      her father lay dying.
    </p>
    <p>
      They had put him in the best bed in Mrs. Savor's little guest-room, and
      when Annie entered, the minister was apologising to her for spoiling it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now don't you say one word, Mr. Peck,&rdquo; she answered him. &ldquo;It's all right.
      I ruthah see you layin' there just's you be than plenty of folks that&mdash;&rdquo;
       She stopped for want of an apt comparison, and at sight of Annie she said,
      as if he were a child whose mind was wandering: &ldquo;Well, I declare, if here
      ain't Miss Kilburn come to see you, Mr. Peck! And Mis' Bolton! Well, the
      land!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Savor came and shook hands with them, and in her character of hostess
      urged them forward from the door, where they had halted. &ldquo;Want to see Mr.
      Peck? Well, he's real comf'table now; ain't he, Dr. Morrell? We got him
      all fixed up nicely, and he ain't in a bit o' pain. It's his spine that's
      hurt, so't he don't feel nothin'; but he's just as clear in his mind as
      what you or I be. <i>Ain't</i> he, doctor?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He's not suffering,&rdquo; said Dr. Morrell, to whom Annie's eye wandered from
      Mrs. Savor, and there was something in his manner that made her think the
      minister was not badly hurt. She went forward with Mr. and Mrs. Bolton,
      and after they had both taken the limp hand that lay outside the covering,
      she touched it too. It returned no pressure, but his large, wan eyes
      looked at her with such gentle dignity and intelligence that she began to
      frame in her mind an excuse for what seemed almost an intrusion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We were afraid you were hurt badly, and we thought&mdash;we thought you
      might like to see Idella&mdash;and so&mdash;we came. She is in the next
      room.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you,&rdquo; said the minister. &ldquo;I presume that I am dying; the doctor
      tells me that I have but a few hours to live.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Savor protested, &ldquo;Oh, I guess you ain't a-goin' to die <i>this</i>
      time, Mr. Peck.&rdquo; Annie looked from Dr. Morrell to Putney, who stood with
      him on the other side of the bed, and experienced a shock from their
      gravity without yet being able to accept the fact it implied. &ldquo;There's
      plenty of folks,&rdquo; continued Mrs. Savor, &ldquo;hurt worse'n what you be that's
      alive to-day and as well as ever they was.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Bolton seized his chance. &ldquo;It's just what I said to Pauliny, comin' along.
      'You'll see,' said I, 'Mr. Peck'll be out as spry as any of us before a
      great while.' That's the way I felt about it from the start.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All you got to do is to keep up courage,&rdquo; said Mrs. Savor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's so; that's half the battle,&rdquo; said Bolton.
    </p>
    <p>
      There were numbers of people in the room and at the door of the next.
      Annie saw Colonel Marvin and Jack Wilmington. She heard afterward that he
      was going to take the same train to Boston with Mr. Peck, and had helped
      to bring him to the Savors' house. The stationmaster was there, and some
      other railroad employes.
    </p>
    <p>
      The doctor leaned across the bed and lifted slightly the arm that lay
      there, taking the wrist between his thumb and finger. &ldquo;I think we had
      better let Mr. Peck rest a while,&rdquo; he said to the company generally,
      &ldquo;We're doing him no good.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The people began to go; some of them said, &ldquo;Well, good night!&rdquo; as if they
      would meet again in the morning. They all made the pretence that it was a
      slight matter, and treated the wounded man as if he were a child. He did
      not humour the pretence, but said &ldquo;Good-bye&rdquo; in return for their &ldquo;Good
      night&rdquo; with a quiet patience.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Savor hastened after her retreating guests. &ldquo;I ain't a-goin' to let
      you go without a sup of coffee,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I want you should all stay and
      git some, and I don't believe but what a little of it would do Mr. Peck
      good.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The surface of her lugubrious nature was broken up, and whatever was
      kindly and cheerful in its depths floated to the top; she was almost gay
      in the demand which the calamity made upon her. Annie knew that she must
      have seen and helped to soothe the horror of mutilation which she could
      not even let her fancy figure, and she followed her foolish bustle and
      chatter with respectful awe.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Rebecca'll have it right off the stove in half a minute now,&rdquo; Mrs. Savor
      concluded; and from a further room came the cheerful click of cups, and
      then a wandering whiff of the coffee; life in its vulgar kindliness
      touched and made friends with death, claiming it a part of nature too.
    </p>
    <p>
      The night at Mrs. Munger's came back to Annie from the immeasurable
      remoteness into which all the past had lapsed. She looked up at Dr.
      Morrell across the bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Would you like to speak with Mr. Peck?&rdquo; he asked officially. &ldquo;Better do
      it now,&rdquo; he said, with one of his short nods.
    </p>
    <p>
      Putney came and set her a chair. She would have liked to fall on her knees
      beside the bed; but she took the chair, and drew the minister's hand into
      hers, stretching her arm above his head on the pillow. He lay like some
      poor little wounded boy, like Putney's Winthrop; the mother that is in
      every woman's heart gushed out of hers in pity upon him, mixed with filial
      reverence. She had thought that she should confess her baseness to him,
      and ask his forgiveness, and offer to fulfil with the people he had chosen
      for the guardians of his child that interrupted purpose of his. But in the
      presence of death, so august, so simple, all the concerns of life seemed
      trivial, and she found herself without words. She sobbed over the poor
      hand she held. He turned his eyes upon her and tried to speak, but his
      lips only let out a moaning, shuddering sound, inarticulate of all that
      she hoped or feared he might prophesy to shape her future.
    </p>
    <p>
      Life alone has any message for life, but from the beginning of time it has
      put its ear to the cold lips that must for ever remain dumb.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0029" id="link2H_4_0029">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      XXIX.
    </h2>
    <p>
      The evening after the funeral Annie took Idella, with the child's clothes
      and toys in a bundle, and Bolton drove them down Over the Track to the
      Savors'. She had thought it all out, and she perceived that whatever the
      minister's final intention might have been, she was bound by the purpose
      he had expressed to her, and must give up the child. For fear she might be
      acting from the false conscientiousness of which she was beginning to have
      some notion in herself, she put the case to Mrs. Bolton. She knew what she
      must do in any event, but it was a comfort to be stayed so firmly in her
      duty by Mrs. Bolton, who did not spare some doubts of Mrs. Savor's fitness
      for the charge, and reflected a subdued censure even upon the judgment of
      Mr. Peck himself, as she bustled about and helped Annie get Idella and her
      belongings ready. The child watched the preparations with suspicion. At
      the end, when she was dressed, and Annie tried to lift her into the
      carriage, she broke out in sudden rebellion; she cried, she shrieked, she
      fought; the two good women who were obeying the dead minister's behest
      were obliged to descend to the foolish lies of the nursery; they told her
      she was going on a visit to the Savors, who would take her on the cars
      with them, and then bring her back to Aunt Annie's house. Before they
      could reconcile her to this fabled prospect they had to give it
      verisimilitude by taking off her everyday clothes and putting on her best
      dress.
    </p>
    <p>
      She did not like Mrs. Savor's house when she came to it, nor Mrs. Savor,
      who stopped, all blowzed and work-deranged from trying to put it in order
      after the death in it, and gave Idella a motherly welcome. Annie fancied a
      certain surprise in her manner, and her own ideal of duty was put to proof
      by Mrs. Savor's owning that she had not expected Annie to bring Idella to
      her right away.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I had not done it at once, I never could have done it,&rdquo; Annie
      explained.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I presume it's a cross,&rdquo; said Mrs. Savor, &ldquo;and I don't feel right
      to take her. If it wa'n't for what her father&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'Sh!&rdquo; Annie said, with a significant glance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's an ugly house!&rdquo; screamed the child. &ldquo;I want to go back to my Aunt
      Annie's house. I want to go on the cars.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes,&rdquo; answered Mrs. Savor, blindly groping to share in whatever
      cheat had been practised on the child, &ldquo;just as soon as the cars starts.
      Here, William, you take her out and show her the pretty coop you be'n
      makin' the pigeons, to keep the cats out.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They got rid of her with Savor's connivance for the moment, and Annie
      hastened to escape.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We had to tell her she was going a journey, or we never could have got
      her into the carriage,&rdquo; she explained, feeling like a thief.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes. It's all right,&rdquo; said Mrs. Savor. &ldquo;I see you'd be'n putting up
      some kind of job on her the minute she mentioned the cars. Don't you fret
      any, Miss Kilburn. Rebecca and me'll get along with her, you needn't be
      afraid.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Annie could not look at the empty crib where it stood in its alcove when
      she went to bed; and she cried upon her own pillow with heart-sickness for
      the child, and with a humiliating doubt of her own part in hurrying to
      give it up without thought of Mrs. Savor's convenience. What had seemed so
      noble, so exemplary, began to wear another colour; and she drowsed, worn
      out at last by the swarming fears, shames, and despairs, which resolved
      themselves into a fantastic medley of dream images. There was a cat trying
      to get at the pigeons in the coop which Mr. Savor had carried Idella to
      see. It clawed and miauled at the lattice-work of lath, and its
      caterwauling became like the cry of a child, so like that it woke Annie
      from her sleep, and still kept on. She lay shuddering a moment; it seemed
      as if the dead minister's ghost flitted from the room, while the crying
      defined and located itself more and more, till she knew it a child's wail
      at the door of her house. Then she heard, &ldquo;Aunt Annie! Aunt Annie!&rdquo; and
      soft, faint thumps as of a little fist upon the door panels.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had no experience of more than one motion from her bed to the door,
      which the same impulse flung open and let her crush to her breast the
      little tumult of sobs and moans from the threshold.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, wicked, selfish, heartless wretch!&rdquo; she stormed out over the child.
      &ldquo;But now I will never, never, never give you up! Oh, my poor little baby!
      my darling! God has sent you back to me, and I will keep you, I don't care
      what happens! What a cruel wretch I have been&mdash;oh, what a cruel
      wretch, my pretty!&mdash;to tear you from your home! But now you shall
      never leave it; no one shall take you away.&rdquo; She gripped it in a
      succession of fierce hugs, and mumbled it&mdash;face and neck, and little
      cold wet hands and feet&mdash;with her kisses; and all the time she did
      not know the child was in its night-dress like herself, or that her own
      feet were bare, and her drapery as scanty as Idella's.
    </p>
    <p>
      A sense of the fact evanescently gleamed upon her with the appearance of
      Mrs. Bolton, lamp in hand, and the instantaneous appearance and
      disappearance of her husband at the back door through which she emerged.
      The two women spent the first moments of the lamp-light in making certain
      that Idella was sound and whole in every part, and then in making
      uncertain for ever how she came to be there. Whether she had wandered out
      in her sleep, and found her way home with dream-led feet, or whether she
      had watched till the house was quiet, and then stolen away, was what she
      could not tell them, and must always remain a mystery.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't believe but what Mr. Bolton had better go and wake up the Savors.
      You got to keep her for the night, I presume, but they'd ought to know
      where she is, and you can take her over there agin, come daylight.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>Mrs</i>. Bolton!&rdquo; shouted Annie, in a voice so deep and hoarse that it
      shook the heart of a woman who had never known fear of man. &ldquo;If you say
      such a thing to me&mdash;if you ever say such a thing again&mdash;I&mdash;I&mdash;I
      will <i>hit</i> you! Send Mr. Bolton for Idella's things&mdash;right
      away!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      &ldquo;Land!&rdquo; said Mrs. Savor, when Bolton, after a long conciliatory preamble,
      explained that he did not believe Miss Kilburn felt a great deal like
      giving the child up again. &ldquo;<i>I</i> don't want it without it's satisfied
      to stay. I see last night it was just breakin' its heart for her, and I
      told William when we first missed her this mornin', and he was in such a
      pucker about her, I bet anything he was a mind to that the child had gone
      back to Miss Kilburn's. That's just the words I used; didn't I, Rebecca? I
      couldn't stand it to have no child <i>grievin'</i> around.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Beyond this sentimental reluctance, Mrs. Savor later confessed to Annie
      herself that she was really accepting the charge of Idella in the same
      spirit of self-sacrifice as that in which Annie was surrendering it, and
      that she felt, when Mr. Peck first suggested it, that the child was better
      off with Miss Kilburn; only she hated to say so. Her husband seemed to
      think it would make up to her for the one they lost, but nothing could
      really do that.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0030" id="link2H_4_0030">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      XXX.
    </h2>
    <p>
      In a reverie of rare vividness following her recovery of the minister's
      child, Annie Kilburn dramatised an escape from all the failures and
      humiliations of her life in Hatboro'. She took Idella with her and went
      back to Rome, accomplishing the whole affair so smoothly and rapidly that
      she wondered at herself for not having thought of such a simple solution
      of her difficulties before. She even began to put some little things
      together for her flight, while she explained to old friends in the
      American colony that Idella was the orphan child of a country minister,
      which she had adopted. That old lady who had found her motives in
      returning to Hatboro' insufficient questioned her sharply <i>why</i> she
      had adopted the minister's child, and did not find her answers
      satisfactory. They were such as also failed to pacify inquiry in Hatboro',
      where Annie remained, in spite of her reverie; but people accepted the
      fact, and accounted for it in their own way, and approved it, even though
      they could not quite approve her.
    </p>
    <p>
      The dramatic impressiveness of the minister's death won him undisputed
      favour, yet it failed to establish unity in his society. Supply after
      supply filled his pulpit, but the people found them all unsatisfactory
      when they remembered his preaching, and could not make up their minds to
      any one of them. They were more divided than ever, except upon the point
      of regretting Mr. Peck. But they distinguished, in honouring his memory.
      They revered his goodness and his wisdom, but they regarded his conduct of
      life as unpractical. They said there never was a more inspired teacher,
      but it was impossible to follow him, and he could not himself have kept
      the course he had marked out. They said, now that he was beyond recall, no
      one else could have built up the church in Hatboro' as he could, if he
      could only have let impracticable theories alone. Mr. Gerrish called many
      people to witness that this was what he had always said. He contended that
      it was the spirit of the gospel which you were to follow. He said that if
      Mr. Peck had gone to teaching among the mill hands, he would have been
      sick of it inside of six weeks; but he was a good Christian man, and no
      one wished less than Mr. Gerrish to reproach him for what was, after all,
      more an error of the head than the heart. His critics had it their own way
      in this, for he had not lived to offer that full exposition of his theory
      and justification of his purpose which he had been expected to give on the
      Sunday after he was killed; and his death was in no wise exegetic. It said
      no more to his people than it had said to Annie; it was a mere casualty;
      and his past life, broken and unfulfilled, with only its intimations and
      intentions of performance, alone remained.
    </p>
    <p>
      When people learned, as they could hardly help doing from Mrs. Savor's
      volubility, what his plan with regard to Idella had been, they instanced
      that in proof of the injuriousness of his idealism as applied to real
      life; and they held that she had been remanded in that strange way to Miss
      Kilburn's charge for some purpose which she must not attempt to cross. As
      the minister had been thwarted in another intent by death, it was a sign
      that he was wrong in this too, and that she could do better by the child
      than he had proposed.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was the sum of popular opinion; and it was further the opinion of
      Mrs. Gerrish, who gave more attention to the case than many others, that
      Annie had first taken the child because she hoped to get Mr. Peck, when
      she found she could not get Dr. Morrell; and that she would have been very
      glad to be rid of it if she had known how, but that she would have to keep
      it now for shame's sake.
    </p>
    <p>
      For shame's sake certainly, Annie would have done several other things,
      and chief of these would have been never to see Dr. Morrell again. She
      believed that he not only knew the folly she had confessed to him, but
      that he had divined the cowardice and meanness in which she had repented
      it, and she felt intolerably disgraced before the thought of him. She had
      imagined mainly because of him that escape to Rome which never has yet
      been effected, though it might have been attempted if Idella had not
      wakened ill from the sleep she sobbed herself into when she found herself
      safe in Annie's crib again.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had taken a heavy cold, and she moped lifelessly about during the day,
      and drowsed early again in the troubled cough-broken slumber.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That child ought to have the doctor,&rdquo; said Mrs. Bolton, with the grim
      impartiality in which she masked her interference.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said Annie helplessly.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the end of the lung fever which followed, &ldquo;It was a narrow chance,&rdquo;
       said the doctor one morning; &ldquo;but now I needn't come any more unless you
      send for me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Annie stood at the door, where he spoke with his hand on the dash-board of
      his buggy before getting into it.
    </p>
    <p>
      She answered with one of those impulses that come from something deeper
      than intention. &ldquo;I will send for you, then&mdash;to tell you how generous
      you are,&rdquo; and in the look with which she spoke she uttered the full
      meaning that her words withheld.
    </p>
    <p>
      He flushed for pleasure of conscious desert, but he had to laugh and turn
      it off lightly. &ldquo;I don't think I could come for that. But I'll look in to
      see Idella unprofessionally.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He drove away, and she remained at her door looking up at the summer blue
      sky that held a few soft white clouds, such as might have overhung the
      same place at the same hour thousands of years before, and such as would
      lazily drift over it in a thousand years to come. The morning had an
      immeasurable vastness, through which some crows flying across the pasture
      above the house sent their voices on the spacious stillness. A perception
      of the unity of all things under the sun flashed and faded upon her, as
      such glimpses do. Of her high intentions, nothing had resulted. An
      inexorable centrifugality had thrown her off at every point where she
      tried to cling. Nothing of what was established and regulated had desired
      her intervention; a few accidents and irregularities had alone accepted
      it. But now she felt that nothing withal had been lost; a magnitude, a
      serenity, a tolerance, intimated itself in the universal frame of things,
      where her failure, her recreancy, her folly, seemed for the moment to come
      into true perspective, and to show venial and unimportant, to be limited
      to itself, and to be even good in its effect of humbling her to patience
      with all imperfection and shortcoming, even her own. She was aware of the
      cessation of a struggle that has never since renewed itself with the old
      intensity; her wishes, her propensities, ceased in that degree to
      represent evil in conflict with the portion of good in her; they seemed so
      mixed and interwoven with the good that they could no longer be
      antagonised; for the moment they seemed in their way even wiser and
      better, and ever after to be the nature out of which good as well as evil
      might come.
    </p>
    <p>
      As she remained standing there, Mr. Brandreth came round the corner of the
      house, looking very bright and happy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss Kilburn,&rdquo; he said abruptly, &ldquo;I want you to congratulate me. I'm
      engaged to Miss Chapley.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you indeed, Mr. Brandreth? I do congratulate you with all my heart.
      She is a lovely girl.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, it's all right now,&rdquo; said Mr. Brandreth. &ldquo;I've come to tell you the
      first one, because you seemed to take an interest in it when I told you of
      the trouble about the Juliet. We hadn't come to any understanding before
      that, but that seemed to bring us both to the point, and&mdash;and we're
      engaged. Mother and I are going to New York for the winter; we think she
      can risk it; and at any rate she won't be separated from me; and we shall
      be back in our little home next May. You know that I'm to be with Mr.
      Chapley in his business?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, no! This is <i>great</i> news, Mr. Brandreth! I don't know what to
      say.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You're very kind,&rdquo; said the young man, and for the third or fourth time
      he wrung her hand. &ldquo;It isn't a partnership, of course; but he thinks I can
      be of use to him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know you can!&rdquo; Annie adventured.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We are very busy getting ready&mdash;nearly everybody else is gone&mdash;and
      mother sent her kindest regards&mdash;you know she don't make calls&mdash;and
      I just ran up to tell you. Well, <i>good</i>-bye!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>Good</i>-bye! Give my love to your mother, and to your-to Miss
      Chapley.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will.&rdquo; He hurried off, and then came running back. &ldquo;Oh, I forgot! About
      the Social Union fund. You know we've got about two hundred dollars from
      the theatricals, but the matter seems to have stopped there, and some of
      us think there'd better be some other disposition of the money. Have you
      any suggestion to make?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, none.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then I'll tell you. It's proposed to devote the money to beautifying the
      grounds around the soldiers' monument. They ought to be fenced and planted
      with flowers&mdash;turned into a little public garden. Everybody
      appreciates the interest you took in the Union, and we hoped you'd be
      pleased with that disposition of the money.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is very kind,&rdquo; said Annie, with a meek submission that must have made
      him believe she was deeply touched.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As I'm not to be here this winter,&rdquo; he continued, &ldquo;we thought we had
      better leave the whole matter in your hands, and the money has been
      deposited in the bank subject to your order. It was Mrs. Munger's idea. I
      don't think she's ever felt just right about that evening of the
      dramatics, don't you know. <i>Good</i>-bye!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He ran off to escape her thanks for this proof of confidence in her taste
      and judgment, and he was gone beyond her protest before she emerged from
      her daze into a full sense of the absurdity of the situation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, it's a very simple matter to let the money lie in the bank,&rdquo; said
      Dr. Morrell, who came that evening to make his first unprofessional visit,
      and received with pure amusement the account of the affair, which she gave
      him with a strong infusion of vexation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The way I was involved in this odious Social Union business from the
      first, and now have it left on my hands in the end, is maddening. Why, I
      can't get rid of it!&rdquo; she replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then, perhaps,&rdquo; he comfortably suggested, &ldquo;it's a sign you're not
      intended to get rid of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What <i>do</i> you mean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why don't you go on,&rdquo; he irresponsibly adventured further, &ldquo;and establish
      a Social Union?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you <i>mean</i> it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What was that notion of his&rdquo;&mdash;they usually spoke of the minister
      pronominally&mdash;&ldquo;about getting the Savors going in a co-operative
      boarding-house at Fall River? Putney said something about it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Annie explained, as she had heard it from him, and from the Savors since
      his death, the minister's scheme for a club, in which the members should
      contribute the labour and the provisions, and should live cheaply and
      wholesomely under the management of the Savors at first, and afterward
      should continue them in charge, or not, as they chose. &ldquo;He seemed to have
      thought it out very carefully. But I supposed, of course, it was
      unpractical.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was that why you were going in for it?&rdquo; asked the doctor; and then he
      spared her confusion in adding: &ldquo;I don't see why it was unpractical. It
      seems to me a very good notion for a Social Union. Why not try it here?
      There isn't the same pressing necessity that there is in a big factory
      town; but you have the money, and you have the Savors to make a
      beginning.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His tone was still half bantering; but it had become more and more
      serious, so that she could say in earnest: &ldquo;But the money is one of the
      drawbacks. It was Mr. Peck's idea that the working people ought to do it
      all themselves.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I should say that two-thirds of that money in the bank had come
      from them. They turned out in great force to Mr. Brandreth's theatricals.
      And wouldn't it be rather high-handed to use their money for anything but
      the Union?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don't suppose,&rdquo; said Annie hotly, &ldquo;that I would spend a cent of it on
      the grounds of that idiotic monument? I would pay for having it blown up
      with dynamite! No, I can't have anything more to do with the wretched
      affair. My touch is fatal.&rdquo; The doctor laughed, and she added: &ldquo;Besides, I
      believe most heartily with Mr. Peck that no person of means and leisure
      can meet working people except in the odious character of a patron, and if
      I didn't respect them, I respect myself too much for that. If I were ready
      to go in with them and start the Social Union on his basis, by helping do
      house-work&mdash;<i>scullion</i>-work&mdash;for it, and eating and living
      with them, I might try; but I know from experience I'm not. I haven't the
      need, and to pretend that I have, to forego my comforts and luxuries in a
      make-believe that I haven't them, would be too ghastly a farce, and I
      won't.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, don't,&rdquo; said the doctor, bent more perhaps on carrying his
      point in argument than on promoting the actual establishment of the Social
      Union. &ldquo;But my idea is this: Take two-thirds or one-half of that money,
      and go to Savor, and say: 'Here! This is what Mr. Brandreth's theatricals
      swindled the shop-hands out of. It's honestly theirs, at least to control;
      and if you want to try that experiment of Mr. Peck's here in Hatboro',
      it's yours. We people of leisure, or comparative leisure, have really
      nothing in common with you people who work with your hands for a living;
      and as we really can't be friends with you, we won't patronise you. We
      won't advise you, and we won't help you; but here's the money. If you
      fail, you fail; and if you succeed, you won't succeed by our aid and
      comfort.'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The plan that Annie and Doctor Morrell talked over half in joke took a
      more and more serious character in her sense of duty to the minister's
      memory and the wish to be of use, which was not extinct in her, however
      she mocked and defied it. It was part of the irony of her fate that the
      people who were best able to counsel with her in regard to it were Lyra,
      whom she could not approve, and Jack Wilmington, whom she had always
      disliked. He was able to contribute some facts about the working of the
      Thayer Club at the Harvard Memorial Hall in Cambridge, and Lyra because
      she had been herself a hand, and would not forget it, was of use in
      bringing the scheme into favour with the hands. They felt easy with her,
      as they did with Putney, and for much the same reason: it is one of the
      pleasing facts of our conditions that people who are socially inferior
      like best those above them who are morally anomalous. It was really
      through Lyra that Annie got at the working people, and when it came to a
      formal conference, there was no one who could command their confidence
      like Putney, whom they saw mad-drunk two or three times a year, but always
      pulling up and fighting back to sanity against the enemy whose power some
      of them had felt too.
    </p>
    <p>
      No theory is so perfect as not to be subject to exceptions in the
      experiment, and in spite of her conviction of the truth of Mr. Peck's
      social philosophy, Annie is aware, through her simple and frank relations
      with the hands in a business matter, of mutual kindness which it does not
      account for. But perhaps the philosophy and the experiment were not
      contradictory; perhaps it was intended to cover only the cases in which
      they had no common interest. At anyrate, when the Peck Social Union, as
      its members voted to call it, at the suggestion of one of their own
      number, got in working order, she was as cordially welcomed to the charge
      of its funds and accounts as if she had been a hat-shop hand or a
      shoe-binder. She is really of use, for its working is by no means ideal,
      and with her wider knowledge she has suggested improvements and expedients
      for making both ends meet which were sometimes so reluctant to meet. She
      has kept a conscience against subsidising the Union from her own means;
      and she even accepts for her services a small salary, which its members
      think they ought to pay her. She owns this ridiculous, like all the
      make-believe work of rich people; a travesty which has no reality except
      the little sum it added to the greater sum of her superabundance. She is
      aware that she is a pensioner upon the real members of the Social Union
      for a chance to be useful, and that the work they let her do is the right
      of some one who needs it. She has thought of doing the work and giving the
      pay to another; but she sees that this would be pauperising and degrading
      another. So she dwells in a vicious circle, and waits, and mostly forgets,
      and is mostly happy.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Social Union itself, though not a brilliant success in all points, is
      still not a failure; and the promise of its future is in the fact that it
      continues to have a present. The people of Hatboro' are rather proud of
      it, and strangers visit it as one of the possible solutions of one of the
      social problems. It is predicted that it cannot go on; that it must either
      do better or do worse; but it goes on the same.
    </p>
    <p>
      Putney studies its existence in the light of his own infirmity, to which
      he still yields from time to time, as he has always done. He professes to
      find there a law which would account for a great many facts of human
      experience otherwise inexplicable. He does not attempt to define this
      occult preservative principle, but he offers himself and the Social Union
      as proofs of its existence; and he argues that if they can only last long
      enough they will finally be established in a virtue and prosperity as
      great as those of Mr. Gerrish and his store.
    </p>
    <p>
      Annie sometimes feels that nothing else can explain the maintenance of
      Lyra Wilmington's peculiar domestic relations at the point which
      perpetually invites comment and never justifies scandal. The situation
      seems to her as lamentable as ever. She grieves over Lyra, and likes her,
      and laughs with her; she no longer detests Jack Wilmington so much since
      he showed himself so willing and helpful about the Social Union; she
      thinks there must be a great deal of good in him, and sometimes she is
      sorry for him, and longs to speak again to Lyra about the wrong she is
      doing him. One of the dangers of having a very definite point of view is
      the temptation of abusing it to read the whole riddle of the painful
      earth. Annie has permitted herself to think of Lyra's position as one
      which would be impossible in a state of things where there was neither
      poverty nor riches, and there was neither luxury on one hand to allure,
      nor the fear of want to constrain on the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      When her recoil from the fulfilment of her volunteer pledge to Mr. Peck
      brought her face to face with her own weakness, there were two ways back
      to self-respect, either of which she might take. She might revert to her
      first opinion of him, and fortify herself in that contempt and rejection
      of his ideas, or she might abandon herself to them, with a vague intention
      of reparation to him, and accept them to the last insinuation of their
      logic. This was what she did, and while her life remained the same
      outwardly, it was inwardly all changed. She never could tell by what steps
      she reached her agreement with the minister's philosophy; perhaps, as a
      woman, it was not possible she should; but she had a faith concerning it
      to which she bore unswerving allegiance, and it was Putney's delight to
      witness its revolutionary effect on an old Hatboro' Kilburn, the daughter
      of a shrewd lawyer and canny politician like her father, and the heir of
      an aristocratic tradition, a gentlewoman born and bred. He declared
      himself a reactionary in comparison with her, and had the habit of taking
      the conservative side against her. She was in the joke of this; but it was
      a real trouble to her for a time that Dr. Morrell, after admitting the
      force of her reasons, should be content to rest in a comfortable
      inconclusion as to his conduct, till one day she reflected that this was
      what she was herself doing, and that she differed from him only in the
      openness with which she proclaimed her opinions. Being a woman, her
      opinions were treated by the magnates of Hatboro' as a good joke, the
      harmless fantasies of an old maid, which she would get rid of if she could
      get anybody to marry her; being a lady, and very well off, they were
      received with deference, and she was left to their uninterrupted
      enjoyment. Putney amused himself by saying that she was the fiercest
      apostle of labour that never did a stroke of work; but no one cared half
      so much for all that as for the question whether her affair with Dr.
      Morrell was a friendship or a courtship. They saw an activity of attention
      on his part which would justify the most devout belief in the latter, and
      yet they were confronted with the fact that it so long remained eventless.
      The two theories, one that she was amusing herself with him, and the other
      that he was just playing with her, divided public opinion, but they did
      not molest either of the parties to the mystery; and the village, after a
      season of acute conjecture, quiesced into that sarcastic sufferance of the
      anomaly into which it may have been noticed that small communities are apt
      to subside from such occasions. Except for some such irreconcilable as
      Mrs. Gerrish, it was a good joke that if you could not find Dr. Morrell in
      his office after tea, you could always find him at Miss Kilburn's. Perhaps
      it might have helped solve the mystery if it had been known that she could
      not accept the situation, whatever it really was, without satisfying
      herself upon two points, which resolved themselves into one in the process
      of the inquiry.
    </p>
    <p>
      She asked, apparently as preliminary to answering a question of his, &ldquo;Have
      you heard that gossip about my&mdash;being in&mdash;caring for the poor
      man?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And did you&mdash;what did you think?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That it wasn't true. I knew if there were anything in it, you couldn't
      have talked him over with me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She was silent. Then she said, in a low voice: &ldquo;No, there couldn't have
      been. But not for that reason alone, though it's very delicate and
      generous of you to think of it, very large-minded; but because it <i>couldn't</i>
      have been. I could have worshipped him, but I couldn't have loved him&mdash;any
      more,&rdquo; she added, with an implication that entirely satisfied him, &ldquo;than I
      could have worshipped <i>you</i>.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <h3>
      THE END.
    </h3>
    <div style="height: 6em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>







<pre>





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Annie Kilburn, by William Dean Howells

*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANNIE KILBURN ***

***** This file should be named 7502-h.htm or 7502-h.zip *****
This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:
        http://www.gutenberg.org/7/5/0/7502/

Produced by Eric Eldred, William Flis, Charles Franks, David Widger,
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team


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.  Special rules,
set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to
copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to
protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark.  Project
Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you
charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission.  If you
do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the
rules is very easy.  You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose
such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and
research.  They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do
practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks.  Redistribution is
subject to the trademark license, especially commercial
redistribution.



*** START: FULL LICENSE ***

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase &ldquo;Project
Gutenberg&rdquo;), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project
Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at
  www.gutenberg.org/license.


Section 1.  General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic works

1.A.  By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement.  If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy
all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession.
If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the
terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or
entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B.  &ldquo;Project Gutenberg&rdquo; is a registered trademark.  It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement.  There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement.  See
paragraph 1.C below.  There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement
and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works.  See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C.  The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (&ldquo;the Foundation&rdquo;
 or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works.  Nearly all the individual works in the
collection are in the public domain in the United States.  If an
individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are
located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from
copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative
works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg
are removed.  Of course, we hope that you will support the Project
Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by
freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of
this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with
the work.  You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by
keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project
Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others.

1.D.  The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work.  Copyright laws in most countries are in
a constant state of change.  If you are outside the United States, check
the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement
before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or
creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project
Gutenberg-tm work.  The Foundation makes no representations concerning
the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United
States.

1.E.  Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1.  The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate
access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently
whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the
phrase &ldquo;Project Gutenberg&rdquo; appears, or with which the phrase &ldquo;Project
Gutenberg&rdquo; is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed,
copied or distributed:

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

1.E.2.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived
from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is
posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied
and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees
or charges.  If you are redistributing or providing access to a work
with the phrase &ldquo;Project Gutenberg&rdquo; associated with or appearing on the
work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1
through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the
Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or
1.E.9.

1.E.3.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional
terms imposed by the copyright holder.  Additional terms will be linked
to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the
permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4.  Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.

1.E.5.  Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg-tm License.

1.E.6.  You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any
word processing or hypertext form.  However, if you provide access to or
distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than
&ldquo;Plain Vanilla ASCII&rdquo; or other format used in the official version
posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org),
you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a
copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon
request, of the work in its original &ldquo;Plain Vanilla ASCII&rdquo; or other
form.  Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7.  Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8.  You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided
that

- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
     the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method
     you already use to calculate your applicable taxes.  The fee is
     owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he
     has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the
     Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.  Royalty payments
     must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you
     prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax
     returns.  Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and
     sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the
     address specified in Section 4, &ldquo;Information about donations to
     the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.&rdquo;

- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
     you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
     does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm
     License.  You must require such a user to return or
     destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium
     and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of
     Project Gutenberg-tm works.

- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any
     money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
     electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days
     of receipt of the work.

- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
     distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.

1.E.9.  If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set
forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from
both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael
Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark.  Contact the
Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1.  Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm
collection.  Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain
&ldquo;Defects,&rdquo; such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual
property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a
computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by
your equipment.

1.F.2.  LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the &ldquo;Right
of Replacement or Refund&rdquo; described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees.  YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3.  YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.

1.F.3.  LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from.  If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with
your written explanation.  The person or entity that provided you with
the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a
refund.  If you received the work electronically, the person or entity
providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to
receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund.  If the second copy
is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further
opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4.  Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO
WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5.  Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages.
If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the
law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be
interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by
the applicable state law.  The invalidity or unenforceability of any
provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.

1.F.6.  INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance
with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production,
promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works,
harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees,
that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do
or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm
work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any
Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause.


Section  2.  Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm

Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers
including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers.  It exists
because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from
people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will
remain freely available for generations to come.  In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations.
To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4
and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org


Section 3.  Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service.  The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541.  Contributions to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent
permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.

The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S.
Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered
throughout numerous locations.  Its business office is located at 809
North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887.  Email
contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the
Foundation's web site and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

For additional contact information:
     Dr. Gregory B. Newby
     Chief Executive and Director
     gbnewby@pglaf.org

Section 4.  Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide
spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment.  Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States.  Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements.  We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance.  To
SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any
particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States.  U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation
methods and addresses.  Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations.
To donate, please visit:  www.gutenberg.org/donate


Section 5.  General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works.

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm
concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared
with anyone.  For forty years, he produced and distributed Project
Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.
unless a copyright notice is included.  Thus, we do not necessarily
keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.

Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:

     www.gutenberg.org

This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.



</pre>

  </body>
</html>
generated by cgit v1.2.3 (git 2.25.1) at 2025-12-23 11:15:16 +0000